The Seal of Solomon (Alfred Kropp #2)(57)

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.

“What?” Op Nine asked. “Why is that humorous?”

“Well,” I said. “At least your personality’s still intact.”

I turned off the radio. He said, “What did you say my name was?”

“I didn’t because I don’t know. Your code name was ‘Operative Nine.’ ”

“Why did I have a code name?”

“Because you’re a Superseding Protocol Agent.”

“And what is that?”

“It basically means the rule book’s out the window.”

“What rule book?”

“Every rule book.” It felt strange to me, being the one in the know. “You work for a super-secret agency called OIPEP. Right now we’re hunting down a rogue agent named Mike Arnold. Mike stole the Seals of Solomon from the OIPEP vaults or whatever you call them, and then he tried to kill me, I guess because he knew my blood was the only thing that could do some damage to the demons. But he lost the ring—I mean, I lost it—to King Paimon, and now Paimon wants the Vessel basically to avoid ever being shut up in it again. So you and me went to Chicago to hunt Mike down and to get the Seal from him—the Lesser Seal, not the Great Seal—only the demons got there before we did and they were waiting for us in Mike’s house. You left me in the car and went in alone and I guess Abalam got hold of you and made you look into its eyes.”

“I should not have done that?”

“Oh, you most definitely shouldn’t have done that.”

“I remember a whirlpool of fire and, in the center, utter darkness.” He shook his head. “But that is all I remember.”

I pulled off at the next exit for gas and to pee. There were three stations at this exit, but only one was open, manned by a very nervous clerk who kept playing with the metal stud in his bottom lip. He told me he was shutting down the station as soon as his girlfriend got there with the car and he didn’t care if they fired him. Then he asked what happened to my face. I paid for the gas and some munchies with the company credit card and dropped Op Nine’s snack into his lap.

“What is this?” he asked.

“A corn dog.”

“Why a corn dog?”

“It’s for luck.”

He peeled off the yellow wrapping paper and took a bite, chewing it very slowly.

“Corn dogs are lucky? Is this something else I’ve forgotten?” “I had one the last time I saved the world. Or actually, come to think of it, I had two.”

He glanced at me. “You are an agent for this OIPEP?”

“No, I’m just an oversized kid whose hobby happens to be riding to the world’s rescue.”

“You are being facetious.”

“I’m working on laughing in the face of despair.”

I jumped back on the interstate and we drove in silence for a few minutes. The speedometer went up to 250, and the needle hovered just above the number. My driver’s ed teacher had talked about “acceleration desensitization,” the phenomenon where you get used to the speed you’re going and are lulled into a false sense of security. But I didn’t think there was any danger of my developing a false sense of security in this situation.

“So we still pursue this Mike Arnold?” he asked.