The Demonologist by Andrew Pyper

Author:Andrew Pyper
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781451697414
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 2013-03-05T08:00:00+00:00

IT WASN’T WHAT YOU’D CALL A GOOD NIGHT’S SLEEP.

In the morning, I head into town for breakfast at the Harvest Restaurant & Grill, parking on the street outside. On the way to the door, a tail-wagging mutt comes up for a scratch. I wish him good morning and he responds with a lick of my wrist.

“Keep an eye on my car, would you?” I ask, and he seems to understand, lowering his rump to the sidewalk and watching me go, his ears raised teepees atop his head.

Inside, I take a booth near the kitchen, my back to the door. It’s why, a minute later, I don’t see the man approach who sits opposite me, tossing yesterday’s New York Times across the table.

“Thought I’d bring you a little taste of home,” the Pursuer says.

I spin around. None of the other diners seem to find anything strange about his sudden appearance. Why would they? Two strangers, traveling together, joining each other for breakfast. Come to think of it, that assessment would be more or less true.

“You found me,” I say.

“Never really lost you.”

“Bullshit.”

“Okay. Took a few calls to catch up for a while there.”

“Calls to whom?”

He bridges an index finger over his lips. “Trade secret.”

The waitress arrives to pour coffee for both of us. Asks us if we’re ready to order. I point to Special #4, the Farmer’s Feast.

“Toast,” the Pursuer says, handing back the menu without moving his eyes from mine.

The thought occurs to me that, now that he’s found me again, this man intends to kill me. Not here in this diner, not at the moment. But certainly here, in Linton. It’s a strange thing, but even more than my imminent murder it’s the notion of dying in North Dakota that comes as a shock. I always assumed my elbow-patched life would see me expire in my bed at home, sedated and painless, quoting the poets on my way out. Taking a bullet in Hicksville belonged to another man’s story. But of course, I’m living another man’s story now.

“Hey, Dave,” he says. “Over here. Look at me.”

Should I run? Just get up and bolt out of here and hope I can make it to the Mustang faster than the Pursuer can make it to his Crown Victoria?

I’d lose. I can elude this man for stretches of time—I have eluded him, or I wouldn’t be here—but he will find me in the end. And he will do what he will do.

“I’m not giving it to you,” I say.

“That’s all right. My client has altered my instructions.”

I can’t keep looking at the print of a hunter shooting a duck nailed to the wall over the pie fridge. So I look at him. See that he appears almost friendly.

“How so?”

“You’ve become interesting,” he says.

“You should see me after a couple of drinks.”

“My client would like to know where you’re headed.”

“Nowhere in particular.”

He sips his coffee. Swallows. The taste of it apparently reminds him of his ulcer, as he bangs the cup down in the saucer as though he’s spotted a spider drowning in it.

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