Jeff Jacobson - Sleep Tight

Dr. Reischtal knew. He understood the exacting nature of his responsibilities, and why striving to maintain a clear line of communication with his Lord was so vitally important.

Unlike the traditional priests and the wishy-washy New Age pastors who spoke of the devil as if he were some sort of harmless metaphor, Dr. Reischtal knew Satan was real. The idiotic fire-and-brimstone born-again evangelists were closer to the truth, but they howled about the devil as if he strode through the cornfields on cloven feet, slinging fire at all true believers with his pitchfork and seducing everybody else down into the pits of hell.

Dr. Reischtal knew better. He knew that Satan existed in the tiniest of organisms, patiently waiting for a chance to turn this paradise mankind had been given into a hellish wasteland. It was only fitting then, that the ancient one lurked in the primordial ooze.

Hell was not a place separate from paradise, and the devil strived to turn paradise into hell. He knew this because he had seen the devil, pinned under glass, as he watched him carefully with own two eyes through a microscope.

Pieces of Satan were kept frozen, locked away deep in the cavernous levels of the CDC. Dr. Reischtal had filed a memo that these samples be destroyed, but the suggestion was quietly rebuked. The samples were vital, in case further vaccines needed to be developed.

He said nothing else. In his professional life, he was smart enough not to refer to Satan by name, or even suggest that they were all dealing with mankind’s oldest and deadliest foe. But he knew. He knew. And his job, his holy mission, was to maintain a vigil, watching and waiting for any signs of where Satan may be trying to force his way through a crack into this world.

The phone continued to ring. There was no answering machine, no voice mail. It would continue to ring until he answered.

Dr. Reischtal’s prayers faltered and stopped. He pushed himself to his feet, placating his discomfort at leaving the prayers unfinished with the promise that he would start over when he finished with the phone call.

“Yes,” he said into the receiver. Only the knowledge that punishment would be severe for the voice on the other end of the line made him feel a little better. He listened for a moment, then said, “Chicago. I would have thought New York.” He exhaled. “No matter. Assemble the components. I want a plane ready within the hour. I will expect a car at my door in precisely thirty minutes.” He remembered his prayers. “No. Make that sixty. Please remind the liaison in Chicago that they are to follow the strictest isolation procedures. Any—I repeat, any—deviation from my written protocol will be dealt with in the harshest possible manner.” He replaced the receiver.

God did not tell him whether they were false alarms or if true battles were about to begin when the calls came in. So he made sure he was ready. “I pledge my allegiance, oh Lord, in this endless war. In this life and the next,” he said, then went back down the hall, knelt under the round window that looked out to the stars, and began to pray again.

CHAPTER 11

5:16 AM

December 28

Lee was not happy. His head felt like it was going to crack open any moment, spilling his throbbing brain onto the slate tile of the suite’s bathroom. The sun was creeping over the far edge of Lake Michigan, slicing through the air and boiling his eyes. He could handle the sun though; he’d find the damn switch that lowered the blinds later. Although he couldn’t, for the life of him, understand what he’d been thinking last night when he’d demanded a view of the lake.

No, what Lee needed right fucking now was a goddamn drink of water.

Problem was, he couldn’t figure out how to turn the faucet on.

There were no handles. Just curving horns of pure, smooth onyx that jutted boldly over two shallow black sinks. He tried waving his hands under what he thought might be the faucet, hoping for a motion sensor, but nothing happened. He squinted around the gleaming, ultra-modern bathroom. Everything was gray and black, with brilliant white starburst accents. Even the toilet and bidet, elevated on two steps like thrones, were jet black. He tried the second sink and got the same result. Behind him, across a space larger than most living rooms, waited both a tub big enough to fit four people and a shower that could easily fit another four, with a bewildering array of nozzles that sprayed you from every conceivable angle. Lee honestly couldn’t remember if he’d even used them last night or not.

The morning sun still sizzled through the bare windows, ricocheting off the mirrors that covered every inch of wall space. Even the ceiling was one solid mirror. Lee wasn’t sure why. Who in the hell would want to look up and watch themselves taking a dump?

He swept the chic complimentary perfumes and toiletries off the counter in disgust. It didn’t help his head, but it reminded him not to let his rage slip out of control. He took a deep breath, releasing it slowly through his nose like the anger-management counselor had coached. It didn’t work. It felt like he still had barbed wire wrapped around his skull, and some giggling evil bastard kept twisting it tighter. He idly scratched at his right ass cheek. Fresh itching erupting up his torso, and he attacked it, ending with a furious scratching in his right armpit.

What kind of shit had he gotten into last night? His head hadn’t hurt like this since . . . well, right now he couldn’t remember. He was going to have a serious chat with Jamal when he felt better, and if the dealer wasn’t forthcoming about his party favors, Lee would only be too happy to call on a couple of large, mean boys he kept employed down at the motor pool for just such occasions.

Maybe the hooker had some aspirin. Or maybe even something stronger. He couldn’t remember her name. He’d left her sprawled facedown on the bed, still passed out. The thought of digging through the wreckage of their suite for aspirin sounded exhausting, and so he simply squatted, holding on to his pounding head. Plus there was always the chance he might take the wrong pill, and he couldn’t be seen acting irrationally in public.

The itching spread to his groin and he took a moment to rake his nails through his pubic hair. For a moment, the scratching felt so good it almost eclipsed the pain his skull. He wondered if a shower might help. Maybe he could try and get some of the spray in his mouth, get a drink of water that way.

He stood, feeling the sunlight wash over his body. He caught sight of himself in the mirror. Instinctively, his gaze went to his abs. Still flat and tight. Then to the skin under his jaw. Still firm. Good. But too many nights like—

Wait a goddamn minute. He turned sideways, so the sunlight illuminated the right side of his body. Tiny red blotches covered his skin, from his ass to up under his armpit. He looked down at his groin in horror. More red bumps.

That BITCH.

He stormed into the suite and grabbed the hooker by the ankle and dragged her off the bed. “Get up. GET UP! Get up, you filthy, diseased cunt.” The girl struggled to open her eyes through a mass of blond curls and landed in an awkward tangle of long limbs and heavy breasts. She couldn’t have been more than nineteen.

“Baby, what’s—”

“You fuckin’ whore. Shut your fucking mouth.” He paced around the bed, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“Baby, I—”

Lee sprang at her. He grabbed a fistful of blond curls and punched her twice in the face. Grabbing her hair with both hands, he head-butted her, and felt the satisfying crunch as her nose shattered. She collapsed on the floor. He straddled her chest and took his time, using both fists in swinging, roundhouse arcs. After the fifth or six blow, she stopped struggling under him and tried to wrap her skinny arms over her head.