Call the Devil by His Oldest Name Read Online Free PDF Page B

episode of the Twilight Zone . “But if Logan’s not real, then I sure would like to quit seeing him.”
    Six months of daily therapy and a refillable prescription for Xanax later, Eileen convinced her that she might be projecting Logan’s image as a way of coping with the fate of her friend Irene, and her sightings of him dropped to none. At their last session, Eileen had handed her a business card and said, “All in all, I’d say you’re ninety-eight percent healthy.”
    â€œAnd two percent obsessed?” Mary had laughed.
    â€œAbout that.”
    â€œWell, that’s not too bad, considering.”
    Eileen gave her a hug. “You’ve got my number, honey. Call me if you need me.”

    â€œI will, Eileen,” Mary promised aloud now as she pulled out of gym parking lot. “I will.”
    She sped through the early-evening darkness to her grandmother’s house. Even though it was only mid-October, tissue-paper ghosts and balloons festooned several stately mailboxes, and some ghoulish wag had stuck a Halloween pumpkin on the spiked iron fence that guarded the lawn of one of Atlanta’s poshest estates.
    â€œLooks just like Hobson,” Mary murmured, relishing the image of her pompous boss getting stomped on the basketball court.
    She pulled her car into the basement garage and made a mental note to pick up some Hal­loween candy, though she doubted any kids would knock on her door. Unlike her grandmother, who loved wild, sparkling parties visible from the street, Mary spent most of her time in the back of the house, giving the handsome old Tudor a dark, forbidding look. She didn’t care. For her, the house was full of ghosts. It wore dark and forbidding well.
    She hurried up the kitchen stairs, unlocked the back door, and disabled the alarm system that would, in fifteen seconds, go from annoying screech to full howl and bring a squad car of At­lanta’s finest straight to her door. The warning beep stopped, leaving the house bathed in a profound, empty silence. Unconsciously, she paused to listen. Even though her grandmother had been dead over a year, she still waited to hear her light footsteps in the back hall, her reedy voice calling her name in an Atlanta accent so old and soft that you could hear it now only in nursing homes and hospital rooms. She sighed. She would give most anything to hear her grandmother again. But then, she wished that about a number of people.
    She dropped her briefcase on the floor and switched on the light. She had less than an hour before Danika was scheduled to arrive. Just enough time to eat and spread Dwayne Pugh’s sick files out on the dining room table.
    She grabbed a chicken linguine dinner from the freezer, shoved it in the microwave, and poured herself a glass of water. She was tempted by a half-bottle of cold Chardonnay, but tonight was a work night. She’d stick with water. Closing the refrigerator, she stopped to look at her favorite photograph on the door. Herself, holding Lily Walkingstick in the Little Tennessee River, flanked by Ruth and Jonathan. Jonathan’s favorite aunt, Little Tom Murray, was an ardent Methodist who was determined to have Lily christened and someone to serve as godmother. Though Jonathan personally thought it was a bunch of malarkey, he loved his aunt, so he’d called Mary and asked her to serve. At first she’d declined, not wanting to board the roller coaster of emotions she felt toward Jonathan and his new wife. But Jonathan had insisted, and Mary had given in. She drove up to North Carolina early one Sunday morning. Jonathan greeted her with a kiss on the cheek while Ruth Moon welcomed her with a perfunctory hug and a small muslin bag of sassafras tea, fruit of her newfound passion for herbs and native medicines. At eleven o’clock Mary held Lily in her arms in front of a Methodist minister and vowed to fulfill a number of religious duties. Though she’d