The Seal of Solomon

Then I went back to the sofa, threw an arm over my eyes, and fell asleep. It would be the last sleep I got for a very long time.

42

I don’t remember what I dreamed during that last bit of sleep before my final showdown with the demon king. But when I woke up I knew my next move.

Op Nine was still flat on his back, but his eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. The towel must have come loose at some point while I slept, because his arms were crossed over his chest, the way they arrange dead people in caskets, and that unnerved me, like a portent of things to come.

“Op Nine?” I said softly.

His eyes rolled in my direction, but his head didn’t move. The dried blood on his eyelids and forehead had turned a rusty red.

“What,” he croaked, “is an ‘Op Nine’?”

“That’s complicated,” I said. “But don’t worry, your memory will come back. Mine did, so I don’t see any reason why yours wouldn’t. Here’s the deal: we’re in Chicago right now, but we won’t be for very long. We’ve lost contact with HQ and so we’re going solo. You’ve been attacked by demons, only you don’t like that word, but sometimes you gotta call a spade a spade. My name is Alfred Kropp.”

“Alfred Kropp!” His eyes widened. “I know that name!”

“I’m going to order some room service because I haven’t had anything except a Snickers and a Coke—not counting the dead cat, which I’d rather not.”

“Dead cat?”

“You want anything?”

He swallowed. “Perhaps some water.”

“Bottled or tap?”

He didn’t answer. I fetched a bottled water from the mini-bar and held it to his lips while he drank. He emptied it in about four swallows.

“Okay,” I said. “I gotta make a phone call. Try to remember what you can.”

I picked up the phone and dialed room service. It rang about fourteen times before somebody picked up.

“What?” they shouted.

“I’d like to order some breakfast,” I said.

“Kitchen closed!” And they slammed the phone down.

I got up and looked in the bathroom mirror. The boils had popped open during my nap. I splashed some warm water on my face and yelped, clawing for a towel. The water burned like acid.

I came back to the bed.

“You know, I sat in that briefing listening to everybody discuss where Mike might have gone, and it never occurred to me that I might know exactly where he’s gone. It’s the obvious place, like Director Merryweather said. Too obvious, and that’s why he went there. He knew it was obvious and he knew you knew it was obvious, so he went there knowing its obviousness was what made it un-obvious. So I’ve got one more call to make. You okay? You need to go to the bathroom or anything?”

He shook his head.

“Okay.”

I dialed 411 and got the number I needed. Then I dialed the number and told the person who answered that I needed to talk to Mr. Needlemier right away. They put me on hold. The Beatles were singing “Yesterday.”

“I am a priest,” he said suddenly.

“Not anymore,” I told him.

“No?”

“Now you’re a demonologist working for OIPEP.”

“OIPEP?”

“The Company. Only you may be unemployed because I’m not sure OIPEP exists anymore. I’m not sure what exists anymore.”

The music stopped and the line crackled with static.

“Hello? Hello?”

“Mr. Needlemier,” I said. “This is Alfred Kropp.”

“Alfred Kropp!”

“You know, Mr. Samson’s son.”

“I know who you are, Alfred . . . Alfred, where have you been? And where in heaven’s name are you now?”

“Chicago, but not in heaven’s name.”

“Chicago!”

“Mr. Needlemier, I don’t have time to explain everything, but here’s the important thing: I need to get a plane back to Knoxville ASAP.”

“ ‘Giddyyap to Knoxville’? Alfred, I can barely hear you . . .”

“I said I need a plane! Pronto!” I shouted into the receiver. “Tonto?”

“Pron! Pron! Not ton!”

“Not on? What’s not on?”

“Plane!” I yelled. “Chicago! Can you get me one?”

“No planes, Alfred. All planes are grounded!”

I walked to the window and pulled back the curtains. The world was gray and shadowless, except for the orange flickering of the fire-rain and the fires that seemed to burn on every block.

“A car, then, the fastest you can find,” I said. “I’m at the Drake Hotel. Did you hear me?”

“Yes, yes, Alfred. I’m writing this down. What kind of car did you say?”

“I didn’t say. Just the fastest you can find. The fastest car in the world. And I need it in the next thirty minutes.”

“Thirty minutes! Alfred, I don’t know if that’s possible—”

“Make it possible!” I yelled.

“All right. Fastest car. Thirty minutes. Drake Hotel. Anything else?”

“No. Yes. I need to know where the devil’s door is.”

“Devil’s door?”

“Or the gate to hell. It might go by either name, or both.

And I need the answer by the time I get to Knoxville.”

“All right, all right. Devil’s door. Hell’s gate. What else?”

“Nothing. Wait, there is something.” I told him what that something was, gave him the number of the hotel, and hung up.

I plopped Op Nine’s bag on the bed, pulled out the semiautomatic, and dropped it into my pocket. I opened one of the maps and spread it out over the bed while Op Nine watched.

“Are we fugitives?” he asked.

“More like refugees.”

He sighed. “We are at war, then?”

I nodded. I was trying to use the key on the map to figure out how many miles lay between us and Knoxville. The last time I had tried something like that was in the third grade, but I figured five hundred and fifty miles. I folded the map and jammed it into my back pocket.

“What is in Knoxville?” he asked.

“A certain Hyena that I’m gonna pop in the nose when I find him.”

He frowned. “A hyena?”

I nodded. “And the Holy Vessel of Solomon, I hope, because if I’m wrong and it isn’t, this war is over and the world is toast.”