"This isn't a good idea, Michael," Peter said. "You know how Davy hates it when we smother him."
Mike sighed. "We're not going to smother him, Pete, we're going to sit him down and make him answer a few questions."
Mike's plan—his best one so far, though he knew it was far from perfect—was to quiz Davy until the truth came out. He had asked Micky and Peter to come up with questions only Davy would know the answer to, and he was sitting at the kitchen table brainstorming a few key interrogative points about Davy's time in Hell.
"Where is he now, anyway?" Mike asked.
Micky shrugged. Peter pursed his lips.
"Do you know something I don't, Peter?"
Peter considered the question very seriously. "How much have you read about the Indian independence movement?" he asked.
"About Davy."
Peter nodded vigorously. "Isn't that why you asked Micky and me to come up with questions that probe into the intimate personal details he shared with us in confidence?"
Mike rolled his eyes in exasperation and looked at Micky for backup, but Micky only looked uncomfortable. "Look, guys, I'm trying to protect us. What if this some kind of trap to get us all to sign our souls away?"
Peter looked at Micky, then back to Mike. "Micky and I don't need more proof that it's Davy. He might be a little strange right now, but he's still our friend."
"What if our friend Davy is acting under some sort of threat?" Mike countered, unleashing his last convincing argument. "What if he's acting strange on purpose to show us that we need to figure out a way to stop him?"
They finally agreed on a compromise—each of them would ask Davy one question, and afterward, if they didn't learn anything new, Mike agreed to stop cross examining Davy and give him more time to adjust. The obvious problem with the plan was that they couldn't actually force Davy to answer the questions. That was why it was so important to ask the right ones, so that even his silence would give Mike information.
Finally, Davy walked in from the beach. He was wearing a very well-tailored black button-down shirt that accentuated the attractive darkness of his eyes. He smiled at them winningly.
"Hey! Did I miss practice or something?"
"Sit down for a minute." Stunned, Davy took a seat at the table with them. He looked from Mike to Peter, avoiding Micky's eyes so obviously that Mike's focus faltered for a moment in confusion.
"I wanted to ask you what your deal was with Mr. Zero, if it wasn't that you took my place in Hell," Peter said reluctantly. He looked down at his hands.
Davy looked betrayed, and he paused for a long time before he answered, "I was helping him trick people into contracts. I know that sounds terrible, but I did everything he asked so I could come back to you guys. And it's over now, I'm not helping him anymore."
Peter's eyes flicked upward and met Davy's. He looked angry, and Mike was taken aback. Peter did know something Mike didn't know, and it wasn't like him to lie about it. Or lie about it so well, Mike thought with some irritation.
The long silence that followed was awkward. Finally, Micky cleared his throat. "Okay… I wanted to ask, uh, whether you have any sort of, uh, special abilities that you've been using on Babbitt, and, um, maybe other people."
The blood drained from Davy's face. "What is this?" he demanded. His voice rose in pitch a little. "Did you all get together and decide to give me the third degree?"
Mike put a hand on Davy's shoulder to calm him. Seeing Davy start to lose his temper was pretty convincing proof that he was the 'real' Davy—and Mike was starting to realize why Peter thought this confrontation was such a bad idea in the first place. "We just wanted to clear the air a little."
"Okay," Davy said. His explanation was punctuated with frustrated pauses. "Yeah, Mr. Zero gave me some… tips. On how to be more persuasive. So I could help him. I used them on Babbitt to help with the rent."
"And that's all," Mike said slowly. "You didn't use them at the party last night?" He pictured the crowd of people fawning over Davy's every word.
"Sometimes I forget that I'm doing subtle things. It's not malicious." Davy glanced at Micky several times as he continued. "If I used the gifts—I mean, tips—it was an accident. Honestly."
He sounds totally sincere, Mike thought. And hurt. He began to regret convincing Peter and Micky to violate Davy's trust.
"Can you read minds?" Micky asked abruptly. To Mike, the question seemed to come out of the blue, but Davy looked like he'd been slapped in the face. He nodded, his head moving almost imperceptibly as he lowered his eyes. Micky's chair made a loud noise as it scraped across the floor. He waved a hand behind him flippantly as he headed down to the beach. Peter calmly left the table, too, following Micky.
Davy continued to stare at the table miserably, and the silence wore on and on. Guilt pounded in Mike's veins. He felt as though he needed to say something to comfort Davy, but he didn't know what it was.
"Go ahead, ask your last question," Davy said, his voice sounding strained. Goosebumps pricked Mike's arms. Can he really read my mind? Davy raised his head again to look at Mike, and Mike was gutted to see how close he was to tears.
If Davy could really read his mind, he already knew what question Mike was burning to ask. There wasn't really any point in pretending. Mike put his hand on Davy's shoulder again to try and convey his remorse.
"How were you persuading people to sign their soul over to Mr. Zero?" Mike said, his voice almost a whisper.
Davy's eyes seemed to go out of focus for a second. He blinked, and two huge tears rolled down his cheeks. He quickly wiped them away with his sleeve. He shook his head, refusing to answer, which told Mike everything he needed to know.