Fury

by John Coyne

  Next she spoke of how Christ had taken her heart and given her the wounds of His crucifixion. Then she said many things which I cannot remember, and I knew she was not herself. Her voice did not sound like her own. Then she prayed for several hours. We knelt together on the cold stones and prayed together.

  When she was finished, we shut out the lights and left the choir and retired to our cells. She was in great pain, and would go to her cell at night and sit beside her. She kept telling me that a dagger was striking her body, bleeding her heart, and she would take my hand and press it against her breast so I might feel her great pain.

  She would tell me, “Hold me,” and as soon as I touched her heart, it would quiet her. I asked her what was causing the great pain, and she said it was Jesus testing her virtue.

  And then she began to call me often to her bed. It was always after my disrobing, and when I came to her, she would force me down into her bed and kiss me, as if she were a man, and then she would stir on top of me, like a man, so that we were both corrupted.

  She would do this in the most solemn of hours. She would pretend that she had a need, a great pain, and call me to her cell and then take me by force to sin with her.

  And to gain greater sinful pleasure, she would put her face between my breasts and kiss them. And she would put her finger in my genitals and hold it there as she corrupted herself. And she would kiss me by force and then put my finger into her genitals, and I would corrupt her.

  She would always seem in a trance when she did such corruption, and call herself the angel Michael, and speak like a man. She would wear a white robe with gold-embroidered sleeves and a gold chain around her neck. She let her hair loose, and it curled at her thin neck, and she crowned her own head with a wreath of flowers taken from the convent’s garden.

  And as the angel Michael, she told me not to confess what we did together, for it was no sin in God’s eyes. And when we were corrupted together, she would make the sign of the cross over my naked body and tell me to give myself to her with my whole heart and soul and then let her do as she wished. “If you do this,” she said, speaking in a man’s voice, “I will give you as much pleasure as you would ever want.”

  DIARY OF SISTER ANGELA MELLINI

  April 4, 1622: Veronica Borromeo was purified at age eighteen. She was brought before the Grand Inquisitor and High Priest and her sins were read out to her, and then she was burned, as was the young sister, Maria Sinistrari, until dead. Once dead, the Abbess Veronica Borromeo and Sister Maria Sinistrari were brought into the chapel as is the custom of our sisters. The bodies were then buried beyond the convent walls, in a secret place, and at night, so that the laity might not defame the remains and take the bodies of the dead women and cast them out to the wolves of the forest.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  JOAN WAS NOT AT her desk when Jennifer arrived at the foundation. She wanted to give her secretary work to do before she went to see Phoebe Fisher. Jennifer took a stack of telephone messages off Joan’s desk and walked into her office, closing the door behind her. She flipped through the pink memo slips. There were a half-dozen calls concerning foundation matters, and the others were personal. Janet Chan had phoned to cancel their lunch on Thursday. Her dentist, Dr. Weiss, had called to remind her about her appointment. David Engle had called. He wanted her to phone him at home as soon as possible. And there was a long-distance call from Kathy Dart in Minnesota.

  Jennifer stared at the slips, her hands trembling. She was too frightened to call David. She didn’t know what to say to him, not now. On impulse, she dialed Kathy Dart in Minnesota.

  “Hello, Tenayistilligan,” a man’s voice answered.

  “Hello?” Jennifer said.

  “Tenayistilligan,” the man said again, “this is the Habasha Commune. Simon speaking.”

  “Oh, hello.” Jennifer remembered now. Eileen had explained that Kathy Dart’s believers used Amharic expressions and gave themselves Ethiopian names in honor of Habasha. “My name is Jennifer Winters. Kathy Dart telephoned me earlier. I’m returning her call.”

  “Just a moment.”

  Jennifer waited for a moment. Soon she heard Kathy Dart’s clear and crisp midwestern voice. “Oh, Jennifer, I am so pleased that you’ve called. I telephoned Eileen Gorman earlier to get your phone number. Are you all right?”

  “Why, yes, I think so,” Jennifer answered.

  “Well, I spoke to Eileen a few days ago and she told me you have been experiencing some difficult feelings

  “

  “Yes?” Jennifer tensed up.

  “This morning when I woke, Habasha was waiting for me, waiting for me to awaken, and he mentioned your name. He said you were in trouble.”

  Jennifer took a deep breath.

  “Yes. Well, I’m in trouble, that’s for sure.” She laughed, but now she was frightened. How could Kathy Dart know?

  “This happens,” Kathy Dart said softly, anticipating Jennifer’s anxiety. “The spirit knows. We have all had premonitions. Habasha, of course, is attuned not only to my life, but to others as well. It is obvious now to me that you and I are somehow related in the same group.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean, what sort of group. A spiritual grouping?”

  “Spiritual is the right term. You and I—and Habasha, of course—and others are all part of what is called the oversoul. I thought so when I first saw you sitting with Eileen at my introductory seminar in Washington. We have shared some previous life experience, which, naturally, isn’t that unusual, as we are all part of the Mind of God.”

  “What did Habasha say? I mean, what’s going to happen to me?”

  “You have had some terrifying experiences.”

  “Did Habasha tell you?”

  “No, but I have experienced several troubled nights, and when I spoke with Eileen, she told me that you were troubled and were also inquiring about New Age beliefs.”

  “Yes, I did ask her.” Jennifer grew cold suddenly, and she glanced up to see if her office door had opened. She didn’t want anyone to hear what she was saying to Kathy Dart. “I do have a lot of questions now about all this

  stuff. I am trying to understand

  you know, channeling and everything.” She was talking very rapidly, realized she was perspiring.

  “The channeling experience is normally a cooperative experience,” Kathy Dart went on calmly. “I have accepted Habasha. I had no questions or qualms about acting as his channel, his connection with this life.”

  “I remember your talk. I remember how he came to you out of a California morning. But I think something else is happening to me. I have had—” She caught herself then. She could not tell this stranger about the killings. Instead, she said quickly, “I was at the Museum of Natural History the other day, and I had this weird sensation.”

  She told Kathy Dart about the Ice Age exhibition and her reactions to the model, how she knew she had been there once herself, had walked down the path, had slept under the bones and tusks and dried skins of the Ice Age mammoth. She knew it all, but of course it was not possible for her to have such knowledge.

  “But it does make sense, Jennifer,” Kathy insisted. “This place, these people were once part of your life—in another time, of course, in this prehistoric period.”

  “Kathy, excuse me, but I have to say something.” Jennifer walked to the windows and stood there, staring out at the cold day as she went on. “I am having a difficult time, you know, accepting all of this. I have a friend, and he’s—”

  “That’s Tom, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, you know

  ?”

  “Well, no, but Eileen mentioned you were seeing someone. I have asked Habasha about Tom. I have asked him to see if Tom is the right person for you.”

  “And what has Habasha said?”

  “Oh, he takes his own sweet time about such requests. Basically he finds them annoyances. He’ll tell me one of these times when I am channeling. But please go on. I’ve interrupted you
.”

  “Well, none of this makes sense to him, either. Rational sense, do you understand?”

  “Of course I understand,” Kathy Dart replied calmly. “I had many of the same questions and apprehensions I know you are experiencing. For all of us it is an uncharted journey, a leap of faith, but also, and this was true for me, we realize that there is something missing—something out of whack, let’s say—with our lives. For me, Habasha has been able to put this life into perspective.”

  “Look, Jennifer, this isn’t terribly new or strange or weird, all this reincarnation talk. We were raised on a belief in an afterlife, in heaven and hell, but at the same time we are caught in a cultural reality that says there can’t be any such thing as reincarnation, or premonitions, or ghosts! But nevertheless, man has throughout history known about our connection with the other side, with the voices from beyond.”

  “But that still doesn’t explain why I—”

  “Why you were selected? Chosen?”

  “Yes! Why me?”

  “Because, Jennifer, you are ready. It is as simple as that. I wasn’t ready when I was a seventeen-year-old in college, but when I had children of my own, after many life experiences, I was finally prepared to handle the responsibility of channeling Habasha. Someone, some person, is preparing you to channel his or her entity. Why else would you have such sudden strength to run that far in Washington? Jennifer, I know you are being prepared for channeling some spirit.”

  “Oh God,” Jennifer whispered, her legs weakening. She leaned forward and pressed her forehead against the cold glass. Across Fifty-ninth Street, dozens of floors below her, was the entrance of the park, where a half-dozen men stood loitering, standing out in the cold day. They were selling drugs, she knew, calling out to people as they passed by on their way to the subway.

  Kathy Dart broke into her thoughts. “I think it would be good if we could talk in person,” she said.

  Jennifer nodded. She was crying again, and finally she managed to say “I would love to talk to you.” She turned away from the window and went to her desk to pull out a handful of tissues. Kathy Dart was still speaking, telling her how difficult it was to have this special gift, to be open to such communication, to be sensitive to altered lives.

  “But I’m not that kind of person, Kathy,” Jennifer finally protested. “I never played with an Ouija board or did automatic writing.”

  “What kind of person, Jennifer?” Kathy Dart said quietly. “Do you believe in God?”

  “Yes, of course. ! guess so. I mean, I did once.”

  “And angels? And the devil? And miracles? Of course you do. Or did. And you believed in life after death, too. It’s a tenet of Western culture. We were all raised to believe in a God or some Supreme Being that established order in our universe. Even the Big Bang theory is a stab at trying to explain ourselves, why we are here on earth, the meaning of our lives.” Kathy Dart sighed. They had been talking for over twenty minutes and both were getting tired. “Listen, after all of this, I still haven’t told you why I really called, or what upset Habasha this morning.”

  Jennifer waited. She had returned to her leather chair and was sitting behind her wide desk. The telephone console was flashing, and she was sure that Joan had returned to her desk and was in the outer office taking her calls.

  “Habasha was disturbed about you. He is painfully vague about much of his information but said you were in danger.”

  Jennifer did not answer. She thought of the New York Post headlines and realized again that the police were still searching for her.

  “There is a man

  I have only a name

  a first name.” Kathy Dart was speaking slowly, as if she were still trying to decide how much to tell her.

  “Yes?” Jennifer asked quickly, raising her voice.

  “David. Do you know a man named David?”

  “Of course I do,” Jennifer whispered. She suddenly lost all her strength. “David Engle. He’s the husband of my friend Margit. She just committed suicide.”

  “Be careful, Jennifer. I am sorry to have so little to tell you. Usually I do not like to do this—give people bits and pieces of information—but I am taking a chance with you. I feel you are someone special. Special to me, to all of us.”

  “Thank you,” Jennifer whispered gratefully. “I’m not afraid,” she added, surprising even herself.

  “Good! Remember, you are not alone. You have your guides with you always. Your guardian angels, as we used to call them in Catholic school. And you have me. Please call me. We must keep in touch. I feel—I know—we are important in each other’s lives.”

  When Jennifer finally hung up the phone, she sat very still at her desk and watched the lights of her phone flash. Then, impulsively, she pushed down one of the buttons and reached out to pick up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Jenny?”

  Jennifer recognized the voice at once. “Yes?”

  “Is that you, Jenny? I’m so used to getting that secretary who guards your palace door.”

  “Yes, David, it’s me.” Jennifer knew her voice sounded stiff and distant, but she couldn’t bring any warmth to her words.

  “I’m calling to ask if you can come by later today for a drink. I have some things I need to talk to you about.”

  “I’m sorry, David. I have to meet Tom right after work,” Jennifer said. The last person she wanted to see was David Engle.

  “Jenny, please. I really need someone to talk to.”

  “I understand, David, but I can’t. I—” Jennifer suddenly stopped talking.

  “Jenny? Are you there?”

  “Yes, David. All right, I’ll come about four.” Now Jennifer was smiling. There, in the far corner of her office, in front of the wall of bookshelves, Margit Engle sat on the leather sofa and nodded to Jennifer, encouraging her to accept the invitation from her husband.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  JENNIFER LISTENED TO DAVID Engle lie to her. He was telling her about Margit’s death—how she had said good night, gone to her bedroom, closed the door, and swallowed a dozen Valium. And how he had found her later, on the floor at the foot of the bed. He started to cry as he spoke. Jennifer guessed that he had been drinking most of the day.

  Jennifer sat on the sofa and sipped her white wine, watching him. Now he was talking about their sons. They were both home from school and handling the funeral details.

  “I couldn’t face it,” he confessed to Jennifer, coming back to where she was sitting on the sofa.

  Jennifer realized how worn down he was. He couldn’t be more than fifty, but he had aged since she had spent the night at the apartment. His whole body sagged, his face was gray. Gray from beard bristles. Gray from the long winter without sun. He looked like a corpse.

  “Margit was a much better parent than I was,” David said. He told her how when the boys had pneumonia, she had slept for a week on the floor in their bedroom. “And I was the goddamn doctor,” he swore, sobbing again.

  Jennifer didn’t go to him. She was crying, too, but her tears were for Margit, the mother of his children, his wife for twenty-three years, the woman whom he had murdered in her sleep.

  “I made friends with people easily,” he said next, pulling himself together, “but it was Margit whom they came to love.” He leaned forward in the chair, gesturing with one hand and spilling his drink. “Like you! Like you! You were my friend, too, but Margit took you away from me.”

  “David, please!”

  He waved off her protest. “Don’t you tell me about Margit. I knew her. I knew what she was like.” He was crying, and he kept rambling on, claiming that Margit had stolen all his friends, turned them against him.

  Jennifer set her drink down on the coffee table.

  “David, I’m going to have to go,” she said softly, reaching for her coat.

  David did not respond. He was still leaning forward, staring at the rug.

  “Go?” he said finally, looking up, blink
ing into the light. Jennifer was now standing.

  “I’ll telephone the boys later to find out about the service. I would like to say something, if you don’t mind. I’ll speak to Derek about it.” She walked past him but did not bend over to kiss him on the cheek as once she would have. He would turn on her next, she knew. His self-pity was engulfing everyone he knew.

  “You were my friend first, Jennifer, or have you forgotten?” The ringing phone startled him, and he stood staring at it. After a moment, Jennifer stepped around him and picked up the receiver. “Hello, the Engle residence,” she said calmly.

  “Hello, is

  Jenny, is that you?”

  “Yes, Tom. Hello.”

  “What in God’s name are you doing there? Is David with you?”

  Jennifer sighed and closed her eyes. She was tired of men shouting at her.

  “Yes. What is it?” She glanced over at David. He was standing in the middle of the foyer, staring at her. His eyes were glassy.

  “Get out of there,” Tom whispered, “get out of that apartment and away from him. What in the world possessed you to go see him? Jenny, the son of a bitch is a killer. You were right! I called the coroner’s office when I got back downtown. I was doing it just as a favor, you know, so at least if you asked again, I’d have the facts, and the tests on Margit’s skin had come back. There was lidocaine in the tissue. He did it, Jenny. Like you said.”

  Jennifer looked into the small foyer mirror and saw her own startled eyes. Behind her, still standing at the entrance, David clutched his empty glass and watched her. She was right. She wasn’t some crazy person, having dreams and seeing ghosts. It was all true. Margit had come to her after her death.

  “Is that Tom?” David asked.

  Jennifer nodded into the mirror. She was listening to Tom explain that a warrant had been issued for David’s arrest. “Now get the hell out of there, Jennifer. I don’t want you involved. I don’t want David to get an idea of what’s gone down.”