"Should I?"

"You should, though you might not wish to."

"Oh, well, I'd rather not remember anything I don't wish to. Who's the big guy standing behind you?"

"His name is Operative Nine."

"Weird. Why am I lying in this bed? Am I sick?"

"You have suffered . . . an attack."

"Like a seizure or something like that?"

"Something like that."

The lady called Abigail Smith smiled. She had very bright teeth. Mom always said you could tell a lot about a person by their teeth.

"Where is my mom?"

The lady glanced at the weird guy she called Operative Nine. "Alfred," she said. "Your mother passed away four years ago."

"She did?"

"I'm afraid so."

"I'm supposed to know that, right?"

"We're hoping your memory will return in time."

"How do I know you're not lying to me?"

The big guy stepped forward and I said, "You're probably the ugliest man I've ever seen in my life. What's the deal with the long earlobes?"

He didn't say anything. He just smiled.

"Your teeth aren't as nice as Dr. OIPEP's here. Are you both dressed in black because my mom died?"

"Alfred," he said. "I'm going to say a name to you now and I want you to tell me if you recognize it."

"Perhaps this is too soon," Abigail Smith said to him.

He ignored her. He bent very low over my face and whispered, "Alfred, the name is Paimon."

My arms jerked in their bindings. My fingers clawed at the metal poles of the bed, trying to reach my eyes. My mouth came open but no sound came out: the howl stayed locked inside my head. My gut heaved and I vomited greenish brown puke onto the crisp, white pillowcase.

Abigail Smith sighed. "I told you it was too soon. Get somebody in here to clean this up."

He left and she was leaning over me, cupping my face in her hands, forcing me to look into her eyes. Her breath was sweet-smelling, like licorice.

"Alfred, Alfred, it's all right. Everything's going to be all right. Stay with me, Alfred-I won't let you go, I promise. I won't let you go. Focus on my eyes, Alfred, my eyes. It can't find you now, do you understand? Do you understand me, Alfred?" I nodded. I slowly relaxed, but the smell of my own puke was getting to me. She let go of my face long enough to grab a towel from somewhere. She lifted my head and wiped the pillowcase clean, then flipped the pillow over, puke side down. Then she lowered my head.

"You're safe now, Alfred, perfectly safe. It's not here."

I shook my head. "You're wrong. It is here. It'll always be here."

26.

The big guy with the long earlobes came back with a fresh pillow, a man in a white lab coat right behind him.

"Another doctor," I said. "Great. How sick am I?"

Abigail Smith pulled out the pukey pillow and Operative Nine slid the new one under my head.

The doctor took my pulse and prodded my torso and stared into my cavities with a penlight. He measured my blood pressure and drew some blood. Except when he shone the light into them, he avoided looking into my eyes. He nodded to Operative Nine and left the room without a word. Abigail Smith came back to hover over me. I looked over her shoulder at the droopy-eared Operative Nine. "What's his story?"

"Op Nine is a demonologist, conversant in history, characteristics, classification, and possession. Best in the field."

"So that's why I'm here-I'm possessed?"

"Not precisely," he answered. "You have been-pried open. You cast your eyes into the very windows of hell, Alfred. Not the fabled or poetic visions of hell, of fire and brimstone and souls writhing in eternal agony, but the true vision of hell: the absolute and irreparable separation from heaven. What that experience is like I cannot say and hope you cannot remember."

Abigail Smith said to him, "Alfred told me it's still with him."

"Perhaps it is," Operative Nine said. "The Hiroshima bomb seared the very shadows of its victims into the pavement."

"This is not good," I said.

"On the contrary," he said. "This is extraordinarily good.

You survived with your body and mind intact. That is more than can be said for the majority of our party."

"Well," I said. "Everybody's definition of the word may be a little different, but seeing that my memory's shot, I'm covered head to toe in bandages, tied down to a hospital bed, and talking very calmly about demons like they were the most natural thing in the world, like butterflies or Honda Preludes. I'm not sure I would call that intact."

"Your memory will return in time, I think, and your body will heal. The other person who met the Fallen's eyes is dead. He awoke in the desert and tore his own heart from his chest."

"So what's that mean? I'm gonna be tied to this bed for the rest of my life?"

Neither of them said anything, which I took as a maybe bordering on a definite yes.

"While they are free, no one who has gazed upon them can be fully free themselves," Operative Nine said, choosing his words carefully.

"What's that mean, 'while they are free'?"

"They have taken the Great Seal of Solomon-and vanished." "That would be a good thing, wouldn't it?"

"The Seal is the only thing that controls them, Alfred. Now Pai-now the demon itself commands. We must retrieve the Seal or watch all life submit to the will of the damned."

"I don't understand."

"In the beginning, there was a war, Alfred." He had a glassy, faraway look in his sad eyes. "Before there were men or green fields or the untamed sea. Before there was anything at all, before Time itself existed, there was a terrible war. A war that these beings you saw today lost. The Archangel Michael, with the Sword mortal men would name Excalibur, cast them down for their transgression against the throne of heaven. When the proper time arrived, they were sealed inside the Holy Vessel, to be ruled by the ring given to Solomon.

"After Solomon's passing, they slept for three thousand years, if such beings as these can said to sleep, safely imprisoned within the Holy Vessel. Before he bound them for the final time, however, Solomon commanded them using the gift of the Great Seal. Seventy-two lords, each with legions of minions under his rule, all conveying great wisdom and power to the one who wielded the Seal.

"Now they are free, for the first time answerable to no one but themselves. So you see the first war is not yet over; indeed, it may also be the last."

27.

Operative Nine took a deep breath; he was going to go on, but at that moment the door opened and a short man wearing a tweed jacket walked in. He had a round face and pouty lips, with oval, wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his sharp nose. The most striking thing about him, though, was his hair: snow white, very fine, gathered around his round head like a crown of fluffy dandelion seeds. He looked like a cross between Albert Einstein and the inventor guy from the Back to the Future movies.

He was talking as he came in. At first I thought he was talking to himself; then I saw the wireless setup in his ear and the microphone dangling by a thin black wire near his mouth.

"Of course, Mr. Prime Minister, but it isn't my place to tell you what to say to the media. Perhaps you should confer with our MEDCON folks. . . . Media Control, yes. Excuse me, can I put you on hold? I have another call . . .

"Hello, Mr. President. How is the golf game? . . . Yes, it is quite an extraordinary development. . . . Well, that's very kind of you, Mr. President, but I don't think we need the U.S. military, not at this juncture. Would you excuse me for a moment? I have the British PM on hold . . . Thank you.

"Are you there, Mr. Prime Minister? . . . I would tell the media the current weather patterns are an aberration due to global warming and leave it at that. They adore global warming, you know. . . . What was that? . . . What's the size of basketballs? . . . Hail? Well, I would advise the public to stay indoors. Excuse me, can I put you on hold again?

"No, Mr. President, stealth bombers would be quite useless, I'm afraid. . . . Well, that depends on what you mean by the term 'contained.' SATCOM has them pegged in one location in the Himalayas. . . . Yes, of course we will keep you posted. . . . Thank you, Mr. President, I will . . . Yes, we do have a plan. . . . Would you excuse me for a moment?"

He stared at me through the entire conversation, tapping one foot impatiently as he talked, running a hand through his frizzy white hair. Maybe that's why it stood every which way.

"Mr. Prime Minister, are you there? I'm not going to argue with you. . . . Oh, indeed I think the public would accept the global warming cover, even if they are the size of Volkswagens-excuse me, did you say the size of Volkswagens? . . . Oh, dear. Well, it's rather like the Blitz, isn't it? Hello, hello? Damn, lost him. Mr. President, are you still . . . ?"

He shook his head in frustration, and the hair whipped about like a white tornado spinning around his head.

He ripped the headset off and shoved it toward Abigail Smith.

"Take this accursed thing, Smith. I'm sick to death of politicians!"

He stood over me, smiling down with teeth not nearly as bright nor as straight as Abigail Smith's.

"Alfred, this is Dr. Francois Merryweather," she said. "Director of OIPEP."

"I'm Alfred Kropp," I said.

"I know who you are. And I am more than relieved to know that you know who you are."

"That's about all I know," I said.

"Baby steps, Alfred! Baby steps! How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time!"

"What's the matter with the weather?" I asked.

"They have drawn a shroud over the earth," Operative Nine said.

"Really, must you always be so lugubrious, Nine? Talk about drawing shrouds! My chest always hurts around you, the atmosphere is so thick with melancholy."

"I will strain to be jollier, Director."

"Jolliness cannot be strained at, Nine. Look at those abysmal circus clowns. So, Alfred, here you are, quite safe, though not quite sound. However, the doctor assured me we can expect a full recovery. If there is anything you need, anything at all, you must not hesitate to let us know. Is there anything you need right now?"

"Yes," I said. "My mom. I want my mom."

He looked at Abigail Smith, who shrugged.

"You said anything at all," I said.

"I'm afraid we're fresh out of mothers here. However, perhaps you might like something to eat? What is your favorite food? Pizza? Hamburger? Perhaps a taco? Or ice cream. What is your favorite flavor?"

"I don't want any of your freakin' ice cream! I want to go home!" I was starting to lose it again.

"Alfred," Dr. Smith said.

A loud buzzer interrupted her, followed by a man's voice from a speaker hidden somewhere in the room.

"Dr. Merryweather, I think you'd better get down here."

"Down where?" Merryweather asked.

"The morgue."

He exchanged a look with Abigail Smith and Op Nine.

"Can't it wait?" he asked.

"Uh, I don't think so. And I think you'd better bring Kropp."

"Bring Kropp?"

"Definitely bring Kropp."

"I'm not sure I'm ready for the morgue," I said.