What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [85]
“Okay,” said Cadmon, flummoxed. He tried a different tack. “How do you—?”
Whitford did not look up. “He burned down the Mansion.”
“He?”
“The one you were supposed to take care of.”
“How do you know it was him?”
Whitford tore off his reading glasses and stared up at Cadmon from underneath heavy lids. “Who the hell else could it be?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Anybody. There are a lot of maniacs running around town right now…”
“Those are your maniacs,” said Whitford, with a nod toward the door, presumably to indicate the various militia men on the church grounds, and not the nice old lady who was mopping the floor just outside the office. “Or are you trying to tell me that you think your men burned down my mansion? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Well, no. Of course not, but—”
“I didn’t think so,” said Whitford. “Besides, we have video from the security cameras. Apparently the video shows the whole thing – every surface of the building – bursting into flames simultaneously. Hard to imagine the morons you’ve hired managing that.”
“Did the video show—?”
“No,” said Whitford.
“You didn’t know what I was going to ask.”
“Yes, I did.”
“No, you didn’t. I was going to ask about llamas. You had no idea that I was going to ask about llamas. Did the video show any llamas?”
Whitford lowered his eyelids to half mast. He sat like that for a moment, and then returned his attention to the papers.
“So you think it was supernatural…” Cadmon spoke the conclusion to himself, and then stuck out his chin as he contemplated the implications. “You think it might be our guy?”
Whitford slapped the papers down the desk. “Isn’t that what I just said?”
“Right. Right.”
“And now, because you failed to take care of him, he’s burned down my mansion. And let me tell you something,” Whitford propped an elbow on the desk and pointed a meaty finger at Cadmon, “I think it’s only a matter of time before he shows up here.”
Cadmon’s eyes got big and he began to look all around him. “He’s— I— What do we do?”
Whitford stared dolefully at his partner in crime. He sighed, and pursed his lips. “I think,” he said, “that we’ve got no choice.” Cadmon cast him an inquisitive look. Whitford leaned over the side of his chair and, with a hearty wheezing sound, came back up and plonked a gas mask down on the desk. “We’ve got to speed things up a bit.”
Chapter 32. Straight into the Frying Pan
“I must say,” said Alistair Preston, “I’m very surprised by the sudden resurgence of interest in all of this.”
“What?” Liam and Lola spoke in unison.
“Oh, well, I’ve had several people telephoning me recently, asking all sorts of questions.”
“Several? Who?” asked Lola.
“Oh, who remembers such things? Not me.” He laughed the light, carefree laugh of an aristocrat. Ramón laughed too. His sounded more like “heh heh.”
Preston tossed a single manila folder down on the table. “This is everything I have.” He leaned against one of the high-backed chairs, and watched for a moment as Lola leafed through the papers.
“Why don’t you just start at the beginning?” said Lola, opening the folder and then tossing it back on the table.
“Always a prudent point at which to begin,” said Preston. He began to pace. “It started out simply enough,” he said. His teaspoon made a little clinking sound as he moved it from his cup to his saucer. “We began by looking at mind control. Part of all that LSD nonsense, you see – mind wipes, mass hysteria – but then it grew to other things, and we began investigating all manner of, well, paranormal phenomena – mind reading, action at a distance – all terribly exciting stuff really.” He smiled a conspiratorial smile, as if mind control schemes were just the sorts of things one did, you know, when one got together with the boys after dinner.
Liam and Lola exchanged glances, their eyebrows raised. Festus looked at each in turn, desperately trying to make eye contact with someone, but they both ignored