Name of the Devil Read Online Free Page B

it’s hard to see anything other than his pale skin, crusted blood covering his body and part of his face. Up close, we can see scratch marks and bruises: The signs of struggle.
    The worst part is the lingering scent of melted body hair. Burns on his skin prove that he’s been close to an intense source of heat, most likely an explosion. Bits of fabric are singed into his skin, suggesting he’d been clothed when the church ignited.
    â€œAt least we know they weren’t nudists,” replies Knoll, eyeing a scrap of denim welded to McKnight’s left thigh.
    Something about the blood smears on McKnight’s chest is odd. They appear haphazard at first, the kind of marks someone might make in a state of shock when they repeatedly touch their body. As I stare at them, though, they seem intentional. But there’s no obvious pattern. I take a photo to look at later.
    Knoll nudges me, then points to the man’s forehead. There’s a smear of ash above McKnight’s nose, almost obscured by blood.
    I radio Mitchum. “Which victim are you looking at?”
    â€œMrs. Alsop.”
    â€œIs there ash on her forehead?”
    â€œBlackwood, is this a joke? There was an explosion. Of course there’s ash.”
    I push my head past the protective bars of the lift to get a closer look at McKnight’s face. The whole bucket arm begins to sway in the breeze. Knoll grabs the rail and groans.
    I push the talk button on my radio, “On the forehead. It’s hard to see on McKnight because of the blood from the scalp. But it looks like there’s ash under the blood. Like a cross. Does Mrs. Alsop have the same marking?”
    â€œHold on,” says Mitchum. There’s a long pause. “Affirmative. But they were in a church, after all.”
    â€œThey’re not Catholics, and this wasn’t Ash Wednesday. This is the kind of thing someone does to ward off evil spirits.”
    â€œYou’re saying they were afraid of something evil happening?” Mitchum is dubious.
    â€œI’m saying they were afraid, and obviously something very bad did happen.”
    Mitchum doesn’t respond.
    I put my radio back in its holster and look again at McKnight’s chest. There’s something deliberate about the bloody daubs there. On my phone, I pull up the image and flip it to how it would look right-side up. It still doesn’t ring any bells.
    Knoll watches over my shoulder. “Think it’s something?”
    â€œMaybe. Either way, it doesn’t look random.”
    â€œIt could have happened when he was moved.”
    â€œYeah. I don’t know.” I notice McKnight’s left index finger is covered in blood. “Check this out,” I say, pointing.
    â€œHe used his own blood to write the symbol? All right, maybe it does mean something.”
    â€œBut what? Hold on.” I sit on the edge of the rail and lean back, my feet tucked behind the lower guard. A ground technician stares up at me as I dangle over the edge of the lift.
    â€œYou’re a goddamn circus ape,” exclaims Knoll as he grabs my ankles.
    Upside down, staring up at the sky, I see the world as a dyingBear McKnight did. If he wanted to write on his chest to tell us something, he would go from left to right. I pull myself back into the lift, to Knoll’s relief, and take out my phone. Using the rotate button, I spin the image two more times. When the lines are going in the correct direction, it starts looking like something familiar. A runny, bloody mess, but one I latch on to. I remember from school that the letter “A” is supposed to be a sideways ox or something. An aleph. One way it’s an “A,” another and it’s an animal. This isn’t an ox, though.
    â€œIs there a Hebrew keyboard on these phones?” I ask. The aleph is still a widely used symbol in Hebrew. Before Knoll can answer, I find it hidden in the settings menu. I look for the