The insults, she knew, were punishment for her brief insolence. That was all right.
He continued, "I assume you brought this problem up because you have some notion as to how it might be solved?"
She nodded, tight-lipped. "I do."
He sat back in his chair, waved an indulgent hand. "Enlighten me, then."
"If I can't play hatchet man, then we need someone else to do it. Not a thug - someone who can work discreetly, but effectively, and whose involvement with the campaign can be convincingly denied, if need be."
"And someone who can be himself removed quietly, once his usefulness to us is over."
"Yes, exactly."
"Do you have someone in mind?"
"I do, yes. I've compiled a dossier for you to read. It's locked in my desk - excuse me for just a moment."
Halfway across the room, she stopped, looking back over her shoulder. "Do you really think I have a fat ass?"
He glanced at his watch. "Let's take a look at this dossier of yours. Then, I think we will still have time for me to answer you. In a way that will leave no doubt whatever in your mind - or elsewhere."
She continued on to her office, walking a little faster now.
"And then they threw me out on my ass," Quincey Morris said.
"Did they really?" Paul Hannigan, S.J., blew on the surface of his double skinny latte. "About time somebody did."
The Starbucks was half empty at this time of morning, so it was possible to have a conversation without shouting. Considering the subject under discussion, that was just as well.
"Not literally, of course. I don't think the Chancery actually has bouncers on staff." Morris took a sip of his double espresso. "Although some of the nuns I saw over there might've handled the job pretty well. The Archbishop just made it very clear that our little interview was over. His pet Monsignor showed me the door."
"You can't hardly blame him, can you, Quincey? Some dude they never even heard of waltzes in there with a story like that? You wouldn't be the first nut to show up at a Chancery, asking for something right out of a comic book. Happens all the time."
"I did have an introduction from the Bishop of El Paso," Morris said.
Hannigan shrugged. "Even Bishops make mistakes. At least, that's the way Stanton's probably looking at it."
"How about you, Paul?" Morris looked at the old Jesuit. "Do you think I'm a nut?"
Hannigan gave him half a smile. "Shit, I've thought that for years." Then the smile faded. "Which doesn't necessarily mean that there isn't really a creature from Hell down there in Leesburg."
"So, you'll do an exorcism? Religious orders don't come under the Bishop's authority. You guys can do whatever you want."
"It's always the Jesuits," Hannigan said, shaking his head. "Ever since that damn movie, everybody thinks that the Jebs are the go-to guys for demonic possession. Why didn't you ask the fucking Dominicans?"
"I don't know any Dominicans," Morris said. "Anyway, I don't like that bunch. Never have."
"How come? As a religions order, they're no better or worse than anybody else. Except the Jesuits, of course, who are better than everybody."
"Domine cani," Morris said. "The Hounds of the Lord."
Hannigan drank some coffee and stared at Morris over the rim of his cup. He put the drink down and said, "Tomas de Torquemada is a long time dead, Quincey. The Spanish Inquisition closed up shop centuries ago."
"Still, that order has a lot of blood on its hands."
"Generational guilt is bullshit, my friend. The Church doesn't believe in it anymore. We've even let the Jews off the hook for killing Christ, in case you hadn't heard. Only took us about two thousand years to get around to it, too."
"We've all got our prejudices, Paul," Morris said. "I never claimed to be perfect. Anyway, the Dominicans aren't here - but you are. And you're the only exorcist I know. So, what do you say? Are you gonna help this poor kid, or not?"
Hannigan stared into his cup for several seconds, then said, "I'll have to go down there and see for myself."
"But, I -"
"I believe everything you've said, Quincey. However, if I request permission for an exorcism, the first question I'm going to get is 'Have you seen the victim yourself?'" Hannigan shook his head. "For something like this, second-hand information just won't cut it."
"Okay, so you drive down to Leesburg, and check the kid out."
"That's going to take some time," Hannigan said. "I have to apply for authorization to conduct an investigation, and the process itself could take a week to ten days. You know how bureaucracies work - even Jesuit bureaucracies."
"All too well," Morris said. "So, after you investigate, assuming you don't decide I'm delusional, what then?"
"I'll talk to my rector, tell him what I know, then see what he says. He may want you to come in, too."
Morris smiled. "You sure he won't think I'm another nut who's wandered in off the streets?"
"No, he won't - especially after I tell him about some of the shit you and I have been through together."
Chapter 6
The big man bumped his forehead on the cracked vinyl of the seat in front of him, and came awake with a start, blinking. There'd been nobody sitting there - the bus only had seven or eight passengers - so he didn't have to contend with some granny bent out of shape because his head had nudged her shoulder.
Just as well. I don't think I could handle a pissed-off Girl Scout right about now. His head was pounding like a drum set in one of those Japanese Taiko concerts. Taiko? And how the fuck do I know about that? Am I Japanese?
He turned to the window next to him. His head hurt too much to focus his eyes on the stores and office buildings that were passing by at a steady pace, but there was enough light inside the bus to check out his reflection in the grime-streaked window. The face that looked blankly back at him was white, not Asian. It was a thin face, with a nose that looked like it might have been broken once or twice, topped by disorderly brown hair. He couldn't tell the color of the eyes that looked back at him, but he saw they were deep set, with pronounced hollows underneath.
He looked around the bus's interior, using small head movements so as not to call attention to himself by gawking.
Wait a second - what do I care if somebody notices me or not? Am I that shy? Or maybe I'm on the run. But from WHO?
He closed his eyes for a few seconds, willing his mind to be still. Then he checked out the advertisements that lined the bus's interior above the windows. 'CBS: The one to watch for comedy' was superimposed over the face of some doofus he didn't recognize. 'Pezzini's dry cleaning - 24-hour service GUARANTEED' was next, followed by 'WTTG-TV, FOX 5. Now showing Friends weekdays at 4:00.' All of which meant he was riding a beat-up old city bus through the darkened streets of Somewhere, USA.
So far, so good. The genius has figured out what country he's in, even if he doesn't know how he got here.
He thought about asking one of the other passengers for some basic info. There was a dumpy middle-aged woman with a scarf over her hair four seats down on the opposite side. He could plop down in the seat next to her, try for a charming smile, then say, Excuse me, ma'am. I seem to have misplaced my life. Can you tell me what city this is - oh, and today's date, including the year?
She'd probably decide he was a psycho and start screaming. Then the driver would stop the bus and tell him to get the fuck out.
Which didn't seem like such a bad idea, now that he thought about it - not bothering the woman, but getting off the bus. He had no idea where the thing was headed, and couldn't think of any reason he should stick around to find out.
A couple of minutes later he was on the sidewalk, buttoning his overcoat against the evening chill. There were no other pedestrians, which meant it must be late. It occurred to him to check for a watch, and he had one on his left wrist. Looked like a nice one, too. The hands said it was 12:11. Peering at the face, he learned that it was an Omega Seamaster, whatever that was. More interestin
g was the little window set into the dial that was showing the number 6. So if the watch was accurate, it was 12:11 a.m., the sixth of... something. The cold air meant that it wasn't summer, but beyond that he had no clue.
He figured around ten minutes had gone by since he'd woken up in the bus, which meant that he had returned to the world at just about midnight. He thought that fact was interesting, but couldn't have said why.
He figured he'd better start walking.
Less than a minute later he came upon one of those newspaper vending machines - you put in your 50 cents, lift up the lid, and take a paper. He checked his pants for change but found none. However, a folded copy of the paper was pressed up against the glass as a teaser. He bent down and found himself staring at the front page of The Washington Post. He was less interested in the headline (PRESIDENT OPPOSES BUDGET CUTS) than he was in the date.
January 5.
He stepped back looking thoughtful.
Doesn't mean I'm in D.C. necessarily. The Post serves a big area, including a good chunk of Maryland and northern Virginia. He had gotten tired of wondering how he knew stuff like that, so he just accepted the fact that he did. He started walking again.
So it's January 6th, and I'm in the D.C. metro area. So fucking what?
His headache had eased, but in its place he'd been getting flashes of... things. Faces, sounds, landscapes. Each one came and went so fast he couldn't get a firm grasp on it. But the faces, what he'd seen of them, were contorted and ugly, and the sounds echoing through his head sounded like voices screaming.
Flashbacks? But from what? Was I in a war someplace?
Up ahead, he saw a brightly-lit plate glass window. As he drew closer, he saw neon that read 'Capital Café' and, below, 'Open 24 hrs.'
He checked his hip pocket, felt a familiar bulge, and pulled out a new-looking black leather wallet. Checking the bill compartment, he saw twenties and at least one fifty. Good. Coffee, along with a chance to sit down and think about things sounded pretty appealing, and he increased his pace a little. His hands were getting cold, so he put them in his coat pockets - and almost stopped dead in his tracks, because there was an object in each pocket, and the scary thing was that he'd known what each one was at once, without looking.
The right pocket was heavier, and his hand had closed around the object it contained without hesitation, as if it had done so a hundred times. The other pocket was lighter, but the shape and weight of its contents were also familiar to him.
As if he didn't have enough to puzzle over - minor stuff like who he was and where he had come from - now there was this. Okay, fine. Fuck it. He could sit in the Capital Café over a nice cup of joe and try to figure out what the hell he was doing in or near the nation's capitol with a heavy-caliber automatic and a silencer.
"She's exhibiting some of the signs," Hannigan said. "Verbal aggression, mixed with a lot of obscenity. 'Why don't you take that holy cock of yours and fuck yourself with it, blah, blah, blah.' Shows aversion to the mention of Our Savior's name, and claims to find holy water painful - but there's no actual searing of the flesh. No speaking in a foreign language, no revealing of knowledge she shouldn't have, apart from what Quincey's reported. No levitation, or any other dramatic stuff. Oh, and she plays with herself constantly, for whatever significance that has." Hannigan shook his head slowly. "This is either one clever demon, or something that's not possession at all."
Despite its secular-sounding name, the University of Detroit is operated by the Society of Jesus. The Jesuit Rector at UD was a skinny, mostly bald priest named Francis Strubeck. His face had the wrinkles you'd expect from a man in his sixties, and they became more prominent when he frowned. Strubeck had been doing a lot of frowning over the last fifteen minutes.
Once Hannigan had finished, Strubeck sat there and looked at him for a few moments before saying, "So your mind is uncertain about what we're dealing with. What does your gut tell you, Paul?"
Hannigan didn't answer at once. He let his gaze take a slow stroll around the oak-paneled room that was Strubeck's study, taking in the many books, the small religious icons perched on various shelves, the stark silver crucifix that adorned one wall.
"My gut says it's possession," Hannigan said. There's an aura of evil in that room that doesn't come from mental illness, no matter how severe."
Strubeck nodded gravely. Turning to Morris he said, "We know so much more about the human mind today than we did in generations past. So many conditions that were once thought to represent possession we now have medical names for - Tourette's syndrome, epilepsy, schizophrenia. Medical names and medical treatments, which are often quite successful. Yet despite all this science, the number of exorcisms authorized by the Church worldwide every year is at least three times what it was in 1950. Why is that, do you think?"
"Maybe the power of evil in the world keeps growing," Morris said, "and so the good guys have to try harder in order to fight it. Exorcism is one of the ways to fight."
"We try harder." Strubeck produced a wry smile. "Makes us sound like a car rental company."
The smile disappeared as he turned back to Hannigan. "I have great respect for your gut reaction, Paul. But it still troubles me that the girl hasn't had a complete medical workup, to rule out the usual organic causes. And a thorough psychological evaluation, as well."
"I don't like it either," Hannigan said. "But the family can't afford it. The father was laid off months ago, so they have no medical insurance, and what's left of their savings doesn't amount to much. They've been living on unemployment, and whatever Mrs. Kowal can scrounge from babysitting."
"They told me that they tried to mortgage the house," Morris said. "But, the market being what it is...."
"The Order could always pay for the tests," Hannigan said. "If you have a spare six or seven grand in the budget."
Strubeck's eyebrows rose. "It costs that much?"
Hannigan nodded.
"There's one additional factor that may help you make a decision," Morris told him. "Of course, that depends on whether you believe what I'm going to tell you, or decide that I'm delusional, like they apparently did at the Chancery."
Strubeck looked at him curiously. "Let's say that I'm prepared to keep an open mind, Mr. Morris. Please - proceed."
It took Morris just under twenty minutes to summarize certain events that he, Libby Chastain, and several other people (some now dead) had gone through at Walter Grobius's Idaho estate.
When he was done, Strubeck said, "What you've told us is consistent with what I've heard about that business up there in Idaho. Although nobody in the Order seems to know very much."
"Now that you know what really happened, I'd be obliged if you'd keep it to yourself," Morris said. "I can't begin to list the number of laws that we broke that night, in the process of..."
"Saving the world?" Hannigan said, and there was no irony in his voice at all.
Morris shrugged. "Call it that, if you want. Whatever it was, we all paid a price for it."
"And your price was being touched with Hellfire,"
Strubeck said.
"Far as I knew, it was completely healed, apart from the scar."
"Until your contact with that young lady in Leesburg," Strubeck said.
"Exactly."
Ultimately, Strubeck's decision may have been influenced by a factor neither of the other two men knew about: he was dying.
The diagnosis of terminal melanoma had been made two months ago. Strubeck had informed his immediate superior in the Jesuit order, but told no one else - he wasn't interested in receiving anybody's pity. Besides, knowledge of his condition might well have reduced his ability to get things done in the months he had left before the disease made work impossible. He had obtained brochures from several hospices, but kept them out of sight when others were around.
Under other circumstances, Strubeck might have taken a 'wait and see' attitude toward the case in Leesburg. He could have sent another Jesuit down there for an as
sessment, or tried to find a hospital willing to give the girl a thorough mental health workup in return for a big helping of Jesuit good will. But Strubeck's time for waiting and seeing was fast running out. And his faith in medical science to solve problems was not what it had once been.
He looked at Hannigan and said, "All right, Paul. Do it. Save her, if you can."
Chapter 7
The Capital Café wasn't exactly teeming with customers at 12:36 in the morning. A couple of college age guys sat near the window, eating sandwiches and talking quietly. One of them, a redhead with the build of a hockey player, looked like he was coming off a very bad drunk. Three tables over, a 30-ish blonde who looked like a hooker coming off shift was putting away a plate of scrambled eggs and making eye contact with nobody. In one corner, a pencil-thin black guy who might have been homeless was dawdling over a bowl of soup, as if he were trying to make it last until dawn.
After getting his large black coffee, the man with the gun in his coat had picked a chair that placed his back against a wall and gave him a view of the whole place, with clear lines of sight to the front door, both lavatories, and a set of swinging doors that probably led to the kitchen. He couldn't have told you why any of this mattered - it just did.
Letting his coffee cool, he pulled out the wallet again and began to methodically sift through its contents. Cash on hand amounted to $180, plus the change from the ten he'd used to pay for the coffee. He also had an Amex card, a Visa and a Diner's Club, all in the name of Malachi Peters.
Any sense of financial security he might have derived from these evaporated when he saw that each one had expired - in 1982 - apart from Amex, which had held out until July of '83 before breathing its last.
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