I rounded into the hallways in time to see DeMarco closing the door behind him at its far end. I didn’t think there was a fire escape at the other end of the building, but I couldn’t take the chance of him getting away, not after what he’d done, not after he’d been so close.
I slipped up beside the door, out of line of easy fire through it. The .45 in my hand was heavy and cool. I carefully reached over with my left and slowly twisted the knob. Unlocked.
A few deep breaths. Breaking into a room where someone might be shooting back at you had never been one of my favorite pastimes during the war. Being armed with only a pistol, even this pistol, didn’t make it any more entertaining.
And exhale. And turn and push and roll to the far side of the doorway to avoid the first shots–
–which didn’t come, but–
Roaring of wind, and something else, the stink of sulfur, a cloud of ash blowing into the corridor — “Donne! Donne, help me! For the love of God!”
I only intended a quick peep around the door jamb, but what I saw caught me, and I stared, a big target to anyone who wanted to shoot, except that nobody there did.
I wasn’t looking at an apartment like I’d expected, sofas and chairs and end tables and all that jazz. Instead, I was looking onto a vast landscape, earth dark and ashen, pocked by pits from which flame and smoke arose, a horizon of flicking red on black, the sky overhead vast and dark and starless.
And there was DeMarco, being dragged off backwards by two hulking figures, easily ten feet tall, mottled gray and scaled and horned. They stopped, and one turned and looked at me, eye sockets and grinning mouth aflame.
“Donne! You gotta help me!” DeMarco was babbling, screaming, begging. “Those things, those murders, yeah, I did them. You gotta help me, save me out of here, turn me in, I’ll confess, I’ll do the time, just, for Christ’s sake, Donne, help me!”
The demon looking back at me cocked its head.
I thought about demons I’d wranged with during the war, and why. And I thought about Jimmy DeMarco, and what he’d done to those girls.
The air was choking and foul, and I had to cough for a moment, before I said, “He’s all yours, gentlemen.”
“Donne! No! In God’s name, Donne! No!” Tears were running down his widened eyes.
“Bye, Jimmy,” I said, and closed the door.
I stared at the dimly lit hallway a long time until the last flakes of ash settled to the ground.
When I opened the door again, it was an apartment.
Nobody ever found Jimmy DeMarco. I didn’t offer the police any suggestions as to where to find him.
Prompt