Call the Devil by His Oldest Name Read Online Free PDF

luck­less individual up to the seventh floor and lock him in a small, soundproof room, then bring in Czarnowski. Fifteen minutes later, the door would open. Later, the suspect wouldn’t have a mark on him, but he would be wild-eyed and more than willing to tell everything he knew. Although dismayed by Czarnowski’s reputation, Mary had never asked him about it. To her, Mike was a supportive boxing coach who told her that to punch someone’s lights out, all you had to do was find their sweet spot and hit it. Back then she didn’t care about dropping anyone to the canvas; all she wanted to do was punch away the pain of losing Irene Hannah.
    â€œYou want to go a couple of rounds with me?” he asked now with an eager grin. “I’ll go glove up if you do.”
    â€œSorry, Mike. I’ve got to get home. Danika Lyles is coming over after supper.”
    â€œShe that good-looking black chick who played ball in California?”
    â€œThat would be Danika.” Grinning, Mary held out her gloves, implicitly asking his help in unlacing. “You interested?”
    â€œNah—I’d have to stand on a chair to kiss her. She’s got some awesome moves, though. Beats Mott every time they play.”
    â€œDanika beats Hobson?”
    â€œAw, yeah. She’s all over the boards. Mott just stands there like his shoes are nailed to the floor.” Mary laughed as Czarnowski pulled off her right glove. “Thanks, Mike. You just made my day.”

    She showered in the locker room, relishing the sweet, tingling exhaustion of a hard workout. With her hair still damp, she hurried out of the gym, stashing her good clothes in the minuscule trunk of her black Miata. As she started to pull out of the parking lot, she noticed a familiar gray Mercedes, one that sported the bumper sticker “Practice Random Acts of Kindness and Senseless Beauty.”
    Mary smiled. Eileen was here, no doubt leading one of her special relaxation-for-cops classes. Although Mary had never taken her class, she imagined Eileen’s voice would be just as soft and soothing as it had been the first time Mary walked into her office.
    â€œWhat brings you here, Mary?” she’d asked, smiling, her golden-brown eyes sympathetic.
    â€œI see dead people,” Mary replied, sounding exactly like the kid in the movies. “Or at least I see one particular dead person.”
    â€œAnd who would that be?”
    Mary had taken a deep breath, and with the same conviction that other patients must confess that they were Jesus or Napoleon or from the planet Remulac, began to relate the whole story of Stump Logan, former sheriff of Pisgah County, North Carolina. About how Irene Han­nah had implicated Logan in Mary’s father’s death; about how Logan had escaped into the woods after Russell Cave exploded. About how after six months of searching, the FBI had rele­gated Stump Logan to that lengthy list of sus­pects they presumed dead simply because they could not find them. Which suited Mary fine…except that she kept seeing Logan all over Atlanta. Once at the bookstore in Lenox Mall, once at the deli counter of her grocery, the last time standing in her backyard, staring through the window at her. Although he looked gaunt and filthy, as if he’d just crawled out of his own grave, she’d instantly recognized his face and his hard look of hate.
    â€œHave you called the FBI?” Eileen had asked after Mary came to the end of her story. “Told them your suspicions?”
    â€œEvery time,” Mary answered. “They took me seriously at first. Now they think I’m nuts. Hell, most of Deckard County thinks I’m nuts.”
    â€œDo you think you’re nuts?” Eileen tried her best to keep the oh-boy-have-I-got-a-sick-puppy-here tone out of her question.
    â€œNo.” Mary’s voice wobbled as she wondered, for an instant, if she were insane and living in some lost