The Demonologist Read Free Page B

I don’t see the events in the Bible or any other holy document as having actually occurred, particularly not as they pertain to the supernatural. You want a demonologist, I suggest you contact the Vatican. Maybe there are some there who still take that stuff seriously.”
    “Yes.” She grins again. “I assure you there are.”
    “You work for the Church?”
    “I work for an agency that has been endowed with a substantial budget and wide-ranging responsibilities.”
    “I’ll take that as a yes.”
    She leans forward. Her blunt elbows audibly meeting her knees. “I know you have an appointment. You currently still have time to travel to Grand Central to make it. So may I now deliver you my client’s proposal?”
    “Wait. I didn’t tell you I was going to Grand Central.”
    “No. You did not.”
    She doesn’t move. Her stillness a point of emphasis.
    “May I?” she asks again, after what feels like a full minute.
    I lean back, gesturing for her to continue. There is no more pretending I have a choice in the matter. She has, in just the last moments, enlarged her presence in the room so that she now blocks the door as effectively as a nightclub bouncer.
    “We will fly you to Venice at your earliest convenience. Tomorrow, preferably. You will be accommodated at one of the old city’s finest hotels—my personal favorite, if I may add. Once there, you will attendat an address to be provided. No written document or report of any kind will be required. In fact, we ask that you not acknowledge your observations to anyone other than the individuals attending on-site. That is all. Of course, all expenses will be paid. Business class flight. Along with a consulting fee we hope you will feel is reasonable.”
    At this she stands. Takes the single step required to reach my desk, picks a pen out of a coffee mug, and scribbles a figure onto the memo pad next to the phone. It is a sum just over a third my annual salary.
    “You’ll pay me this to go to Venice and visit somebody’s house? Turn around and fly back? That’s it?”
    “In essence.”
    “It’s a hell of a story.”
    “You doubt my sincerity?”
    “I hope you’re not hurt.”
    “Not at all. I sometimes forget that, for some, verification is required.”
    She reaches into the inside pocket of her jacket. Lays a white business envelope on my desk. Unaddressed.
    “What’s this?”
    “Aircraft voucher. Prepaid hotel reservation. Certified check for a quarter of your payment, the remainder to be paid upon your return. And the address at which you are to be in attendance.”
    I let my hand hover over the envelope, as though touching it would concede a crucial point.
    “Naturally, you are welcome to bring your family with you,” she says. “You have a wife? A daughter?”
    “A daughter, yes. I’m less certain about the wife.”
    She looks up at the ceiling, closes her eyes. Then recites:
    Hail wedded love, mysterious law, true source
    Of human offspring, sole propriety
    In Paradise of all things common else.
    “You’re a Milton scholar, too?” I ask when she’s opened her eyes again.
    “Not of your rank, professor. I am an admirer only.”
    “Not many casual admirers have him memorized.”
    “Learned knowledge. It is a gift of mine. Though I have never experienced what the poet describes. Human offspring . I am childless.”
    This last confession is surprising. After all the elusiveness, she offers this most personal fact freely, almost sadly.
    “Milton was right about the joy of offspring,” I say. “But trust me, he was way off about marriage as being common with paradise.”
    She nods, though seemingly not at my remark. Something else has been confirmed for her. Or perhaps she has merely delivered all that she was meant to, and is awaiting my reply. So I give it to her.
    “My answer is no. Whatever this is about, it’s intriguing, but quite beyond my scope. There’s no way I could accept.”
    “You misunderstand. I am not here to hear