life, and by God we’re going to do it.”
“Well, that’s all the time we have,” said the reporter. “We’d like to thank Vice President-Elect Wycliffe for taking time out of his very busy schedule to speak with us.”
Wycliffe smiled. “It was my pleasure.”
“And that’s a wrap!” called the cameraman. Wycliffe leaned back in his chair and looked around the conference room. A row of lights, cameras, microphones, and other assorted television equipment lined the wall. A horde of television people moved amongst the machinery, and three men in suits hurried up the reporter and began talking all at once.
“Pardon, but I must be on my way,” said Wycliffe, slipping off his microphone and handing it back to the reporter. “Please speak with Mr. Markham, the office manager. He’ll assist you with removing your equipment.” The producers and the reporters smiled, nodded, and thanked him.
Wycliffe slipped back into the corridor and headed to his office. Gracchan party functionaries hurried up and down the hallways, all of them stopping when Wycliffe passed. He got to his office and shut the door. Stacks of paper stood scattered around the room and on his desk, a legacy to the chaos of the last few weeks.
He dropped into his chair with a sigh, stared at the ceiling, and tried to think.
The official fervor over Marugon’s rampage last month had begun to subside. Neither the FBI nor the CIA nor the Chicago police had had any luck tracking the “terrorists”. Wycliffe supposed that whoever had escaped with the Wester children had covered their tracks very well. A few people still claimed to have seen devils flying in the night sky, but no one of importance believed them. The feds’ investigation had gone cold, and the hordes of journalists and private investigators swarming through Chicago had found nothing.
And none of them had discovered anything linking that night’s carnage with Wycliffe or his organization.
But it still worried him. Some link could yet be found. One of the expended bullets traced to a gun, perhaps, or a witness who had seen the winged demons leaving the compound. And Marugon had not yet found Lithon or Ally, and he would rip apart the world to find them. Sooner or later, it would be traced back to Wycliffe. He had so much to keep secret. Between the arsenal in warehouse 13A, the deals with Kurkov’s organization, the Stanford Matthews Tobacco Company (scheduled for full production next year), and the deal with Marugon, Wycliffe had the potential for enormous scandals. Any one of those scandals could destroy him, and not even the Voice could keep Wycliffe's numerous enemies at bay if the truth became public knowledge.
And if Marugon kept on his course, the truth would come out.
This led Wycliffe to one inescapable, terrifying conclusion.
Wycliffe had to rid himself of Marugon. He had not labored for twenty years only to have his efforts destroyed by his partner’s madness.
Wycliffe got up and paced the office, stepping around stacks of paper. “How? How?” He muttered to himself over and over again, pacing in a circle around his desk.
Direct confrontation was out of the question. Marugon’s black magic would crush Wycliffe like a bug. And Marugon had the winged demons and the changelings, now numbering over six hundred.
Wycliffe sighed and looked out the window. Jones’s demand for Secret Service protection no longer seemed unreasonable. But what could Secret Service agents do against the likes of Marugon and Goth? Perhaps Wycliffe could wait until Jones had assumed office. Then he could send military forces against Marugon and the winged demons. The idea appealed to him. He had used Marugon to reach power, and after he had the power, he could use the strength of the military to smash Marugon. Wycliffe could even take credit for smashing a hideous terrorist cell lurking in the heart of Chicago. But that way had risks as well, tremendous risks.
And
“Well, that’s all the time we have,” said the reporter. “We’d like to thank Vice President-Elect Wycliffe for taking time out of his very busy schedule to speak with us.”
Wycliffe smiled. “It was my pleasure.”
“And that’s a wrap!” called the cameraman. Wycliffe leaned back in his chair and looked around the conference room. A row of lights, cameras, microphones, and other assorted television equipment lined the wall. A horde of television people moved amongst the machinery, and three men in suits hurried up the reporter and began talking all at once.
“Pardon, but I must be on my way,” said Wycliffe, slipping off his microphone and handing it back to the reporter. “Please speak with Mr. Markham, the office manager. He’ll assist you with removing your equipment.” The producers and the reporters smiled, nodded, and thanked him.
Wycliffe slipped back into the corridor and headed to his office. Gracchan party functionaries hurried up and down the hallways, all of them stopping when Wycliffe passed. He got to his office and shut the door. Stacks of paper stood scattered around the room and on his desk, a legacy to the chaos of the last few weeks.
He dropped into his chair with a sigh, stared at the ceiling, and tried to think.
The official fervor over Marugon’s rampage last month had begun to subside. Neither the FBI nor the CIA nor the Chicago police had had any luck tracking the “terrorists”. Wycliffe supposed that whoever had escaped with the Wester children had covered their tracks very well. A few people still claimed to have seen devils flying in the night sky, but no one of importance believed them. The feds’ investigation had gone cold, and the hordes of journalists and private investigators swarming through Chicago had found nothing.
And none of them had discovered anything linking that night’s carnage with Wycliffe or his organization.
But it still worried him. Some link could yet be found. One of the expended bullets traced to a gun, perhaps, or a witness who had seen the winged demons leaving the compound. And Marugon had not yet found Lithon or Ally, and he would rip apart the world to find them. Sooner or later, it would be traced back to Wycliffe. He had so much to keep secret. Between the arsenal in warehouse 13A, the deals with Kurkov’s organization, the Stanford Matthews Tobacco Company (scheduled for full production next year), and the deal with Marugon, Wycliffe had the potential for enormous scandals. Any one of those scandals could destroy him, and not even the Voice could keep Wycliffe's numerous enemies at bay if the truth became public knowledge.
And if Marugon kept on his course, the truth would come out.
This led Wycliffe to one inescapable, terrifying conclusion.
Wycliffe had to rid himself of Marugon. He had not labored for twenty years only to have his efforts destroyed by his partner’s madness.
Wycliffe got up and paced the office, stepping around stacks of paper. “How? How?” He muttered to himself over and over again, pacing in a circle around his desk.
Direct confrontation was out of the question. Marugon’s black magic would crush Wycliffe like a bug. And Marugon had the winged demons and the changelings, now numbering over six hundred.
Wycliffe sighed and looked out the window. Jones’s demand for Secret Service protection no longer seemed unreasonable. But what could Secret Service agents do against the likes of Marugon and Goth? Perhaps Wycliffe could wait until Jones had assumed office. Then he could send military forces against Marugon and the winged demons. The idea appealed to him. He had used Marugon to reach power, and after he had the power, he could use the strength of the military to smash Marugon. Wycliffe could even take credit for smashing a hideous terrorist cell lurking in the heart of Chicago. But that way had risks as well, tremendous risks.
And
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