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“Lawyers up,” Mason said, pointing a finger at Scarrey. “That’s good. That was the kind of term he’d throw in too. Show us he knew how it all works.”
Scarrey blushed and tittered.
“It’s just something I picked up. Television or . . .”
“He doesn’t, though,” Mason said. “Ask for a lawyer, I mean. He starts talking funny. Starts moving weird. We’ve got a camera on him, and he’s not just doing it when he knows we’re watching. Does it all the time. Calls himself Beleth, the King of Hell. Every now and then, he stops doing the whole voodoo thing, sounds like himself again, and he says he’s the victim of a huge satanic conspiracy. Asks us to help him. Begs, cries, shits himself. Then Beleth shows back up, and . . .”
“Ah.”
“Chief saw the act, told me to expect you. Said you might be able to help, and that I ought to cooperate with you, but maybe we don’t document anything. Keep it informal.”
“And you said?”
“I said ‘Yes, Chief.’”
Winehart, at her desk, turned around. Whatever that call had been, she had her composure back. She looked her question at the back of Scarrey’s head. Mason coughed a little to hide his nod. Yeah, that’s the one. Winehart wiggled her fingers, faking spooky. Scarrey sighed, just as Mason realized the guy could probably see her reflection in the window glass. The guy didn’t say anything about it, though.
“May I speak with the prisoner?”
“YOU DON’T HAVE TO TALK WITH ME,” SCARREY SAID. “IT’S NOT REQUIRED. I’m not a policeman or a psychiatrist or anything like that.”
In addition to bars, the holding cell had a thick metal mesh too narrow to fit even a finger through. The floor was concrete, the three walls were brick painted with high-gloss cream-colored paint that came clean with a little Windex and a paper towel no matter what was smeared on it. The cot was a metal shelf bolted to the far wall with the small steel toilet beside it. The whole thing wasn’t more than six feet by eight, and most days it would have three or four people in it.
Sobinski sat on the floor, legs crossed, glaring out. His eyes were rimmed red, his mouth slack. Hanks of greasy hair hung down over his face, but there was an awareness in his eyes. He wasn’t zoned out. He was watching them both. Mason stood a step back, letting the expert do whatever he was going to do. Scarrey waited a long moment, then sat down himself, just outside the cage, looking in at Sobinski with their heads on a level.
“I was hoping I could talk to you about why you’re here,” Scarrey said. “About what happened.”
Sobinski’s elbows moved out to his sides with a sudden jerk. His head seemed to shift at the neck, putting his face at an angle that left him looking like someone had snapped something important in his spine. His voice was thick and greasy. The syllables ran into one another, sliding and slipping. Scarrey made a small, embarrassed noise in the back of his throat.
“Yes, I’m sorry,” Scarrey said. “I wanted to speak with Maury, please.”
“There is no Maury,” Sobinski said, his voice sounding like something forced out through raw meat. It was too big for the body. Too big for the space. It made Mason’s flesh crawl. “I am Beleth, King of Hell. This body is my property, ceded me by right.”
“I understand,” Scarrey said. “And with all respect, Your Majesty, I’ve come to speak with Maury, please.”
Sobinski’s jaw opened so wide it seemed in danger of coming unhinged. His tongue spilled out, lolling down toward his crossed legs.
“You want little Mo to come out and play?” the voice said again, each syllable wet and angry. The tone was mocking.
“Yes, please,” Scarrey said.
The prisoner chuckled. His shoulders shifted back into place, his face lost its expression of malefic glee, and the broken-necked angle of his head slithered back to true. Sobinski looked around like he was seeing them both for the first time.
“Maury?” Scarrey asked.
The prisoner nodded uncertainly.
“My name’s Rich,” Scarrey said, smiling. “I wanted to talk to you for a minute about why you’re in here. Will that be all right?”
“Are you a psychiatrist?”
“No,” Scarrey said. “I’m not anybody in particular. I understand you’ve been possessed by a demon?”
Sobinski looked from Scarrey up to Mason and back. His skin was pale and fragile looking. He swallowed and nodded. When he spoke, it was barely more than a whisper.
“They don’t believe me.”
“I know,” Scarrey said.
