The Descent

'Why  not?  We're  not  invisible.  The  Beowulf  endeavor  has  been  globetrotting  for  a year  and  a  half.  If  Satan  is  half  as  resourceful  as  you  say,  he's  heard  of  us.  And  yes, located us. And perhaps even  penetrated  us.'

'Absurd,' they  cried. But hungered for more.

'Speak from the evidence,' said Thomas.

'Yes,  the  evidence,'  said  Foley.  'It's  your  own  evidence,  Thomas.  Wasn't  it  you  who proposed  that  Satan  might  contact  a  leader  as  desperate  –  and  enigmatic  and  vilified

– as  himself?  A  leader  like  this  jungle  warlord  Desmond  Lynch  went  off  to  find.  As  I recall,  you  once  suggested  Satan  might  want  to  establish  a  colony  of  his  own,  on  the surface,  in  plain  sight  as  it  were,  in  a  country  like  Burma  or  Rwanda,  a  place  so benighted and savage  no one dares cross its borders.'

'You're proposing that I am Satan?' Thomas drolly asked.

'No. Not at all.'

'I'm relieved.  Then who?'

Foley went for broke. 'Desmond.'

'Lynch?' belched Gault.

'I'm quite serious.'

'What  are  you  talking  about?'  January  protested.  'The  poor  man's  vanished.  He's probably been eaten by  tigers.'

'Perhaps.   But  what   if  he  had  secreted   himself  in  our  midst?   Listened   to   our thoughts? Waited for an opportunity like this, a chance to meet  a despot  and  make  his pact? I doubt he'd bid us a fond adieu before disappearing forever.'

'Absurd.'

Foley  laid  his  yellow  pencil  neatly  alongside  of  his  pad.  'Look,  we've  agreed  on several  things. That  Satan is a trickster.  A  master  of  anonymity.  He  survives  through his  disguises  and  deceptions.  And  he  may  have  been  trying  to  strike  a  bargain...  for peace or a hiding  place,  it  doesn't  matter.  All  I  know  is  that  Senator  January  last  saw Desmond alive, on his way  into a jungle no one dares to enter.'

'Do  you  realize  what  you're  saying?'  asked  Thomas.  'I  chose  the  man  myself.  I've known him for decades.'

'Satan is patient. He has loads of time.'

'You're suggesting that Lynch played us along from the beginning? That  he used us?'

'Absolutely.'

Thomas  looked  sad.  Sad  and  decided.  'Accuse  him  yourself,'  he  said.  He  set  his  box on the table amid the fruit and cheeses. Beneath  FedEx  paperwork,  it  bore  diplomatic seals printed in broken wax.

'Thomas, is this necessary?'  January said, guessing.

'This  was  delivered  to  me  three  days  ago,'  said  Thomas.  'It  came  via  Rangoon  and

Beijing. Here's why  I convened this meeting with all of you.'

Lynch's head had been dipped in shellac. He would not have  been  pleased  with  what it had done to his thick Scottish hair, normally parted  at the right temple. Through the slightly parted  lids they  could see round pebbles.

'They  scooped  his  eyes  out  and  put  in  stones,'  said  Thomas.  'Probably  while  he  was still alive. While he was alive, too, they  probably made this.' He  drew  out  a  necklace  of human teeth.  'There  are plier marks  on several.'

'Why are you showing us this?' January whispered.

Mustafah  looked  down  at  his  plate.  Foley's  arms  were  limp  upon  the  chair  rests.

Parsifal  was  astounded:  he  and  Lynch  had  clashed  over  socialism.  Now  the  bleeding heart's  mouth  was  locked  tight,  the  bushy  eyebrows  plasticized,  and  Parsifal  realized he would wonder to his death  about  the  courage  of  his  own  convictions.  What  a  brave bastard, he was thinking.

'One  other  thing,'  Thomas  continued.  'A  set  of  genitals  was  found  inside  the  mouth. A monkey's genitals.'

'How  dare  you,'  whispered  de  l'Orme.  He  could  smell  the  death,  sense  it  in  the other's pall. 'Here, in my  home, at our meal?'

'Yes.  I've  brought  this  into  your  home,  at  our  meal.  So  that  you  will  not  doubt  me.' Thomas  stood,  his  big  knuckles  flat  on  the  oak  plank,  the  insulted  head  between  his fists.

'My friends,' he said, 'we have  reached the end.'

They  could not have  been more stunned if he had produced a second head.

'The end?' said Mustafah.

'We have  failed.'

'How can you say  such a thing?' Vera  objected. 'After  all we've  accomplished.'

'Do you not see poor Lynch?' Thomas said,  holding  the  head  aloft.  'Can  you  not  hear your own words? This is Satan?'

They  did not answer. He set  the horrible artifact back into the box.

'I'm  as  responsible  as  you,'  Thomas  told  them.  'Yes,  I  spoke  to  the  possibility  of Satan  visiting  some  despot  tucked  away  in  a  remote  wasteland,  and  that  misled  you. But isn't it just as  possible  Satan  would  have  desired  to  meet  and  appraise  a  different kind  of  tyrant,  say,  the  head  of  Helios?  And  because  we  met  with  Cooper  at  his research  complex,  does  that  mean  another  one  of  us  must  be  Satan,  perhaps  even you, Brian? No, I think not.'