Leaving Marshall County one step ahead of the law, Asmador had driven north, for no particular reason, and after stopping at the Wal-Mart to purchase a complete change of clothes-another denim shirt, another pair of jeans, another denim jacket-he’d spent Friday night in a rustic, trailer court-style motel with detached bungalows just outside of Red Bluff.
The square, low-ceilinged, wood-paneled room had been furnished with twin beds covered with musty old striped blankets, and had smelled of Pine-Sol and mold. Asmador had smelled of sweat and corpse until he treated himself to a long, hot shower. He’d slept poorly, dreaming of soaring vultures outlined against a scarlet sky, and had awakened in the dark. The only light in the room issued from the television, where the image of the Poison Angel grinned out at him from behind what looked like a news anchor’s desk.
“And in news of the Underworld,” Sammael had reported “authorities in the Blasted Land tonight revealed the identity of your next victim.”
Asmador had sat up, openmouthed with astonishment, as the redheaded demon jerked a thumb in the direction of a rectangular inset in the upper-left corner of the screen, where one of the names from Luke Sweet’s fantasy revenge list was written in letters of fire.
“And bear in mind,” Sammael had added, forming an imaginary pistol with his hand and aiming the forefinger-gun barrel directly at Asmador, “if you fuck up again, things are gonna get mighty hot for you.”
Then he’d pulled the imaginary trigger with his middle finger, and ka-whoooosh! a ball of fire had shot out of his fingertip and through the television screen, heading straight for Asmador, who’d shrieked and thrown up his forearm to shield his eyes.
But the fireball had never arrived, and when he’d uncovered his eyes, the room had been dark again, save for the ghostly afterglow of the television screen, and relatively quiet, save for one last peal of demonic laughter.