“Thanks, Mr. Dahlstedt,” I said. “Thanks a bunch. How do I close these doors?”
He showed me the button and kept talking as the doors rotated shut.
“We appreciate your business, Mr. Kropp! My card is in the glove compartment. Do call if there is any—”
The doors snapped shut, cutting him off. I gingerly pressed down on the accelerator and the car leaped forward, like some kind of beast being let out of a cage. I made a hard left out of the alley, back wheels screeching and sending up twin plumes of white smoke.
Damn the road variables. And damn my conscience too. I was going to find out how much “plus” there was in 245 mph “plus.”
44
Orange and white barrels blocked the on-ramp onto I-90. I didn’t let the barrels concern me. Op Nine jerked in his seat when I took them out at sixty-five and his jaw clenched as I hit the interstate at ninety-seven. Then we really booked. After twelve minutes and taking out another set of barrels, we were on I-65 heading south toward Indianapolis pushing 240 miles per hour.
It was about ten o’clock in the morning, but it seemed like twilight under the low gray clouds spitting burning chunks of ice. The hell-storm was beginning to slack off though. I didn’t know what that was about but maybe the demon hordes were honoring my request to back off so I could deliver the goods.
“There are faces in the clouds,” Op Nine murmured. “Do you see them?”
I could see them. Distorted human faces that bulged and receded, some laughing, some snarling, some with hooded eyes and crooked noses and some blank as masks, which was scarier in a different way.
“Does the name Abalam mean anything to you,
Alfred?”
he asked, staring into the clouds.
“It sounds familiar.”
“Is it my name?”
“I think it’s the name of a demon. One of the lackeys to Paimon.”
“Paimon?”
“He’s the one who took the Seal.”
He looked over at me. “The Seal?”
“The Seal of Solomon. This ring you use to control the demons. Only Paimon has it now, so he’s in control.”
“In control . . . of Abalam?”
“Of all of them. There’s about sixteen million. Abalam’s probably the one we met at Mike’s house, and that’s why you remember its name.”
He shook his head. “This is all very strange. Very strange.”
“You’re telling me.”
“We are two—against sixteen million?”
“More like one against sixteen million: You’re at half speed right now and I’ve always been, so that’s the math. Not very good odds, but you gotta hope. You told me that once. Do you remember?”
“I wish I could. But I am somewhat glad I can’t.”
I nodded. “Dude, I know the feeling.”
The interstate was deserted. Occasionally we roared past abandoned cars parked in the median or in the emergency lane. The only moving vehicles I saw between Chicago and Louisville was a convoy of National Guardsmen, the soldiers crammed into the backs of canvas-covered trucks, and they craned their necks to stare as I barreled past them.
I turned on the radio. I expected every station to be talking about this first phase of the last war, but only the talk stations were jabbering about the crazy weather that had brought the entire world to a standstill. The music stations stayed with their programming, like the dance band on the Titanic. I found a PBS station out of Chicago where somebody from the government droned on about how the latest “meteorological crisis” demonstrated we still have a long way to go in our understanding of global atmospheric phenomenon. I laughed out loud.