The Canary List: A Novel

by Sigmund Brouwer

  He’d noticed the stainless steel exterior of a sleek one-cup coffee maker on a desk in the corner.

  “Black would be great.”

  When she came back, she extended the cup as if it were a handshake.

  “Gave me time to think,” she said. “I don’t want to cross any ethical boundaries in discussing another doctor, but I think I can safely tell you a couple of things based on my experience.”

  Crockett nodded. The coffee tasted as good as it smelled.

  “I’m aware of exorcism as a rite in the Catholic Church,” she said. “And I’m also aware that priests who are exorcists are instructed to eliminate every other cause or diagnosis before finally concluding—in their view—that a person is possessed by a demon. Enter psychiatry. If a priest asked me to help understand someone’s underlying problem, I would do so no differently than if it were a patient seeking treatment.”

  She held up a finger when Crockett was about to speak. “With one difference. I wouldn’t be open to any diagnosis that suggested demonism as a cause. In general, then, I would not make any judgment on a colleague who works with a priest under that condition. On the other hand, if a colleague was prepared to blame symptoms on a demon, I would find that professionally unacceptable, and in essence could not help that element of criticism.”

  “That’s why you stressed ‘in their view’ when speaking of the priests.”

  “Obviously they hold to a worldview that allows for the existence of spiritual creatures. It’s not something that strays into my office, however. Mental illnesses need to be treated as mental illnesses, not sprinkled with holy water.”

  “But, as you said, you’re aware of exorcism as a rite. Does your professional awareness extend to symptoms of demon possession?”

  “Alleged demon possession. Yes. So I’m also comfortable talking about a student who may believe, or worse, may have been told she is demon possessed. While, again, I can’t comment on specifics, in general, I think that’s a very damaging approach, encouraging someone to believe demons are causing their problems.”

  Crockett sipped more coffee. This would be an enjoyable abstract conversation, if it weren’t for the fact that he was embroiled in this.

  “Let’s start with the exorcism itself,” she said. “It’s a form of hypnotism, riddled with autosuggestion.”

  It struck Crockett. Dr. Mackenzie had taken Jaimie to a hypnotherapist.

  “The rhythmic incantations of a priest,” Dr. Moller said, “combined with the patient’s inward focus, encourages dissociation and, for someone predisposed to believe, also encourages the sense of demonic possession. Let’s face it, a good priest can make someone bark like a dog. It’s not a far stretch to say a priest can make someone talk like the devil in a situation like this.”

  She sighed. “It gives the patient a chance to deny his illness and put the blame for anxiety or depression or schizophrenia on a so-called demon. Ironically, in many families, there is less stigma attached to demon possession than there is to mental illness.”

  “What about reports of superhuman strength?” he asked. Crockett had done some quick online research about demon possession and learned some of the characteristics that exorcists attributed to it.

  “Adrenaline,” she answered. “You’ve heard of people lifting cars to save a child. Same thing.”

  “Speaking foreign languages?”

  She shrugged. “Somebody babbles a few words during an exorcism, and everyone else assumes it’s a foreign language, without anyone around who’s qualified to confirm or deny. Give me a little time, and I’d point you to research that backs this up specifically in regard to demon possession.”

  “Okay, what about aversion to sacred symbols?”

  “Classic manifestation of obsessive-compulsive behavior. Let me ask you, isn’t it most likely a Catholic who would believe in demonic possession and a Catholic who would be brought before a priest?”

  “Yes,” Crockett said.

  “It’s unthinkable for a Catholic to blaspheme the church. So an exorcism, in the patient’s eyes, when the patient feels an aversion to the cross or says nasty words about Jesus, becomes proof that a demon does exist inside them. The exorcism then becomes a placebo and appears to work when the person stops feeling the aversion.”

  She shook her head, continuing in the same tone. “Mr. Grey, demons do not exist. They don’t prey upon people. If you’re looking to help one of your students, I’d suggest this: those who insist on demons and those who exorcise them are the predators. Have I made myself clear enough?”

  “Like your name is Crystal,” he said. He thought of Dr. Mackenzie’s secretiveness and realized this perspective was very helpful. “It’s exactly what I needed to hear.”

  Thirty-Six

  ather O’Hare loved Skype for the anonymity it provided. Not the video calls, of course, but computer-to-land-line calls. His hotel had great wireless—some hotel rooms picked up only a few bars—and the computer’s sound quality was as good as any cell phone. He listened to Muzak while he was on hold, waiting for Sarah Rinker.

  After decades of surviving and thriving in Vatican politics, Father O’Hare also loved the massive web he’d created over the last six months, since meeting Dr. Madelyne Mackenzie. Like a patient spider in the center of all that he’d spun, O’Hare waited for vibrations on the various strands to alert him when he finally had his prey totally enmeshed and helpless.

  The main strand—none more crucial—led to Jaimie and Madelyne Mackenzie. Around it, he’d woven another strand between him and the Vatican’s Entity, anchoring this second filament with a cynical ex-CIA American who had no idea how neatly O’Hare had suckered him.

  Three other strands each led to three of the highest profile cardinals in the Vatican. Yet more strands led to genetic experts and genealogists.

  While the arrest of Crockett had at first threatened to punch a hole in all that he had woven, O’Hare was beginning to get an idea of how to bring Crockett Grey into the web—the man was a problem, but with careful planning and manipulation, he could become another main strand, his role in O’Hare’s ultimate goal almost as crucial as the contribution from Jaimie and Mackenzie.

  And there was this strand, a recent addition too, forced upon O’Hare by the stupid actions that had been taken against Crockett—the strand he had created to bring Sarah Rinker to O’Hare at the center of everything.

  Her voice broke in halfway through a cheesy saxophone riff. “Mr. Atholl, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

  “No worries.” O’Hare played up a fake Australian accent. He’d been provided with seamless credentials as an Australian criminal lawyer. “Just looking for an update on our client’s welfare.”

  The criminal lawyer pose was necessary to convince Rinker that she was part of a team engaged to clear Crockett Grey. Given what he knew about her track record, O’Hare doubted Rinker would breach client confidentiality; with O’Hare as the supposed lead lawyer, she would report to him as team leader.

  “Seems to be going smoothly,” she said. “I’m sure you received my e-mail update about successful bail.”

  “Yes. Well done. I’m hoping that some progress has been made in regard to the hard drive and clearing him of that.”

  “Not sure if we can call it progress yet,” Sarah said. “But Crockett is persistent, and he’s learned some interesting information. Trouble is, I don’t know if we can use it to defend him, as it was obtained in a way that the court would frown upon.”

  “What kind of way?”

  “First, although I set him up to meet a hacker that the firm sometimes uses for legitimate purposes, I want to be clear it was Crockett’s initiative. This is your case, and you don’t need to worry that any of this will ever hurt you.”

  “Of course.”

  “He’s hacked into the computer of the girl’s psychiatrist. He found a lot of information about the girl, plus the fact that a third party has planted a keystroke-logging program. Crockett�
��s not the only one who has learned a lot.”

  “Astounding.” O’Hare didn’t have to act much to put surprise in his voice. Crockett was turning out to be a remarkable man for someone who’d spent his adult life as a schoolteacher. But then, maybe O’Hare shouldn’t have been surprised. With a degree of fascination, he’d read the report on Crockett surviving a shark attack.

  O’Hare pretended he was flipping through some case notes. “What’s the doctor’s name? Mac something, right?”

  “Madelyne Mackenzie,” Sarah answered.

  “Yes,” O’Hare said, rolling the single syllable off his tongue with a perfect Australian emphasis. “Dr. Mackenzie. Why don’t you tell me what Mr. Grey has learned?”

  Raymond Leakey sat on the edge of a chair in his kitchen, sucking on an ice cube. He groaned when his cell phone rang. The dehydration of hangover was so ridiculously predictable, as was the aversion to sudden loud noises. When would a man learn to avoid rum, especially when Pyrat was so expensive to import?

  Rhetorical question, of course. Humans had been succumbing to the tipping point every since humans learned to ferment liquids—you get halfway through the bottle of rum, and you’re too far gone to let the future hangover stop you from the present consumption.

  He glanced at the incoming ID. ANONYMOUS.

  In his business, that was a good sign.

  He looked out at his Roman terrace as he answered. With no preamble, Father O’Hare began. “You have no idea how angry I am.”

  “And the top of the mornin’ to you, too,” Leakey said, imitating Father O’Hare’s Irish brogue.

  “Let me repeat part of our earlier conversation. You were an idiot to try to frame Crockett Grey. He’s started asking questions, which was easy to see coming. We’re lucky the cops aren’t buying his story and asking even more questions. You could have let him walk away, and we would be only hours from getting that girl into the hospital in Rome. Instead, I’m forced to clean up here when I should be on an airplane.”

  “Then let me repeat,” Leakey said. “It was a chain reaction. Your cardinal was the one who sent a lunatic after the girl.”

  “He is not my cardinal.”

  “I’m baby-sitting him for you,” Leakey said. “That makes him yours. There was no time to plan. I did what I thought was best, which meant reducing whatever risks were there if the girl had talked to the teacher and also making sure your cardinal didn’t do anything else idiotic. Remember, it was your idea to let the cardinal know about the girl. So do you want to keep fighting about the past or look ahead to what needs to be done? Trust me, it’s going to be easy to take care of him.”

  “I want to believe that.” A pause. “You said your computer people were untouchable.”

  “And?” Leakey fought another groan that came with his sudden queasiness. From the hangover. He wasn’t especially worried about O’Hare’s anger. Even blind or stumbling drunk, Leakey could swat O’Hare into oblivion. The priest had stepped into unfamiliar territory when he made a bargain with Leakey.

  “And Crockett knows about it. Including the keystroke-logging program on Mackenzie’s computer.”

  Leakey nearly choked on his ice cube. “Say that again.”

  “Crockett knows about the keystroke-logging program you had installed. He knows about the genetic research and about the genealogy tree she requested.”

  “How?”

  “His computer people must be better than yours,” O’Hare replied in an acid voice. “It’s time to take this to the next level. Any suggestions?”

  Thirty-Seven

  t was late afternoon when Crockett finally arrived at the Fishloft, cranky about traffic, stress, and his lack of progress. Julie wasn’t returning calls. He was tired but doubted he’d be able to sleep.

  “Hey,” Catfish greeted him.

  “Did you find out who else is tracking Mackenzie in cyberspace?” Crockett asked.

  “Chill, surfer dude,” Catfish said.

  “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’m tired. We could have had this conversation by telephone, but you wanted me to drive here. Here I am.”

  “We shouldn’t use your cell phone for a conversation about this.” Catfish pulled a cheap-looking cell phone from a lower desk drawer and tossed it to Crockett.

  Crockett gave Catfish a questioning look.

  “This one’s prepaid,” Catfish said. “Start using it. In case they’re tracking you via your phone.”

  “They?”

  “We’re swimming in the deep here. For all I know, someone’s put a bug on you. I’m thinking some kind of spook organization is behind this.”

  Crockett looked at the prepaid phone, back at Catfish. “Spook organization? ”

  “Do I look like the kinda guy who could successfully torch a house?” Catfish said. “The kind of guy with the skills to kidnap someone?”

  “That’s a rhetorical question, right? Especially coming out of nowhere like this. It’s not like I’m accusing you of starting the fire.”

  “Crockett, you’re not listening. I’m a hacker. A good one. Takes years to develop these skills and it needs a certain mind-set.”

  “Your point?”

  “Even if I had the mind-set to physically hurt people, learning how to hack means it’s unlikely I’d have the time or motivation to learn how to hurt. Or vice versa. More like it’s an organization, not one person.”

  Crockett understood. “Already we’ve seen two kinds of attacks. Fire and attempted kidnapping of Jaimie. Computer hack on Mackenzie, and computer stuff on me, planting the fake complaints.”

  “Two kinds of attacks that required opposite sets of skills. What we’re seeing is slick and needs resources. Plenty of resources. Like the CIA.”

  “I’ll go with you on the organizational part,” Crockett said. “But why would the CIA get involved? This is crazy.”

  “I didn’t say CIA. I said like the CIA. Doesn’t every country have its own spook thing happening? Even Vatican City. It’s a country. Why bring up the Vatican? You asked if I found out who else is in Mackenzie’s cyberspace. Short answer, yes. I was able to get a trace in through her computer. Tracked it down to Popesville.”

  “You’re telling me that somebody in Vatican City planted spyware on Mackenzie’s computer.”

  Sarah Rinker, representing the Los Angeles archdiocese. Dr. Madelyne Mackenzie, working with an exorcist. Graphic images on the hard drive planted in Crockett’s attic matching images found on a priest’s hard drive. Now this. Even Maxwell Smart would see a common denominator here. But could Max Smart figure out why there was a link? But why did it involve Jaimie? And what was at stake for the Catholic Church that led to arranging all this?

  “Or maybe just someone in Vatican City,” Catfish said. “It could be a proxy server. Someone cracked the server there, has a sick sense of humor, wants people to believe the pope is now Big Brother.”

  It hit Crockett again how surreal this was. He was just a teacher. This really wasn’t happening to him—except it was. Taking this information to the authorities seemed out of the question. They didn’t appear to be taking Nanna’s absence too seriously, unless they really believed Crockett had murdered the old woman and were hiding an investigation from him. They didn’t want to believe someone had planted a hard drive and complaints on his employment files. They’d laugh him out the door if he said it was a Vatican conspiracy.

  “So we’ve got a child psychiatrist who runs a DNA analysis on a kid, orders up a genealogy report that looks for witches generations deep, and takes her to a priest who does exorcisms. And this somehow matters enough to someone or some organization to try to kill the kid by torching the house she’s in?”

  “How’s this for outside the box?” Fish answered. “Say the girl is actually possessed by a demon. Explains the lies. Explains beating up a homeless person on the playground. Explains the arson. For all you know, Jaimie’s the one who planted the hard drive at your house. She knew your address. So she sets the fire,
pretends to need your help, makes sure you take the real heat. So it’s not an organization, but a demon girl!”

  Then Fish grinned. “Okay, seriously, this is messed up. I have no idea what’s happening.”

  “What about Nanna?” Crockett asked, still thinking about how surreal this was. “Same organization takes her somewhere. Why?”

  He hadn’t received a useful report from the private detective that Sarah Rinker had hired to look for Nanna. Every passing hour squeezed Crockett more. He didn’t want to give up hope on her.

  “All I have is what you know,” Catfish said. “Tracked down the source to Vatican City. Scares me enough that I don’t want to talk over the phone anymore. Unless you use the prepaid.”

  Thirty-Eight

  aimie didn’t cry often. She couldn’t even remember the last time she cried, except reading Black Beauty. To avoid crying, she’d learned to divide herself into Inside Jaimie and Outside Jaimie.

  Whenever Inside Jaimie was sad or scared or lonely, she would make Outside Jaimie squash those feelings into a dense little ball.

  Squashing Inside Jaimie wasn’t working tonight, though.

  She was in bed—a bunk bed in one of the dorm rooms—half thinking about trying to run away. But Bright Lights had impressive security that included sensors if doors or windows were opened in the dorm rooms, cameras everywhere, and the security was one reason she wasn’t in juvie.

  She knew running away wouldn’t change anything about herself, how messed up she was. How she knew when Evil was around and how Evil knew what she knew.

  Evil could find her anywhere, no running from it.

  She turned her head on her pillow, thinking she heard the hooting of an owl.

  Most times, she liked the sounds of the outdoors, especially coyotes, with their high-pitched chorus of yipping. She liked hearing owls too, which happened a lot less frequently.