Not Even Satan

            My eyes seared in pain.  I took a deep breath, gulped, and consented only when I couldn’t handle it any longer.  Blink.  I bit down on my lip to keep from screaming.
            “Miss Mingles?” said the blue-clad policeman.  He sat at my kitchen table with an empty mug in front of him and a notepad in one hand.  The teakettle started screaming and I almost snapped my eyes shut in surprise.
            “One moment, officer,” I said.  I took both mugs from the table and filled them up with my pungent blend of black teas.  The steam refreshed my eyes as I set the mugs back down on the table.  “Yes?”
            “Can you tell me a little more about what this man looked like?” the officer asked.
            “I could tell you how many hairs he had on his head if I wanted to.  But I’d kill myself before I did.”
            The officer flinched.  “Height, weight, eye color, any information you have will be more than helpful.
            I frowned and turned my eyes downward into the depths of my tea.  Blink.  This time I let a little whimper slip.  “Not a hair taller than five-eight, a hundred and sixty pounds, dark blue eyes, brown hair.  Oh, and he had a white scar on his left temple.  I think it was an inverted cross.  Yeah.”  Even with my eyes open I shuddered.
            The officer tore the page from his notepad, folded it, and stuffed it in his pocket.  “Thank you, ma’am.  I’ll sift through all the files I can get my hands on back at the station.”
            “One more thing, officer,” I said as he moved toward the door.  “Can you give him a message if you find him?”
            “It’s not exactly protocol…”
            “I know.”
            “What do you want me to tell him?”
            “Tell him not even Satan would take his soul.”