What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [65]
“Goddamnit!” He slammed his hands down on his desk as he stood. He leaned across the now disordered stacks of papers and pointed a meaty, sausage of a finger in Cadmon’s face. “Don’t you fuck with me.”
“What? I’m not fu—”
“Didn’t you hear what the angel said? Your resources are mine now!”
“Okay,” said Cadmon, trying not to let the terror he felt show through his façade of pleasant cooperativeness. “But—” Cadmon saw the glowering expression on Whitford’s face and decided not to pursue the point. “How do we find him?”
“He’s driving here, apparently. In a bright orange sports car.” Whitford rifled through some notes on his desk. “Here,” he said, thrusting a slip of paper at the preacher. “An orange Lamborghini.”
“You don’t have a license plate or anything?”
“It’s new, and has those new-car, paper plates. So, no, I don’t. But how many fucking orange Lamborghinis did you see today?
“Uh…”
“And how many did you see yesterday? Or the fucking six months before that?”
“Well…”
“None. That’s how many, you goddamned ninny. Just tell your men to go stake out I-35 and look for the bright orange sports car hauling ass down the road.”
“How do they—?” Cadmon hesitated. “What do they do with – the demon?”
“Jesus!” Whitford slapped a giant palm down onto his desk. “You goddamned dumbass. Weren’t you listening at all?” For a second he looked as if he might eat Cadmon. But then he subsided. “Look,” he said. “He said the demon is masquerading as a human, which somehow makes it vulnerable. But he can change back, so Ezekiel said we have to catch him before he changes. So, have your men shoot him. Or blow him up or something. Doesn’t matter. Just get him, and do it quick.”
“What happens if the demon sees them first?”
“Then they’re fucked. And so are we. So don’t screw this up.”
“Oh,” said Cadmon. “Alright.” He sat for a moment. “What—? What do I – or they – do with his body?”
Whitford glared at the preacher. “You dumbass. You really oughta pull your head out of your ass next time a fucking angel talks to you.” He shook his head to show Cadmon just how disgusted he was. “You’re supposed to take him to your church. I’m supposed to get an anesthesiologist – never mind, I’ll worry about that. You just get him there.”
“Okay then,” said Cadmon. He started to stand.
“Wait,” said Whitford. “There’s something else.” He sighed and slumped back into his enormous chair. “I need— The angel wants us to get something.” He looked Cadmon in the eyes, staring until he could see the man squirming.
Cadmon looked up expectantly. “What is it?”
“It’s called Baphomet.”
“Stupid name.”
“Yeah, it’s some kind of CIA thing from years ago. They were researching mind control techniques. Apparently they were successful before being shut down. Been trying get a hold of some of the research for a while.” He saw Cadmon’s skeptical look and added, “The angel wants us to get it.” He nodded.
“He … does?” Cadmon didn’t remember hearing anything about this. But then, he’d totally missed the bit about the demon too.
“Yes,” said Whitford. “That’s right. He does.” He glared at the skeptical preacher, daring him to express doubt again.
“Okay. Alright.” Cadmon held up two conciliatory hands. “How can I help?”
“Clyde was supposed to visit with a man who lives just outside of San Marcos, after he came back from DC. Now that he’s gone, I need someone to go out there.”
“What was Clyde doing in Washington?”
Whitford waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Trying to get the Congress to declare today as ‘National Mind Your Own Goddamned Business Day’.” Whitford gave Cadmon a dirty look. Cadmon glared right back. “He was lobbying for federal money to fix potholes.”
“Hey, there’s a giant pothole on my street,” said Cadmon.