Jon Merz - Vicarious

Curran chuckled and his head throbbed vaguely. “Think warm thoughts, just keep your eyes on Darius.”

He hung up and got out the White Pages. It couldn’t be this easy, he thought, could it? Would a demon really have his address listed?

But there it was. Right in the phone book. Curran looked at the simple listing and frowned. The reality of his decision burned itself into his brain as he stood there memorizing the address.

That’s it then, he thought.

He slammed the book shut, grabbed his badge, gun, and keys and walked out of his house.

He found it easily enough.

Chestnut Hill’s homes ranged from sprawling old mansions to newer developments reminiscent of 1970s architecture styles. Curran called it California kitsch. He wound his way off route 9 west and then onto Sleigh Street. At the intersection of Maple and Sleigh, he banked left and followed it around into a small cul de sac.

Curran slowed to a stop.

So this is it.

The house itself looked about a hundred years old. Red and gray paint flaked off in large pieces, littering the crab grass lawn. Wooden gutters that looked rotten from where he sat, jutted out of the house at odd angles. Once black shutters weathered into a dull battleship gray hung slightly askew. A few clapboards in the front hosted a zigzagging fault line.

For Chestnut Hill, and given the rest of the neighborhood, the house stuck out like a sore thumb. But even if it looked like hell cosmetically, Curran knew it was a prized piece of real estate.

Still, thought Curran, seems odd an antiques dealer doesn’t have a better-looking place. Then again, maybe the Soul Eater, if he was truly that, didn’t want the house to look too inviting.

He could make out the silver Saab parked in the driveway. And again, he thought about how weird it was to imagine a supernatural creature needing to drive around in a car of all things.

Curran cracked the window, letting a slight breeze fill the car. He adjusted the seat so he was reclined somewhat, able to see, but not be seen. If anyone passed by he would look like he was just taking a nap. Perhaps he was waiting for someone.

Anything but a cop.

And anything but someone trying to stop the resurrection of Satan.

Steve, he thought, your life has definitely gotten weird.

He thought about Lauren.

The way his heart ached every time he thought about her only served to reinforce the notion that he liked her a helluva lot more than he wanted himself to. He frowned. It couldn’t work. She was going to be a nun of all things. And he was still nursing old wounds that had fractured his faith. Possibly forever.

I wonder what Darius is doing, he thought. The dashboard clock read seven-fifty. Maybe he’s in there plotting his next victim. Maybe he’s even thinking about killing me.

Curran felt his insides go cold.

Deja vu? Something about that thought felt familiar.

What happened last night?

Curran patted his back right hip and felt the bulge of his pistol. It gave him some comfort.

But only a little.

He would have liked to kick the door down and go in with guns blazing. Would bullets kill the Soul Eater? Curran didn’t know but he sure would have enjoyed testing the theory out.

But he was a good cop.

And part of him — a fairly large part if he felt like being honest — still wasn’t convinced about the Soul Eater stuff.

Curran had seen enough psycho cases in his time to know that people could get some very strange ideas in their heads. That fantasy could easily become reality. Maybe Darius was one of them. Cool and calm one minute, then a seething volcano of violence in the next.

Maybe he heard voices in his head.

Maybe he thought the Devil spoke to him.

Curran frowned. I hear voices in my head.

Maybe the Devil’s talking to me, too.

The problem with this whole thing, he decided, is that there wasn’t one shred of concrete freaking proof. All they were going on was faith.

And Curran was Mr. Faithless.

Another breeze filled the car. This time cooler.

Much cooler.

Cold.

The hairs along Curran’s forearms stood up.

He shivered.

Faith.

Did he believe?

Did he want to believe?

For Lauren’s sake he did.

But for his own sake…

That was another question.

How did Lauren buy into this stuff so easily, he wondered.

He felt certain that her upbringing, the experiences of her teen years with a psychopathic brother played a large role in the woman she was now. But Curran knew plenty of priests and nuns who would have scoffed at the idea of the Devil being resurrected by an antique dealer who drove a silver Saab.

What made Lauren different?

And what made her so appealing? So very appealing?

Curran glanced at his watch. Eight o’clock.

Maybe demons need rest.

He almost laughed out loud. And then he frowned. Was he actually trying to rationalize this stuff now?

What a wishy-washy bastard I am, he thought with a wry grin.

He just couldn’t decide one way or the other if he believed. Cold breezes not withstanding. But even as he fought the contradictions swirling about inside his mind, a small part of him felt certain that within a short time Curran would know, one way or the other, if what was happening in the house was a load of bullcrap.

Or terribly real.

Ten minutes later, the front door opened.

And Darius emerged. He was dressed in a charcoal suit complete with herringbone ankle-length overcoat. Probably no human bone buttons on that one, mused Curran.He ducked.

Darius’ eyes swept over the street. Curran wasn’t hidden, but he wasn’t out in plain sight either, being a good hundred and fifty feet down the street. He was just another car. A friend of a neighbor over for a visit.

Darius locked his front door and then climbed into the Saab. A second later, Curran heard the engine roar as it turned over. Darius gunned it for almost twenty seconds before the motor slowed as he slipped it into drive and sped off down the street.

Away from Curran.

Curran punched Kwon’s number into the phone.

“Yeah?”

“He’s heading your way now. Just left.”

“Okay.” Kwon paused. “Steve.”

“Yeah?”

“Be real careful, man.”

Curran nodded, more to himself than Kwon. “Let me know when he arrives.”

Twenty minutes later, his phone buzzed. “Yeah?”

“Just rolled up.”

“Got it.”

Curran got out of the car, locked the doors, and wandered over to Darius’ house. At this time of day, he hoped there weren’t many people home in the neighborhood who might spot him lurking about. Even more, he hoped Darius was as reclusive as he believed.

He ignored the front door in favor of the more concealed back one.

He kneeled and examined the lock.

A simple deadbolt.

Curran slid out a slim black leather package full of picks and selected two of them for the job at hand. He paused. The he inserted the picks and began working the lock very carefully.

He felt the pins sliding into place.

First one.

Then another.

Until at last they were all properly positioned. Curran exerted enough force to turn the cylinder.

The bolt slid home with a solid thunk.

The door was now open.

Curran glanced around, suddenly feeling like a teenager about to be caught peeping into his neighbor’s windows or something.

The realization of what he was about to do suddenly washed over him.

He would no longer be the by-the-book cop people spoke about. He would cross the line, from law abiding to law breaking.

But if it was in the name of justice — even universal justice — could it be so wrong?

Curran wasn’t sure how the courts would feel about universal justice.