“Oh, it is! Of course. Immeasurably better.”

“Then why are you mad at Wilson?”

“Because he never intended to set me free – he planned to summon me, use me for his own purposes, and then send me back, just as he had so many of my brothers.”

“Oh.”

“Do you know who suffers the most exquisite tortures in Hell, Markowski?”

“There are degrees of pain down there?”

“Indeed, yes. And the very worst suffering is reserved for wizards, those who had the effrontery to impose their own will on the denizens of Hell. They all die in time, of course – and when they do, we are very eager to make them welcome.”

The way he said that made me decide right then to start attending church more often. Assuming I got the chance.

“And that’s what Wilson’s got in store?” I asked him.

A slow nod. “Most assuredly.”

“So that’s what you’re here for – to send him on his way.”

“No, not just yet. I thought a taste of Hell on Earth would be a worthy prelude to his eternal damnation.”

I hoped he wasn’t going to possess Wilson and force the man to commit various atrocities on himself. I’d seen something like that once before, and it still gave me screaming nightmares.

The only thing worse than that would be making me do it. And, then, once Wilson was reduced to hamburger, forcing me to do the same thing to myself.

Getting shot in the balls was starting to look like a more attractive option than some of the other things that could happen. But I had to know.

“What have you got in mind?” I asked him.

“First, let’s get you squared away.”

He went over to the body of Sheila Barnard. There was a pistol tucked into the back of her jeans. It looked familiar.

Acheron pulled the gun loose and held it up. “Yours, I believe?”

All I could do was nod.

Then he walked over to me and touched one of my wrists. “Your own handcuffs?”

“Yeah.”

“How embarrassing for you. Where do you keep the key?”

“Left side pocket.”

A few seconds later, my hands were free and Acheron was handing the cuffs to me, followed by my Beretta.

“There,” he said. “You’ll need those to make your arrest.”

“Arrest? Arrest who?”

“The killer, of course.”

He pulled out the gun he’d shot Sheila Barnard with and tossed it underhand to Wilson. “Here you go, Moneybags.”

Wilson’s catch was clumsy, but at least he didn’t drop the thing. I gaped – I couldn’t help it. Why would Acheron give Wilson his gun?

Something changed in the room then. Jernegan groaned and put his hands to his head as if he’d been struck. A moment later Wilson screamed, “No, don’t–”

That was as far as he got. Something in Wilson’s face changed, a transformation I’d seen before. In Wilson’s voice, Acheron said, “There, that’s better.”

He’d possessed Wilson now. Was a horror show still on the program? I hoped I wasn’t about to watch Wilson cut himself to pieces.

Jernegan was staggering around, saying things like “Where am…?” And “How did…?”

The thing that used to be Patton Wilson said, “Oh, shut up,” then raised the gun and shot Jernegan three times in the chest.

The gun going off in a contained space like the study had left my ears ringing. When I was sure I could hear again, I said to Acheron, “Not that you ever needed a reason to kill somebody, but I have to ask why you did that.”

“Well, I had no more use for him, now that I’ve found these new accommodations, and he was starting to get on my nerves.”

“Great. Just great.”

“But more to the point, Detective Sergeant, you’ve just observed Patton Wilson commit cold-blooded murder, to which you can testify at his trial. Not to mention all the forensic evidence that can be introduced – gunshot residue on my hands, and so forth.”

“Wilson didn’t do it,” I said. “You did.”

“You and I know that – but no one else needs to, do they? And adding homicide to all the other crimes that Wilson is charged with should almost certainly result in a life sentence, since your state abolished the death penalty. Life without parole, of course.”

Looking at Jernegan’s corpse, I said, “Wilson’s got enough money to hire half the lawyers in the world for his trial.”

“Yes – but he won’t.”

I turned to stare at him. “Why the fuck not?”

“Because I’m going to stay around for a while. I think I can guarantee that Mister Wilson is going to put on a very inept defense.”

“Jesus, how long are you planning to possess him for?”

Acheron winced. “I really wish you wouldn’t use that name around me. But to answer your question, I think I’ll stay with Mister Wilson past his sentencing – right up to the point where he’s about to be gangbanged in the prison shower for the first time. Then I’ll move on and let them have at him.”

“He won’t last long in that environment,” I said. “He’ll kill himself – I’d bet on it.”

“Will he? Knowing what’s waiting for him on the other side?” The smile that Acheron gave me was something I hope never to see again. “I’m quite certain that Mister Bigbucks here will prolong his life of misery as long as he possibly can – to postpone the eternal lessons in real misery that he will experience at the hands of my brethren in Hades.”

I just looked at him, unable to speak. Finally, I said, “That’s just… fucking diabolical.”

“Thank you,” the demon said. “I try.”

It was just past 2.30am, and we were taking our break in Jerry’s Diner, as usual. Tonight’s shift hadn’t been very busy so far, but Karl and I were both tired. Yeah, vampires get tired, too.

Karl drank some warmed-up blood and put his cup down. “Election’s tomorrow.”

“Yeah. I’ll have to get up early, make sure I vote before going in to work. You gonna send an absentee ballot?”

“No need. With daylight savings time gone, it gets dark around 5.00 nowadays. Polls close at nine. I’ll have plenty of time.”

After a while he said, “Think the Patriot Party’s gonna sweep?”

“A month ago, I’d have said ‘Sure.’ But with all the stuff that’s been happening…”

“I know what you mean,” he said. “You read the editorial in yesterday’s T-T?”

“Yeah – they practically called Slattery and his boys fascists.”

“They were practically right, too.”

“You think anybody gives much of a damn what the Times-Tribune says anymore?” I said.

“Guess we’ll find out tomorrow.” Karl took another sip of Type O. “Streets are pretty calm lately – the PP can’t bitch about that anymore. No car bombs the last two weeks. Supes have been quiet, too. Mostly.”

“Mostly – except for somebody staking that Kaspar guy.”

“I’m kinda glad we didn’t catch that one,” Karl said.

“Yeah, me, too.”

The creamer at Jerry’s comes in those little plastic containers, and I figured my coffee might just be drinkable if I added one more. Stirring it in, I said, “You hear the rumor about Ronnie Delatasso?”

“That he had his old man hit so he could take over the family business?”

“Makes a certain amount of sense, I guess. I mean, you look at a murder, what’s the first question you ask?”

“Cui bono?”

“Who benefits? – damn right. And Ronnie seems to be the main beneficiary of this particular homicide. I hear the Philly DA’s even talking about calling a grand jury.”

“Tell you the truth,” Karl said, “I wouldn’t care if it was the fucking Girl Scouts who hit the old man, long as Ronnie and his troops went back home for good.”

“Their war chest was probably running dry, anyway. Patton Wilson sure won’t be giving them any more money, and now that the Slide trade has dried up, thanks to Rachel and her…”

The front door opened, and a couple of gnomes walked into the diner.

I felt myself tense up. “Karl,” I said softly.