Those Who Fight Monsters Part 11

"I would really have preferred sooner," Stone said tightly. "As it is, I'm almost ... almost out of time."

Morris looked at the man sitting on his sofa more closely. Trevor Stone appeared to be in his mid-thirties. He was blond, clean-shaven, and wearing a suit that looked custom made. There was a sheen of perspiration on the man's thin face, although the air conditioning in Morris's living room kept the place comfortably cool - anyone spending a summer in Austin, Texas without air conditioning is either desperately poor or incurably insane.

Morris thought the man's sweat might be due to either illness or fear. Time to find out which. "Pardon me for asking, but are you unwell?"

Stone gave a bark of unpleasant laughter. "Oh, no, I'm fine. The picture of health, and likely to remain so for another" - he glanced at the gold Patek Philippe on his wrist - "two hours and twenty-eight minutes."

Fear, then.

Morris kept his face expressionless as he said, "That would bring us to midnight. What happens then?"

Stone was silent for a few seconds. "You ever play Monopoly, Mister Morris?"

"When I was a kid, sure."

"So, imagine a nightmare where you land on Community Chest, and draw the worst Monopoly card of all time - Go to h.e.l.l. Go directly to h.e.l.l. Do not pa.s.s Go. Do not collect $200."

It was Morris's turn for silence. He finally broke it by saying, "Tell me. All of it."

The first part of Trevor Stone's story was unexceptional. A software engineer by training, he had gone to work in Silicon Valley after graduation from Cal Tech. Soon, he had made enough money out of the Internet boom to start up his own dot-com company with a couple of college buddies. They all made out like bandits - until the bottom fell out in the late nineties, taking most of the dot-commers with it.

That was how, Trevor Stone said, he had found himself sitting alone in one of his company's deserted offices that afternoon - bankrupt and broke, under threat of lawsuits from his former partners and of divorce from his wife. He was just wondering if his life insurance had a suicide clause when a strange man appeared, and changed everything.

"I never heard him come in," Stone said to Morris. "Which was kind of weird, because the place was so quiet, I swear you could have heard a mouse fart. But suddenly, there he is, standing in my office door.

"I look at him and I say, *Buddy, if you're selling something, have you ever come to the wrong f.u.c.king place.' And he gives me this funny little smile and says something like, *I suppose you might consider me a salesman of a sort, Mister Stone. As to whether I am in the wrong place, why don't we determine that later?'"

"What did he look like?" Morris asked.

"Little guy, couldn't have been more than five foot five. Had a goatee on him, jet black. Can't vouch for the rest of his hair, because he kept his hat on the whole time, one of those Homburg things, which I didn't think anybody wore anymore. Nice suit, three-piece, with a bow tie - not a clip-on, but one of those that you tie yourself."

"Did he give you a name?"

"He said it was Dunjee. What's that - Scottish?"

"Maybe." Morris's voice held no inflection at all. "Could be any number of things." After a moment he said, "So, what did this little man want with you?"

"Well, this is one of those guys who take forever to get to the point, but what it finally came down to is that he wants me to play *Let's Make a Deal.'"

Morris nodded. "And what was he offering?"

"A way out. A change in my luck. An end to my problems, and a return to the kind of life I'd had before."

"I see. And your part of the bargain involved..."

"Nothing much." Another bitter laugh. "Just my soul."

"Doesn't sound like a very good deal to me," Morris said gently.

"I thought it was just a joke, man!" Stone stood up and started pacing the room nervously. "I was only listening to the guy because I had nothing else to do, and it gave me something to think about besides slitting my wrists."

Morris nodded again. "I a.s.sume there were ... terms."

"Yeah, sure. Ten years of success. Ten years, back on top of the world, right where I liked it. Then, at the end of that time, Dunjee says, he'll be back. To collect."

"And your ten years is up tonight, I gather."

"At midnight, right. That's actually a few hours over ten years, since it's the middle of the afternoon when I talk to him, that day. But he says he wants to *preserve the traditions.' So, midnight it is."

"Did he have you sign a contract?"

"Yeah."

"Something on old parchment, maybe, smelling of brimstone?"

"No, nothing like that. He says he's got the template on a disk in his pocket. We were all still using disks, back then. He asks to use my PC to fill in the specifics, so I let him. Then he prints out a copy, and I sign it."

"In blood?"

"Nah, he says I can use my pen. But then, once I've signed, he comes up with one of those little syrettes they use in labs, still in the sterile wrapper, and everything. Dunjee says he needs three drops of blood from one of my fingers. What the f.u.c.k, I've played along this far, so I say okay, and he sticks my left index finger, and lets three drops fall onto the contract, right over my signature."

"Then what happened?"

"He says he'll see me in ten years plus a few hours, and walks out. I tell myself the whole thing's gonna make a great story to tell my friends, a.s.suming I have any friends left."

"You felt it was all just an elaborate charade."

"Of course I did. I wouldn't have been surprised if one of my former partners had sent the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d, just to mess with my head. I mean, deals with the devil - come on!"

Morris leaned forward in his chair. "But now you feel differently."

"Well ... yeah. Yeah, I do."

"Why? What changed your mind?"

Stone flopped back onto the sofa. "Because it f.u.c.king worked, that's why. My luck changed. Everything turned around. Everything. My partners dropped their lawsuits, some former clients who still owed me money decided to pay up, a guy from Microsoft called with an offer to buy a couple of my software patents, my wife and I got back together - six months later, it was like my life had done a complete one-eighty."

"So you decided that your good fortune meant that your bargain with the Infernal must have been real, after all."

"Yeah, eventually. It took me a long, long time to finally admit the possibility. Denial is not just a river in Egypt, you know what I mean?"

"I do, for sure."

"But the bill comes due at midnight, and I'm scared, man. I have to admit now that I am really, big-time terrified. Can you help me, Mister Morris? I mean, I can pay whatever you want. Money's not a problem." Stone snorted in disgust. "Money's the least of my problems."

"Well, I'm not sure what-"

"Look, you're some kind of hotshot occult investigator, right? There's a story about a bunch of vampires, supposed to have taken over some little Texas town." Stone stopped, and sat studying the palm of one hand for several seconds. "Vampires. Jesus." He shook his head a couple of times, slowly. "I didn't use to believe in vampires - but then, I didn't use to believe in demons, either. The dude who told me about that Texas business, a guy I've known and trusted for years, said you took care of it in, like, four days flat."

Stone leaned forward, and Morris could see panic moving just below the surface of his demeanor, like a snake under a blanket.

"And, yesterday," Stone said, "I talked to a guy named Walter LaRue, he's the one told me how to find you, finally. He said you saved his family from some curse that was, like, three centuries old, but he wouldn't tell me any more about it. Christ, you must deal with this kind of stuff all the time! There's gotta be a way out of this f.u.c.king box I've got myself in, and if anybody can find it, I figure it's you. Please help me. Please."

Morris studied Trevor Stone in silence for almost a full minute. Unlike his unexpected visitor, Morris was dressed casually, in a gray Princeton Tigers sweatshirt, blue jeans, and sandals. The once coal-black hair was shot through with streaks of gray that made him look older than his years. The black hair came from the Morris family tree. The gray was put there by the family profession, begun over a century ago by a man who died in the shadow of Castle Dracula.

Getting to his feet, Morris said, "You're probably pretty thirsty after all that - how about something to wet your whistle, before we talk some more?"

Stone asked for bourbon and water, and Morris went to a nearby sideboard to make it, along with a neat Scotch for himself. There was precision and economy to his movements that Trevor stone might have found mildly impressive, under other circ.u.mstances.

Morris gave Stone his drink and sat down again. "You know, my profession, if you want to call it that, isn't exactly regulated. There's no union, no licensing committee, no code of ethics we're all expected to follow. But my family has been doing this going back four generations, and we have our own set of ethical standards."

Stone took a big sip from his gla.s.s, but said nothing. He was watching Morris with narrowed eyes.

"And it's a good thing too," Morris went on. "Because it would be the simplest thing in the world for me to go through a bunch of mumbo-jumbo, recite a few prayers over you in Latin, maybe splash a little holy water around. Then I could tell you that you were now safe from the forces of h.e.l.l, charge an outrageous amount of money, and send you on your way. You would be, too."

Stone blinked rapidly several times. "I would be - what?"

"Safe, Mister Stone. You'd be safe, no matter what I did, because you were never in any danger to begin with."

After a lengthy silence, Stone said, "You don't believe I made a deal with the Devil. Or a devil."

"No, I don't. In fact I'm sure you didn't."

Hope and skepticism chased each other across Stone's face. "Why?" he asked sharply. "What makes you so G.o.ddam certain?"

"Because that kind of thing - a deal with the Devil - just doesn't happen. It's the literary equivalent of an urban legend. I don't know if Chris Marlowe's "Doctor Faustus" was the start of it or not, but bargaining away your soul to a minion of h.e.l.l has become a ... a cultural trope that has no basis in actual practice. Sort of like the Easter bunny, but a lot more sinister."

"You're saying you don't believe in h.e.l.l?"

Morris shook his head slowly. "I am saying no such thing, no sir. h.e.l.l really exists, and so does Satan, or Lucifer, or whatever you want to call him. And the other angels who fell with him, who were transformed into demons as punishment for their rebellion - they exist, as well. And sometimes one of them can show up in our plane of existence, although that's rare. But selling your soul, as if it was a used car, or something?" Morris shook his head again, a wry smile on this face this time. "Just doesn't happen."

"But ... how can you be sure?"

"Because, among other things, it makes no sense theologically. The disposition of your soul upon death is dependent on the choices you make throughout your life. We all sin, and we all have moments of grace. The way the balance tips at the end of your life determines whether you end up with a harp or a pitchfork, to use another pair of cultural tropes."

"What makes you such an authority on this stuff?" Stone asked.

"Apart from what I do for a living, you mean? Well, I reckon my minor in Theology at Princeton might give me a little credibility if I need it, along with the major in Cultural Anthropology. But, far more important: we're talking about the essence of the Judeo-Christian tradition, Mister Stone. The ticket to Heaven, or to h.e.l.l, is yours to earn. You don't determine your spiritual fate by playing the home version of "Let's Make a Deal" - with anybody."

"But it worked, G.o.ddammit! I bargained for a return to success, and success is what I got."

"What you got was confidence. You may have had a little good luck, too, but most of it was just you."

"Are you serious?"

"You bet I am. A fella like you has got to know how important confidence is in business. If you believe in yourself, it shows, which causes other people to believe in you, too. And that's where success usually comes from. You were convinced your business problems were going to be fixed, and thus you acted in such a way as to fix them. You a.s.sumed your failing marriage could be repaired, and so you went and repaired it. And so on. They call that a *self-fulfilling prophecy,' Mister Stone." Morris held up spread hands for a moment. "Happens all the time."

"My G.o.d." Stone sat back, relief evident on his face. But in a moment, he was frowning again. "Wait a minute - Dunjee, with his contract and the rest of it. I didn't imagine that, I didn't dream it, and I don't do drugs, anymore. None since college, and nothing that would give me those kinds of hallucinations."

"I have no doubt he was there. That's why I asked you what name he was using, and what he looked like. Your description was very accurate, by the way."

"You've heard of him?"

"Oh, yeah," Morris said with a sigh. "When you deal with the occult, it pays to keep track of the various frauds who pretend to have supernatural powers. A lot of my work involves debunking con artists."

"Con artists? That's what Dunjee was - nothing but a f.u.c.king con artist?"

"Exactly. His real name, by the way, is Manfred Schwartz, and he ran that particular scam very lucratively for a number of years. It's a version of the long con. Pretty d.a.m.n ingenious, really. He would look for successful people who had fallen on very hard times. He'd show up, go through the routine he used on you, get a signed contract, then fade away."

Stone's brow had developed deep furrows. "I don't get it - how could he make money doing that? He didn't ask me for a dime."

"Not at the time, no. His approach was to visit a number of people, across a wide geographical area. He would go through his *deal with the devil' act, then wait."

"Wait for what?"

"For his *clients' fortunes to improve. Some of them would never recover from their adversity, of course. Those folks would never see *Dunjee' again. But Manny chose his victims carefully - people with brains, guts and ambition, who had just been dealt a few bad hands in life's poker game. People who might very well start winning again, especially if Manny convinced them that supernatural powers were now on their side. Then, after they started to pull themselves out of their hole, Manny would show up again."

"Before the ten years were up?"

"Oh, yes, long before. He'd say he was just checking to confirm that they were receiving what he had promised - and to remind them what the ultimate price would be. Then he'd sit there, looking evil, and wait for them to try to buy their way out of their contract."

"Oh, my G.o.d," Stone said. "I see what he was doing, the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"Sure. Manny would act reluctant, which would usually prompt the victim to offer even more money, which he would finally accept - in cash, of course. If asked what the Devil wanted with money, anyway, he'd say something about money being the root of all evil, and the more money the forces of darkness had to work with on this plane, the more evil they could create, et cetera. He'd wait while the mark went to the bank, if necessary. Then he'd make a ritual of tearing up the contract, and go off to spend his loot. It's a perfect con, because the mark never even knows that he's been ripped off."

"Wait a minute - Dunjee never came back to see me. Never!"

"I'm not surprised," Morris said. "Because Manfred Schwartz was picked up by the FBI on multiple counts of interstate fraud - something like nine years ago."

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h!"

"Manny never came back to extort money out of you after your life got better, because Manny's life took a turn for the worse. He's currently serving fifteen to twenty-five in a federal pen - Atlanta, I think."

"But I never heard a thing from the FBI - they never asked me to testify."

"Probably because Manny hadn't received any money from you yet, so technically he hadn't committed a crime. Besides, I expect the government had plenty of other witnesses to present at his trial."

Stone appeared to really relax for the first time since he had shown up at Morris's door.

"Feeling better?" Morris asked with a quiet smile.

"Better doesn't begin to describe it," Stone said. "I feel like ... like I can take a deep breath for the first time in years."

"Well, then, I'd say that calls for another libation."

Morris took their empty gla.s.ses back to the sideboard. While mixing Stone's second bourbon and water, he un.o.btrusively opened a small wooden box and removed a couple of capsules. Using his body to shield what he was doing, he popped open the capsules and poured their contents into the drink he was making. He stirred the contents until the powder dissolved, then poured another Scotch for himself.

Morris gave Stone his drink and sat down again. The two of them made small talk for a while, Stone asking Morris questions about his "ghostbusting." Then Stone said, "Man, I suddenly feel really wiped out."