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2 NOVEMBER 1951 – STATE CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTION, GRATERFORD, PENNSYLVANIA
If I hadn’t read the file, I’d have taken it to be overkill.
We were met at the entrance to the high-security wing by two guards, who took meticulous care in looking over our identification and the papers providing for our visit. Mine with not maybe as much scrutiny as those of my companion. Hugo Strange had been part of the unit for barely a month, his papers looked new and, from the way one of the guards was studying them, the man maybe had half a belief that they were fake anyway.
The elder of the two guards seemed to be finally satisfied. “All right, gents, I think we’re all clear. Just let me state for the record. You are here to visit Stanley Albert Printwhistle, also known by the name of ‘Ibac the Invincible’.” And I could practically hear the quote marks.
“Let me remind you not to use that alias in his presence. We don’t want to give him any unpleasant ideas.” I nodded. The file had explained that saying the word “Ibac” let Printwhistle summon his beast-form, but you couldn’t take that knowledge out of his head short of a lobotomy, and for me that he hadn’t used it to break custody said a lot for his self-control.
“Turn right when you go through these doors and walk to the end of the corridor. Keep to the right-hand side as you pass. Printwhistle’s cell is at the end. Identify yourselves when you get there.”
Stanley Printwhistle was fifty-six years old; he had a slight build with a bit of a stoop, wore wire-framed glasses with small, round lenses. His cell was a decent size – maybe twice that of a normal single cell. Steel-framed bed up against one wall, a small table and chair on the other side, with a bookcase. A toilet was plumbed up against the back wall, no concessions to privacy. Printwhistle was reading a Bible; as he caught sight of me, he slipped a bookmark into the pages and set it down on the table.
There were no bars on the cell. Instead, there were floor-to-ceiling glass panes set into thick metal frames that had been bolted in place on all sides. Tough enough to resist a five-alarm fire or an earthquake, the file said. And that wasn’t the only precaution. Two more guards sat on chairs opposite the cell, both carrying big, pump-action twelve-gauges. The file said that they were always present, each guard doing a six-hour shift.
All this for Stanley Printwhistle, superannuated former small-time crook and present-day roadsweeper? That’d be madness…
…if they weren’t thinking of the other guy.
After we went through some more formalities, we took the seats set out in the passageway for us. Strange sat to my left, I guessed to be maybe further away from trouble if it started.
“Mr. Printwhistle?” I said. “I am Colonel Richard Flag. My colleague here is Doctor Hugo Strange. I think you’ve been told to expect us.”
“Yes. Thank you for being so punctual. I appreciate it. My father always said that punctuality is the courtesy of kings.”
“Our pleasure. Were you told anything of the reason for our visit?”
“A government research program of some kind, they said. I’d guess it’s military. You’re a bit young to be a retired colonel.”
“Correct on all counts. And we believe that you can help us carry it forward.”
“Me? I didn’t even fight in the war. Too old.”
“Well, it wasn’t exactly you that we had in mind. We were thinking more of… your companion.” It seemed the safest way to describe Ibac.
Printwhistle frowned. “I see. Well, that is different. And worrying.”
He fell silent. I let it go and stretch. People don’t like silence in a conversation, it makes them uneasy. That can be used.
This silence drew out for a full five minutes before Printwhistle spoke again. “Do you believe in the Devil, Mr. Flag?” he asked.
“I believe that there’s evil in the world, certainly. But I have my doubts about a literal Prince of Darkness.”
Printwhistle shrugged. “I believe in him. I’ve met him. I was almost in his grasp. And I still could be.”
I was kind of prepared for this. A lot of holy-roller stuff had come up in Stanley’s trials, the prosecution had claimed that he was trying to show some kind of performative piety in the hope that it’d mitigate his actions. I’d seen some real flat-out-for-Jesus Southern Baptists in the army, and Stanley felt a bit fake against that.
“The Devil holds me in the palm of his hand. If I weaken – if I let him out – that hand could close. So I have to stay strong.”
“Why does he hold you, Stanley?” Strange said, quietly. “How did he gain that grip?”
“I wasn’t a good man when I was younger. I carried out crimes against my fellow men as a way of making a living, because I was too lazy and too stupid to work a real job.” He shook his head hard. “One day, not that long back, it feels, I was looking for the big score, the one that’d give me the nest egg for when I needed to give up the life. I set a bomb to blow up a trestle holding a railway line. I had the crazy idea of causing a train to crash – causing so much death – so that I could loot the bodies. Captain Marvel found the bomb, tore it free and slapped me hard to one side as he threw it high into the air, far enough that it’d explode harmlessly.
“But I guess that he wasn’t thinking that much. I went sailing off over a gully. I should have died. For what I was trying to do then, I deserved to die. And then I felt hands catching me, setting me on the ground. I looked up, to thank whoever it was – and I looked into the eyes of the very Satan himself.
“I was angry, I wasn’t thinking clearly. And I said to the Lord of the Underworld that I would give my soul to have my revenge on that baleful Captain Marvel. And if you make such a pledge to him while he stands before you, then how, certainly, will he take it? And Satan simply smiled at me and said, calmly and politely, ‘Well, I believe that I can help you with that.’
“He summoned before me the spirits of four dead men, men who to us are now bywords for evil and cruelty…”
I saw the guards snap to alert. “We know of them, Stanley.”
For all his claims, Printwhistle wasn’t stupid. He must have played moments like this in his head long and often. “I will not name them here, Mr. Flag. Satan told me that if I called on them, by a name which he gave me and which I will also not use, then I could draw upon their power and skills to any evil end which I set, and to avenge myself upon Captain Marvel.
“But our Lord and Master sees all. My paltry attempt at vengeance was futile. The Captain defeated me, and forced me to revert back to the fraction of a fellow you see before you. He didn’t know it – how could he? – but he spared me Satan’s fury that day. His terms were clear, still are clear. If he – the other one – defeats Captain Marvel, for good and all, then my soul belongs to the Devil until the last day comes.
“Mr. Flag, I’m not a good man. I know that.” He placed his hand gently onto the Bible. “But our Lord is a merciful God, who will shelter and protect those who give their love and their trust to him, even though it may come late.” He looked around the sparse cell. “So, I am happy to submit to – my current accommodations – freely.”
“Really?” I knew the answer from the file, but I wanted to hear it from him.
“My sentence elapsed almost two years ago. I made the argument that I could not be given back my freedom while Satan’s curse still lay upon me. I am a man, and men are weak. If I remain here, then if I am forced – forced, I say, for I will not do so freely ever! – to call on my other, these men may at least slow me.”
He looked up at the guards deliberately and, very slightly, smiled at them. These men were there to the extent that they were almost wallpaper in his life, and he was just quietly reminding them – may at least slow me – that the other guy could shred them like they were tissue paper.
Strange shook his head slightly. “That isn’t quite true, is it, Mr. Printwhistle? While you say that you consent to the arrangement, Pennsylvania state law provides for indeterminate detention on mental health grounds as defined by a certified practitioner.”
“Words. A difference which makes no difference is no difference.”
The courts would accept some things but not others. That Stanley changed physically to become Ibac was plain. That the two bodies had different minds the law hadn’t bought. As far as Harrisburg was concerned, Stanley was a dangerous schizophrenic – which brought him into our range.
“What if there were some way of subverting the demonic will, Mr. Printwhistle?” Strange asked. “Perhaps if – the other fellow – could be made obliged to help the cause of good, the chains that are placed on you as his guardian could be lifted?”
Stanley flinched, just for a second. “Do not tempt me, man, lest you do Satan’s work.”
“Our government has tasks to which the other guy is well suited,” I said. “We have a means of restraining him if he won’t go along with it – or if he gets any smart ideas of his own.”
Stanley shook his head. “I speak not through pride here, but it took the might of Captain Marvel to bring him to heel in the past. Is what you have that strong?”
I reached into the attaché case beside me, pulled out a device. “I’m sure you’ve heard of dogs being trained with shock-collars. This is kind of the next grade up. This torc will be around his neck. The voltage which can be discharged through it can be dialed up to a level powerful enough to drop a bull elephant in full-on charge.”
“Force him that we must,” Strange added, “we can, in this way, bring the Devil’s creature to do the work of good in this world. If even one such can be turned, may that not then weaken his hold over you, as one now less and less worth his attention?”
Stanley leaned back in his chair, his left hand unconsciously stroking the Bible. “Maybe. That makes a kind of sense.”
“The Lord does not necessarily find the pure of heart through which to do his will.” Nice addition by Strange; had to give him points for that.
“We’ll go now, Mr. Printwhistle,” I said. “Think about what we’ve said. We’ll come back tomorrow and talk about what now needs to be done.”
“Thank you, gentlemen. I will think. I will be here.”
I nodded to one of the guards, who stepped to the door to let us out. Stanley picked up his Bible again, thumbing through the pages; probably he had a specific passage in mind which might cast light on the idea.
As we walked back towards the main body of the prison, Strange let out a long exhalation. “I think that that went reasonably well,” he said.
“It’s not an act, you think?”
“I don’t think that his faith is not genuine in his own eyes, if that is what you mean. The file actually suggested that Printwhistle had a much more Manichean view of the world than he showed there. I don’t really think that he’d believe that Ibac can be turned like that, but if he thinks that he can win back his own soul in degrees by small acts of redemption, that would suit his purposes – and yours – just as well.”
“We needed to try this way first. If you can convince a man that he’s doing the right thing for the right reasons…”
“And if he decides that it is the wrong thing? You cannot deny that our overlords’ wishes are ever wholly pure and noble.”
“Then there’s the torc. A voltage that will drop Ibac will kill Printwhistle on the spot.”
For a couple of minutes, I paused the conversation while we passed through the prison’s outer scrutiny. As we began walking through the car park, I picked it up again.
“And in the end, let’s not pretend we’re giving Printwhistle a choice here. We need him, and the mental health acts in this state allow us to make use of him if we decide we must.”
“I think that Mr. Printwhistle would point out Matthew’s Gospel to you. Chapter 16, I think.”
“What does it profit a man to gain the whole world if he loses his soul in the winning? Doctor, I ask myself that almost every day.”