Tommy Nightmare(16)
“You can’t have my soul,” Adelia said. “That belongs to Jesus Almighty, Praise His Name.”
“I want the keys to that Chrysler out front,” the Devil said. “And I want that sweet potato pie. I don’t give a damn about your soul. People don’t have souls.”
“The Devil is deceptive,” Adelia said. “He knows his time upon this Earth is short, that the powers vested in him are temporary, and the New Coming of Almighty Jesus will cleanse us of the Devil’s foul works—”
“Shut up!” the Devil yelled. For a moment, Adelia could almost see the great craggy horns sprout from his forehead and the scaly red skin of his true face. “Don’t you talk Bible to me, or I’ll leave you dead instead of just robbed. You hear me?”
Adelia closed her mouth and nodded her head. The fear was taking over, filling her veins like cold water. She had always been a bold, outspoken woman, but now she was as quiet as a mouse in a tiger cage.
His face appeared normal now, no horns or scales waiting to burst out, but Adelia understood his diabolical nature.
He opened her kitchen drawers until he found a fork. Then he began shoveling the sweet potato pie into his mouth, not even bothering to cut it into slices. “This is really good,” he said through a mushy orange mouthful. “Really amazing.”
Adelia said nothing. Flattery was one of the Devil’s tools, she knew. She couldn’t stop shaking, and she felt like she might wet herself. In her mind, she prayed to Almighty Jesus to surround her with a protective ring of angel fire. She kept her eyes on her shoes, occasionally glancing up at him as he wolfed down the pie.
When he’d eaten nearly the entire thing, he dropped it on the floor, along with the fork.
“The car keys,” he said.
She pointed to her purse, sitting in one of the kitchen table chairs. The Devil picked it up and dug through it. He took out her car keys and cash.
“You only have twelve dollars?” he asked.
She nodded.
“That’s pathetic.” He threw the money down on the table. “Keep it.”
“Thank you,” Adelia said, then immediately chastised herself inside her mind. She should never show gratitude to Satan. The Lord wouldn’t care for that.
He walked out her front door. She heard the old brown Chrysler chug to life and wheeze its way out of her gravel driveway, and then it drove off into the night.
Adelia sat down at the kitchen table, folded her hands, and began praying out loud to the Almighty.
Chapter Eight
The Lowcountry Inn in Hampton, South Carolina became the unofficial operations center for the Fallen Oak investigation, since the Department of Homeland security leased the entire one-story, two-strip building, and provided some of the rooms to CDC investigators.
In her room, Heather dropped her suitcase on the floor and sprawled out on the double bed, soaking up the air conditioning. Heaven. She’d been sweating all night in tents down in Haiti.
She closed her eyes and dozed off, but the shrill telephone on her end table woke her an hour later. It was a few minutes past midnight, she noticed on the room’s alarm clock.
“Huh?” Heather whispered into the phone.
“Dr. Reynard.” It was Schwartzman. “Room 117. Immediately.”
“What’s happening?” Heather yawned.
“Meeting. Urgent.” He hung up.
Heather sat on the edge of her bed and stretched. She was groggy as hell, and her sandy hair was tousled from lying on the pillow. At least she was still dressed. She badly wanted to load up the room’s coffee maker, but it didn’t sound like there was time.
She’d meant to call home before falling asleep. Too late now—she would send a text to Liam’s cell phone after the meeting.
Room 117 turned out to be a “corner suite,” which was just two rooms with a connecting door propped open. Nobody seemed to be sleeping here—young men and women in suits, each wearing some form of federal ID card around their necks, sat at desks, end tables, and dressers, punching furiously at laptops.
Schwartzman was at a table with two other men, and he rose to meet her.
“Dr. Reynard,” he said. “This is Keaton Lansing, an assistant director of Homeland Security.” A wiry man with glasses and a pinched-looking face nodded, and Heather shook his hand.
“And this,” Schwartzman indicated the other man, who was silver-haired, with a dark Brooks Brothers suit and smooth manicured nails, “is Nelson Artleby, Special Advisor to the President.”
Artleby smiled graciously as he took her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am,” Artleby said, and there was a hint of Texas twang somewhere at the back of his voice. After their handshake, he wiped his hand on the side of his pants.