The Devil You Say

By Fred Musante

There’s the devil to pay when the second installment in the Realy Paranormal comic urban fantasy series finds rookie paranormal investigators Mike and Ethan Realy tangling with a powerful demon and his minions. “The Devil You Say” finds the Realy brothers, and Mike’s pretty, karate-kicking girlfriend, Noelle, hired by conservative radio talk show star Mark Baxter to investigate strange, occult happenings at his house. Talk about political dirty tricks! The trail leads to a sinister Satanist seeking revenge because Baxter inadvertently blocked the federal stimulus money he needed to bail out his subprime mortgage. Along the way, the team tangles with demonic ventriloquist dummies, a pushy talent agent, a drunken Australian and a Rottweiler named Bertha. But the demon possessing Baxter is pursuing his own diabolical scheme, and all hell breaks loose during the exciting climax. Good thing Mike’s emerging psychic powers give him an edge. (Contains adult language)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fred Musante
• Release date: Nov 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301869541

Fred Musante

Fred Musante lives in Shelton, Connecticut. He is a veteran news reporter who has won journalism awards for breaking news and educational reporting.

Book preview

The Devil You Say

A Realy Paranormal Novel

(Book 2)

By Fred Musante

Copyright © 2012 by Fred Musante

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form except for literary reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, institutions and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter One

I could sense something weirdly amiss about Mark Baxter the first time we shook hands, but that’s because I’m psychic.

We had just arrived at the bar, the three of us, looking for some wine, but the bartender gave us one glance and waited on a pair of loudmouth hedge fund types instead. There he is, said Ethan, motioning with a nod to a paunchy, pasty-faced guy in a dark gray suit, but no tie, parting the well-dressed crowd like a politician.

Baxter was the man everyone had come to meet. He greeted each person with an animated grin and a helping of the ideological ballyhoo that had made him America’s hottest new rightwing radio talk show host. Page Six rumors said he was shopping for a TV deal, and it was easy to see why. Noelle and I had seen him a few days before as a guest pundit on the Fox News Channel morning show. He wasn’t good looking, but he was glib, and he knew how to attract attention to himself by spinning inflammatory versions of standard conservative talking points with a friendly smile on his face.

Jeesh, what do you have to do to get a drink around here? I griped.

He looks just like on TV, Noelle observed, neither impressed nor disappointed.

Behind Baxter trotted the real politician, Doug Johnson, who wanted the Republican nomination for Congress in Connecticut’s Fourth District. Our mother and stepfather invited a collection of millionaires and one or two billionaires to their house in New Canaan to meet Baxter, the headliner for the afternoon, giving Johnson an opportunity to pick their pockets for campaign contributions. There was a pretty good turnout, since the markets were closed for Martin Luther King Day.

We had no intention of giving Johnson a red cent, however, which we made clear when we were invited.

It’s my affair, and if I invite my boys they can’t very well say no, Mom said. Besides, they asked me to invite you.

The invitation, of course, included Noelle, my girlfriend, who Mom clearly approved of. You could just see the grandchildren frolicking in her head. Noelle and I hadn’t gotten that far yet, but it wasn’t out of the question.

We stood out in this crowd, dressed down in our typical manner. Ethan, my twin brother, younger by four minutes, wore a tweedy sports jacket and a tie. I wore a different tweedy sports jacket over a black turtleneck and jeans. Noelle, who is tall, athletic and leggy, looked absolutely smashing now that I was paying for her clothing and hairstyling. Not that she didn’t when I met her a few months before, but that day in January she was attracting plenty of stares from the rich Republican men.

Today she was dressed casually in skin-tight black jeans, black boots and a gray, curve-hugging, long-sleeve knit cardigan. She assured me the tight jeans wouldn’t keep her from kicking an apple off my head.

I’ll take your word for it, I said.

I looked up this guy, Johnson, on the Internet, Ethan said. Apparently, he’s billing himself as the Tea Party’s connection to Wall Street.

Isn’t that contradictory? Noelle said. The Tea Partiers say they hate Wall Street almost as much as they hate Democrats.

Maybe that’s why he hasn’t exactly caught fire, Ethan said.

What’ll it be, chief? asked the bartender, finally getting around to us.

Three glasses of red wine, I said.

He poured them and said they cost thirty dollars.

I don’t have to pay, I said.

Everybody pays, sport, he said.

I gave him a look. My name’s not sport, I said. He sighed impatiently. And this is my mother’s house. I don’t pay for wine in my mother’s house.

Well, aren’t you precious, he said, and slithered away.

Ethan hid his grin with his hand.

What’s your problem? I said, although I knew what was coming.

Nothing at all, sport.

Noelle sighed, then perked up. Hey, he’s coming toward us, she said.

Indeed he was, and he seemed to have noticed Noelle. Where have you been all my life? Baxter said to her as he took her hands and held them out so as to get a better look. Johnson stopped at Baxter’s sidekick position, and a fit-looking black man in a dark business suit, head shaved, halted two steps behind them.

Noelle blushed and smiled at receiving such fawning attention from a celebrity, even Mark Baxter, someone she already had decided she detested. She’s a liberal, did I mention? Ah, but a three-letter varsity athlete and honors student in high school and college and a second degree black belt in Korean Tang Soo Do karate, Noelle tended to forget how beautiful she was.

Baxter was a pale, pudgy guy with thinning blond hair going prematurely gray. I put him in his mid-forties. He had the kind of rubbery facial features that make a standup comedian funny even when his jokes weren’t any good. But Baxter also exuded the confidence a guy gets from getting rich talking on the radio, and now he turned on the charm with Noelle.

I wasn’t truly worried that Baxter would snake my girl, but that didn’t mean I was about to let him flirt with her right in my face.

So what’s your name, darling? Baxter asked Noelle, his eyebrows arched toward heaven.

I’m Mike Realy, I said, thrusting my hand forward.

Really? Baxter said, a little surprised.

No, Realy. I corrected the subtle difference in pronunciation. Spoken correctly, our Irish name sounds more like Raily than the English-articulated Really. I’m not a stickler. It just seemed like a way to assert myself.

Baxter’s mouth hung open, having momentarily lost its connection to his brain. That’s when Mom arrived.

Oh, you met my sons, said Elaine Smith (née Elaine Lacovelli, then Elaine Realy), swooping into the fray with her impeccable timing. She was dressed to the nines, of course.

Your sons? Baxter’s face registered the five stages of realization—denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance—as his eyes bounced from Ethan to me with Noelle between us. Oh, yes, he said, and shook my hand. I felt the strangest sensation while our hands met, like my heart was shrinking, leaving a hole in my chest. It went away when he let go, so I shrugged it off.

Michael, and Ethan, Mom said, providing a more formal introduction. Ethan waved and smiled. He was enjoying this. And this is Michael’s friend, Noelle, Mom said.

Oh. Well, pleased to meet you, Baxter said with much more formality.

Doug Johnson, said Doug Johnson, advancing his hand toward me.

We shook. Mike Realy, I said, relieved I didn’t get spooked again.

Realy? But that’s not your name, Elaine, said Baxter, getting a bit of that show business twinkle back in his eye.

Why, of course not, dear boy, Mom said without further explanation, subtly but firmly making the point that a radio talk show host, however famous, does not deserve explanations about her family. Mom’s second husband, Frank Smith, was old money, you see. Old money observes certain social dividing lines. To new money, the only things that matter are the zeroes and commas west of the decimal point in one’s net worth.

Doug Johnson, Johnson said to Noelle, shaking her hand.

Noelle Lambert, she said.

Johnson repeated the ritual with Ethan, who replied, Ethan. The smirk on his face needed no last name.

What kind of name is Realy? Baxter pronounced it correctly.

Irish, of County Cavan we are, I said in a fake brogue. Baxter nodded.

You seem young, said Johnson.

Ye’ve got a talent fer the obvious, begorrah, said I.

So, what do you do? Johnson persisted.

We’re paranormal investigators, I said before Mom could head me off.

Everybody stood smiling in place for three beats, processing, processing…

Mom trilled with laughter and said, Oh, that’s not true. You’re investors, dear.

I told you, Mom, we’re spook hunters, I said, making Noelle laugh.

You’re a ghost hunter, too? Baxter asked Noelle.

"Noelle is our associate investigator, and my girl," I said. Noelle curled her hand around my arm and leaned against me. Mom got that tight-set smile she got when she wasn’t amused.

Here. I passed business cards to Baxter and Johnson.

Johnson stared at the card. Realy Paranormal Investigation Agency LLC, he read aloud, mispronouncing our name. Harumph.

Don’t listen to Michael. They are really investors, Mom said.

So what do you do? Assistant investigator, or investor? Johnson asked Ethan.

"Lead investigator," said Ethan. He looked apologetically at Mom, and received a steel-eyed glance back. She didn’t care for all this paranormal investigation stuff. To her it sounded blue collar, like we were plumbers or property managers.

Ethan’s our man in the know, I said.

Lead investigator, mulled Johnson. So what does that make you?

Mike’s our business manager, said Noelle.

And lead guitarist, I said.

Hey, what’s going on? Frank said as he joined us. Have these boys roped and tied you all? Come on, Mark. Lots of folks want to say hi. He grabbed Baxter by the arm and towed him away, Johnson following like a pet dog, and then the black guy like a watchful Doberman. Baxter looked back pensively at us as the eager crowd swallowed him. His fixed, theatrical smile failed, it seemed to me, to fully mask an underlying, brooding sadness.

Keep that paranormal folderol to yourselves, Mom demanded before taking flight to socialize with birds of her feather.

Keep that paranormal folderol to yourselves, I chastised Ethan and Noelle, wagging my finger.

That’s the darling of the Tea Party? Ethan said. I wouldn’t have thought it.

Look around, I said. Nobody’s drinking tea. I drained my glass.

Let me get the next round, said Ethan. I can’t have you making enemies of every bartender in Fairfield County.

So many bartenders, so little time.

Ethan’s right, said Noelle—about the bartenders, she meant. Baxter didn’t seem very political. I expected something different, she added.

I listened to him on the radio the other day, when you went shopping, I said.

Yeah, you told me, she said.

He said he wanted to stand Nancy Pelosi and what’s his name, Harry Reid, in front of a firing squad. Then he started singing ‘Pop! Goes the Weasel.’

He’s a comedian.

I shrugged. Then he want on a tirade about Bob Dole deliberately throwing the 1996 election to Bill Clinton on Hillary Clinton’s orders. Bob Dole taking orders from Hillary Clinton?

Do you know how old I was in 1996? mused Noelle. Who’s Bob Dole?

Bob Dole? Ethan said, arriving with glasses of red wine. He was in the Viagra ads.

Noelle set her half-empty first glass down and took the new one. I tasted mine. They should be embarrassed charging ten dollars for this, I said so the bartender could hear me. He bit his thumb at me in return. How do you like that? A Shakespearean insult.

We wandered into the crowd. Ethan excused himself, and Noelle and I found ourselves surrounded by a posse of hungry hedge fund overachievers named Ray, Bob and Ben, all in their late-thirties and suffering from mid-life crisis adolescent regression—or so it seemed to me. Ray and Bob looked like overweight versions of Matthew McConaughey and Ben Affleck, and both were already drunk. Ben looked a little like Jeff Goldblum and was more or less sober.

We’re one-percenters, Ray assured me without my asking.

One percent of what? I asked naively. I should have known better.

You know.

We’re rich, Bob slurred. He was just as drunk as Ray, but more laid back about it.

So am I, I said. Noelle giggled and sipped her wine. Ray and Bob gawked at her, but Ben acted like the fact that I was rich explained what Noelle was doing with me.

I made nine mill last year after taxes, said Ray. He laughed through his nose to himself and gawked again at Noelle. His rich friends didn’t seem to mind this.

Somebody needs a designated driver, Noelle said.

Ray processed that for a few seconds, then laughed through his nose again. How rich are you? he asked me.

I ignored his question. I take it you’re all giving money to Johnson.

Price of ad-mish-ee-own, said Bob, pronouncing it faux-Spanish-like.

We came to see Baxter, said Ben. The scourge of the liberals.

Did you hear what he said the other day? Bob said grinning stupidly. Pelosi’s the anti-Christ. Spawn of the devil. He said he couldn’t debunk rumors that she’s sleeping with Satan. That guy cracks me up.

That’s a little over the top, isn’t it? I said.

"Oh, you must be a liberal, said Ray. He said liberal" loud enough that thirty people looked to see what he was talking about?

I felt Noelle squeeze my arm, which I took to mean Ray was rubbing her the wrong way, so I ignored him. You don’t think so? I asked Bob.

He’s an actor, kind of a clown, but the troops love him, Bob said, still grinning broadly.

Troops in the Army?

No, in the Tea Party. The rank and file, so to speak. You know, the people, Bob said.

"The conservative people," Ray interjected.

He leaned close to Noelle, who moved to stand on my right side. Let’s find someone else to talk to, she whispered to me, though apparently loud enough for Ray to overhear.

Hey, thass not rude, said Ray, dazed and confused.

Well, I can see you guys have your hands full, so we’ll see you later, I said.

Bob raised his glass as a friendly gesture as I escorted Noelle away. Then I heard him say, Ray, leave it alone.

I looked and saw Ray walking toward Noelle with his hand out. Hey, I’m sorry, girl, Ray said, and laid his hand on Noelle’s left shoulder.

Noelle saw it coming, passed her glass to her left hand, grabbed Ray’s hand with her right hand just so, her thumb pressed against the back of his palm, and turned it as she pivoted around and stepped back. This bent Ray’s hand toward his wrist and twisted it a half-turn. It didn’t look like Noelle was applying much force, but Ray grimaced and cried, Owwww! though not loudly enough to attract much attention. Noelle took another step backward, which pulled him to his knees. Then she let him go and continued walking with me without saying a word. The whole thing didn’t take ten seconds, and she didn’t spill a drop of wine.

You scamp, I said.

Where do you pick up friends like that? she said, amused with herself.

Ethan intercepted us. What happened?

Nothing, I said.

Yeah? Ethan motioned toward Ray, who was holding his wrist as Bob and Ben helped him to his feet. What do you call that? Ethan asked Noelle.

Jujitsu, or maybe aikido. I forget which, she said.

Don’t mess with my girlfriend, I said.

I thought you were a black belt in karate, Ethan said.

Yeah, but I also learned a little of this and a little of that, she said.

Are you learning that stuff, too? Ethan said.

At Noelle’s urging, I was taking lessons from her karate teacher. She said it would get me in better shape, and I had also started jogging a few miles a day. I must admit, Noelle is in great shape, but I suspected she really wanted me to learn to fight so she didn’t have to be the one that beats up every two hundred, twenty pound bully who wants to start something.

So far, all I learned was how to yell when I hit a punching bag, I said.

Maybe I should learn that stuff, too, Ethan said.

You should. You never know when you’ll need to yell at a punching bag.

We sipped our wine and watched Baxter and Johnson talking to people across the room. Why did we come to this thing again? I said.

Your mother invited us, Noelle said.

Yeah, but why?

Ethan sipped his wine. You were absolutely right about this vino, he said. No way it’s worth ten dollars a glass.

Fortunately, we don’t have to pay, I said. But the look on Ethan’s face said different. You paid thirty bucks?

He shrugged. New Canaan prices.

New Canaan, where Mom and Frank live, is one of the wealthiest towns in the U.S.A. A number of rich celebrities live there. We live in Shelton, about twenty-five miles east, where nobody charges ten dollars for a glass of cheap wine.

Well, I won’t pay it, I said.

Ethan laughed. I drained my glass and looked for some place to set it down. That’s when we noticed the black guy in the business suit with the shaved head coming our way. He made eye contact with each of us and didn’t smile.

Cecil Jamison, he announced, and held up my business card. You’re Michael Realy, Ethan and Noelle, right? He even pronounced our last name right.

Uh huh, Ethan said.

Jamison glanced at Baxter, who was gabbing with a group of graying Republicans near the piano. Good. He gave me his card, not bothering with one for Ethan. Mr. Baxter would like to meet you. The address is on the back. Are you available at ten tomorrow?

The card had a New Canaan address and a phone number written on the back. Jamison’s name and number were printed on the front side. He wants us to meet him at his house? I said.

Yes, said Jamison. His radio program starts at noon. You’re invited to stay and watch.

But we’ll be at his house, not at the radio station.

Mr. Baxter broadcasts from a studio in his house, he said.

Uh, okay, I guess so, I said, looking at Noelle.

Yes, of course we’ll be there, Ethan said. What is it about?

I’m sure Mr. Baxter has a reason, Jamison said.

You’re his bodyguard? Ethan said.

I am employed as Mr. Baxter’s security, he said.

Okay, then tell him we’ll see him at ten, Ethan said.

Thank you. I’ll let him know.

That’s strange, Ethan said as Jamison returned to Baxter’s side. Mom was standing nearby him, and when she saw us looking her way she headed toward us.

Maybe he’s a fan of ours, I said, punching the radio host’s address into my phone GPS app.

I’m sure not a fan of his, Noelle said.

He lives almost into New York, I said, showing her and Ethan the map on the phone. A virtual pin stuck out of the map between a pond and a road, quite near the state line.

I wonder what he wants, Ethan said. Did he seem strange to you?

You know what seemed strange? When I shook his hand, I got the strangest feeling, like there was a coldness surrounding him. But I only felt it while I shook his hand, I said.

A coldness surrounding him? Ethan said.

Yeah, but it wasn’t like the air temperature was different, or his skin temperature. It’s hard to explain.

You didn’t get déjà vu? Noell asked.

During our previous paranormal investigation in the fall, that was the sensation I felt, déjà vu, whenever ghosts were around. Our spirit medium, Alice Smyslov, said I was somewhat psychic. Psi sensitive was the term she used. She could feel it in my aura. And the déjà vu was my psychic ability trying to tell me something.

Alice said in the late-1890s, a parapsychologist in England named Eric Henry Dennier created a classification system for ranking levels of psychic ability, which he thought was growing stronger among members of the human race. She said Dennier felt most people were still normal, meaning they had no psychic ability or that it was too low to measure with certainty. The threshold level, the lowest measurable psychic ability, Dennier classified as intensified. Above that were intermediate levels he labeled keen and acute. These were people who had noticeably frequent encounters with strange phenomena, like ghosts and other paranormal activity. Although normal and intensified level folks might also have paranormal experiences when they were coached or when the activity is especially strong, those with keen or acute level abilities were said to be sensitive, meaning that they are tuned into the paranormal channels even when they don’t mean to be.

The people we usually think of as psychics, the ones with the psychic powers—such as clairvoyance, telepathy, precognition, communicating with the dead or bending spoons with their minds—fit into Dennier’s paramount or cardinal categories. At the very top of his classification scale was the transcendent category, but Alice said it was only theoretical, because Dennier doubted any human beings actually possessed that much psychic ability.

Alice said she could tell I had heightened psychic ability the first time she met me, probably strong enough to fall into the acute category, although without testing she said there was no way to know for sure what kind of psi powers I have or how strong they are. To tell the truth, I wasn’t that interested in knowing, and I thought the déjà vu was a pain in the ass.

No, not déjà vu, I said, answering Noelle’s question. But it was creepy enough all the same.

I hushed up because that’s when Mom swooped in, the mother hawk checking on her fledglings.

How are they treating you, dear? she asked Noelle.

They’re both fine, Mrs. Smith, Noelle said.

Mom smiled with satisfaction at that report. Douglas is raising a pretty penny from this, she said.

How did you get Baxter to come here? Ethan asked.

We simply asked him, of course.

Because you’re not exactly the Tea Party type, Mom.

I don’t know why you would say that. Frank and I are every bit as conservative as those Tea Party folks, she said, glancing at me in case I dared to disagree.

Don’t look at me, I said. I’m not even registered to vote. I might have added that some Tea Party Americans look like they’d be comfortable at the Mad Hatter’s tea party.

What I mean, Mom, is this isn’t what I think of as a Tea Party crowd, Ethan persisted. These are all rich lawyers and investment bankers.

Ethan dear, Doug Johnson might get his votes from the Tea Party, but he isn’t going to forget that he gets his campaign money from us, she said. Now have some wine and stop complaining. At that, she breezed off among the millionaires and billionaires.

Who was complaining? Ethan said.

Not me.

♦

MOM MADE a big deal out of her invitation to Christmas dinner, and she insisted on meeting Noelle. Is she absolutely darling? she said on the phone.

Is that what Ethan said? I asked. It was hard to imagine Ethan using that phrase, but I guessed he had described Noelle in sufficient enough detail for Mom to fill in the rest.

I’m telling you this part because it’s how we wound up getting invited to Doug Johnson’s fundraiser, and everything else came from that.

Don’t even think about leaving her home, Mom instructed.

No, Mom, I wouldn’t.

And you two don’t have to dress up on my account.

Yes Mom.

But if you want to, that would be fine, too.

Okay.

Of course, that’s what she wanted, that we’d dress up on account of her. And of course, the Realy twins must be the Realy twins.

In past years, we shared the holidays with Mom and Dad. We still lived with Dad at that point, in Shelton. But Dad died in a fire in March. The fire marshal never identified the cause, and privately he said the blaze seemed to consume the house and Dad’s workshop, a converted barn, suspiciously fast for an accidental fire. But without a clear reason for ruling it suspicious or foul play, the fire marshal had no choice but to declare it caused by misadventure.

Naturally, his absence left a huge hole where the holidays used to be. Mom and Frank spent Thanksgiving at a tropical golf course, so that left us to drown our remembrances in alcohol with three dozen of our closest friends from high school. And Noelle invited us to her family’s holiday feast, so it wasn’t as if we were abandoned and alone.

Ethan and I are dizygotic twins, the fraternal, non-identical kind, and we just turned twenty-three in September, a week before Noelle did.

We knew our father, Robert Realy, was smart, but it wasn’t until he died and his lawyer, Don Taylor, read his will, that we knew he was also rich. After our parents divorced, Dad, a chemist by trade, invented a formula for an improved non-stick coating for pots and pans that was different enough to file a patent. Two big chemical companies threatened to sue him for patent infringement, but instead he sucked them into a bidding war for the formula and wound up clearing about a million and a half bucks after taxes.

That was when we were about five years old. Over the next seventeen years, Dad invested the money very profitably amassing a staggering sum. We didn’t know anything about it until Don informed us that the value of the investments amounted to over sixty million dollars. Since then it was revised upwards to nearly eighty million. There was a catch, however. Dad’s entire estate was left in a trust fund, and Don told us, There are some unusual conditions.

What kind of conditions?

Did your father ever talk about ghosts, the supernatural, ESP or UFOs, such things as that?

Don told us we had to become paranormal investigators in order to get money disbursed from the trust.

What if we don’t want to? I asked.

If either or both of you don’t fulfill the conditions of the trust, you’ll receive a stipend of one thousand dollars a month until you die, or until the alternate trust beneficiaries spend all the money. Don said he must keep the identities of those alternate beneficiaries confidential—another condition of the trust.

Either we became rich paranormal investigators, or we’d get twelve grand a year while somebody else, who knows who, spent our money.

But the way he described it, paranormal investigating