Chapter Thirteen
I had been inside Father Sutherland’s stately brick Queen Anne home perhaps a hundred times over the past decade, yet somehow the atmosphere within its aged walls already seemed different. As though the house itself understood that an irrevocable change had taken place and that its owner would not be returning. I was skittish on the way to Sutherland’s study, and that sense of foreboding grew as we opened the door and switched on his desk lamp.
Danny fingered the bandage covering the gash in his forehead. Blood had already soaked through the white bandage. “You sure this is the room?”
“I’m not sure of anything,” I said. I suddenly felt absurd, like a hapless gumshoe on some old television mystery show.
Danny eyed me in silence as I walked around, studying the familiar objects on Sutherland’s shelves. I saw his hymnal, several books examining the dual nature of Christ. It was one of Sutherland’s primary interests. I continued through the study, glancing at several pictures of the priest with important members of the clergy and various foreign dignitaries. There was a snapshot of Sutherland shaking my hand on the day I was appointed to my post at St. Matthew’s. Looking at the faded picture, I felt a pang deep in my chest. I crossed the room, as if to escape the image, and as I did, the floor creaked.
I froze. Danny was staring down at my feet. He moved closer, placed a foot on the same board on which I stood and tested it with the toe of a sneaker. The board wiggled perceptibly. I stepped away from it and watched with apprehension as he produced a pocketknife, knelt and used it as a pry. Though the plank was thick and long, it took very little to unseat it. Very much as though someone had been removing the plank and replacing it on a regular basis for a good while.
I watched in speechless dread as Danny levered up the board.
We both gazed at what was inside.
I’m afraid I began to weep.
There were no souvenirs from six dead girls in the two-inch deep space beneath the floorboard. There weren’t trinkets of any kind.
Just a pair of girly magazines—a recent Penthouse and a very old Hustler.
These, I realized, were Father Sutherland’s great sins. For these petty crimes I had sentenced him to death. My mentor. My best friend.
Danny was watching me with sympathy. “Maybe there are…you know, other hiding places. It’s a big house.”
I nodded, but I knew before we resumed our search that we would find nothing. At least nothing to incriminate Peter Sutherland in the Sweet Sixteen murders. I had been deceived. The demon had used me to affect its revenge on the best man I’d ever known, the man whose love and faith made me what I was.
We scoured the house for more than two hours, and when we came together at the base of the staircase, Danny removed his hat and said, “I’m sorry, Father Crowder. I can’t seem to find anything.”
I shook my head. “There’s nothing to find.”
The silence drew out.
Into it I asked, “Will you arrest me?”
Danny compressed his lips. There were tears streaming down my cheeks, but I was very much in control of myself. Mine were silent, passionless tears. Danny lowered his eyes, perhaps in embarrassment.
“I won’t resist,” I said, offering up my wrists.
Danny’s voice was gruff. “Put your hands down, Father.”
“I’ve committed the worst sin imaginable. I took a good man’s life.”
“You didn’t do it out of cruelty,” Danny said. “You thought it was the right thing. And you saved Casey.”
“That doesn’t excuse—”
“You know what you did,” Danny interrupted. “You know, and you’ll have to live with that. I can see how it’s weighing on you. I think Father Sutherland would have forgiven you.”
Somehow, this made me feel even worse. The wet heat in my throat was unbearable.
Danny put his hat on. “There’s been enough horror already. Our church will need you to help us through this. And there’s still a killer out there. People will need you to help them keep the faith.”
I knew there was truth in what he was saying, but I also knew he was letting me off too easily. Danny wouldn’t meet my bleary eyes, but I could see he was choked up too, already mourning Father Sutherland and Jack Bittner. Even after everything that had happened, I was amazed at man’s capacity for good. For forgiveness.
“Come on,” he said, nodding toward the door. “Let’s get out of here.”
It was while we were leaving the dead priest’s house that the idea first occurred to me. We were on the front porch, and though the yellow daffodils and white hyacinths had started to bloom in Sutherland’s front beds, and the pink blossoms of the magnolia trees hung over the porch like grieving loved ones, there was a chill in the air that day, and while we’d been inside the house, an unbroken caul of clouds had smothered the pink light of dusk.
I locked the door with the key Sutherland concealed beneath a statue of Saint Francis in his backyard. Danny moved down the porch steps slowly, as if burdened by the weight of our shared secret.
But I stood on the top step, frowning.
Danny stopped and looked up at me. “Something wrong, Father Crowder?”
“I was just thinking of something you said to me last night.”
Danny smiled his boyish smile. “Never assume anything about people?”
I looked at him, the corrosive taste of bile searing the back of my throat. “That’s not it. It was something you said after I killed Father Sutherland.”
Danny glanced uneasily up and down the sidewalk, scratched the nape of his neck. Coming up the steps, he said, “You might wanna keep it down, Father. I know why you did what you did, but others might not feel the same.”
“When I murdered him, you didn’t seem bothered by it. You acted like it was the right thing to do.”
Danny shook his head. “It was, given what you knew about him.”
I stared deep into his brown eyes, my thoughts racing. “But you weren’t in the room when Casey said most of those things. How could you know about that stuff?”
Something guarded came into Danny’s face, but he shrugged, glanced down at a couple strolling slowly past Sutherland’s black wrought-iron gate. “Maybe I had my suspicions too, you know?”
I felt short of breath. “You were raised in the same part of Greece as your brother.”
“So?”
“You would’ve spoken the language too.”
“Of course I did,” he said, laughing a little. “It was like a badge of honor for my mother’s family. Doing our part to keep tradition alive, you know? We all spoke it. Jesus, Father, what are you trying to imply?”
“Sutherland said the killer spoke that language.”
“Sutherland knows everything about everybody in the church,” Danny countered. “You ever think of that? Maybe he was trying to fool you. Frame Ronnie or me.”
“‘Sometimes you gotta be willing to do a little dirty work.’ That’s what you said.”
“What of it?”
“You were glad when I got rid of Father Sutherland.”
Danny’s smile was gone. “You must think I’m a hell of a bad person, wanting a good man like Peter Sutherland dead. And here I thought you appreciated my keeping quiet about what you did.”
“Is that a threat, Danny?”
“It’s Officer Hartman from now on, and, yeah, if you wanna take it that way, sure.”
“You’ve got the physical strength,” I said. “You were the one person Casey didn’t touch.”
“Christ,” Danny muttered. “You’re just like Bittner. You realize there are damned near three million people in Chicago? What are the odds of you finding the killer when the best detectives in the city can’t?”
“Why put me through this whole charade? Searching Sutherland’s house when you knew we wouldn’t find anything?”
“You’re delusional.”
“And you were staying in the same house with Casey when the demon invad
ed him.”
“What does that have to do—”
“Sutherland said demonic possession could occur as a result of some terrible sin by a family member. You’re Casey’s uncle, his godfather.”
“So now you’re blaming me for Casey too?”
“But why not get rid of me in Sutherland’s house?” I asked. “Did you think I wouldn’t figure things out?”
A change came over him. His eyes became hooded and absolutely cold. “Maybe I should do something about it now, huh?”
“But I’m not a girl,” I said. “And I’m a lot older than sixteen.”
His lips bunched together, trembling with what might have been rage. Then, as if dismissing me, he turned and stalked down the porch steps.
He was almost to the gate when I called, “Is that how old she was, Danny? The girl who broke your heart?”
He froze, his hand outstretched for the gate lock. For a time he stood there, motionless, and I took note of how broad his back was, how muscular.
He looked back at me then, and when he did, I suppressed a gasp of shock.
Gone was the affable policeman I’d known for so many years. Gone was the man who’d stood shoulder to shoulder with me in a battle against blackest evil.
In its place was a face so malign, so shot through with wickedness and depravity, that it took all I had not to faint at the sight of it.
Danny Hartman grinned a grin no less sinister than the demon’s had been on Rosemary Road, grinned at me and said, “We all have our secrets, Father. I’ll keep yours if you keep mine.”
Turning away, he opened the gate and strode down the sidewalk as though he didn’t have a care in the world.
After
The next day the city was rocked by news of the seventh murder, the Sweet Sixteen Killer returning with a furious vengeance and his most sadistic atrocity yet. The victim was a black girl named Makayla Howell. She was, of course, sixteen.
Makayla had been a model student up until her sophomore year in high school, during which it seems she began spending time with the wrong sort of people. She’d taken to defying her parents and dating boys several years older than she was. It was one of these boys who’d gotten her drunk, attempted to take advantage of her, and when Makayla denied him, he kicked her out and forced her to walk home from his apartment.
Someone—authorities have no idea who—offered her a ride. For reasons inexplicable to the police and to her brokenhearted parents, Makayla accepted. The murderer had then driven her to a secluded park, somehow gotten her out of the car and then…done things to her.
The newspapers did not divulge all of the details, but the following facts appear to be true:
Makayla was tortured.
Makayla was raped.
Makayla was still alive when the killer began cutting on her.
Makayla was eviscerated in a way that recalled the worst of Jack the Ripper’s crimes.
And after Makayla finally expired from her wounds, the Sweet Sixteen Killer raped her again.
¨¨¨
Officer Hartman is planning on framing me for this most recent killing. Perhaps for all the killings. I’m already a chief suspect in the deaths of Bittner and Sutherland, despite what Liz and her kids have said on my behalf. Maybe Danny means to link Father Sutherland to the earlier crimes and me to Makayla Howell’s death. Maybe he has something in store for me even more horrific than the seven murders he has already committed.
But there is something Danny Hartman doesn’t know. A secret that changes everything.
You see, there is something inside me. Something more intelligent, more bloodthirsty and infinitely more powerful than a thousand Danny Hartmans.
The most important question was one that neither Danny nor Liz nor her soon-to-be ex-husband Ron bothered to ask. A question more important than fallen priests and cheating husbands and homicidal cops.
It is the question of where the demon went after it was driven from Casey’s body.
¨¨¨
And now I must conclude my narrative. I have much work to do. It is grueling, at times, maintaining control of my actions. It is even harder to master my thoughts. Last night I awoke at the bathroom mirror with a razor blade pinched between my thumb and forefinger. I had been about to slash my own throat.
I shall take pains to remove all lethal objects from my cottage at the rectory. Or place them where I cannot access them when my defenses are weak. My mind is teeming with impure thoughts, ideas that make me shudder. Images that make me grow pale.
Yet I am still in control.
And that is why the thing inside me wants me dead. It needs another host, one without such tremendous willpower, without my discipline.
But it will not usurp me. I am not a fourteen-year-old boy. I am a man on the brink of a new life, a man of faith. I plan on using my unique knowledge of evil to wage war on the powers of darkness.
According to one source, there are over a thousand exorcisms performed each year in the United States. A great many of these are conducted in error, cases in which medicine or a trained psychiatrist would be more effective.
Yet even if a fraction of these cases—say a tenth—are authentic, who better to do battle with these malevolent spirits than a priest who has thwarted one already? A man who has so overmastered the offending demon that he can bend it to do his will?
I aim to end the Sweet Sixteen Killer’s reign of terror.
Danny Hartman will be coming to my cottage tonight. I’ve invited him.
He was pleasant enough on the phone, but I know what’s in his mind.
But Danny has no idea what’s in store for him. He has no idea what I’m capable of when I unleash the presence inside me.
And after Chicago learns of how a shy, boyish-looking priest brought to justice the most vicious serial killer in the city’s history, they will revere me and accord me the respect I deserve. And during the warming light of day, I will gladly play the figurehead. I will lead my church. I will be a pillar of the community.
But at night, I shall sate the presence that dwells within my flesh. I shall use its unspeakable powers for good. I will only permit it to prey upon those who deserve its wrath.
The hour is growing late, and I must prepare. The presence within me is restless. Ravenous. And though it is difficult, I must maintain control of these urges. I must bide my time until Danny arrives. I will await his coming.
Await him in darkness.
Exorcist Falls
Jonathan Janz
Dedication
This novel is for my daughter Juliet. You’ve been with us for nine years, and I can honestly say that you’ve made every one of those days brighter and happier. You constantly look on the bright side of even the darkest of events. Your loving heart brings warmth and kindness to a world that so desperately needs both. I am honored to be your dad, and I consider every moment we spend together a blessing. I love you, Juliet, and I’m so proud of the amazing person you are.
“There it lies, I think, Damien… possession; not in wars, as some tend to believe; not so much in extraordinary interventions such as here…this girl…this poor child. No, I tend to see possession most often in the little things, Damien: in the senseless, petty spites and misunderstandings; the cruel and cutting word that leaps unbidden to the tongue between friends. Between lovers. Between husbands and wives. Enough of these and we have no need of Satan to manage our wars; these we manage for ourselves… for ourselves.”
~The Exorcist, William Peter Blatty
Before
My name is Jason Crowder.
Until recently there was a Father before my name, and though I haven’t been stripped of my title, it’s only a matter of time before I am. Never before did I comprehend the depths to which Man could fall, nor did I grasp how precipitous his descent could be.
But fall I have.
Every good thing I once possessed is lost or in mortal danger. And though it is base selfishness on my part, I can’t help but gaze
with dread into my own abyss, an encroaching danger exceeding the flesh, a peril far bleaker than mortal harm.
I fear my soul is damned.
What’s worse, I fear damnation is the only fate befitting my actions, actions I would have perceived as unfathomable only a couple nights ago.
My God, has it only been two nights?
Two nights since a kindly cop named Danny Hartman materialized at my rectory cottage from the stormswept April darkness? Two nights since I encountered an evil so monstrous I quail at the memory? Since Father Sutherland and I triumphed over the demon inhabiting Casey Hartman? Or believed we triumphed?
Has it been two nights since I committed murder?
I should have ended my life then! To cold-bloodedly rid the world of a man like Peter Sutherland, to thrust his screaming body through a third-story window into the howling, lightning-riddled night. To watch his body tumbling into darkness with a fiend’s grin on my face, thinking in that moment only of the service I was providing mankind, foolishly believing I had expunged the scourge from our wonderful city.
But I didn’t save Chicago from the Sweet Sixteen Killer.
Unwittingly, I emboldened him and tightened his grip on all of us by murdering a hero.
Yes, I believed the killer was Father Peter Sutherland.
But it was Danny Hartman after all. Danny Hartman who raped and tortured that poor girl. Makayla Howell. The seventh victim of the Sweet Sixteen Killer.
The killer who wore a policeman’s blue.
The killer I invited to my cottage one terrible night.
Part One
The Sweet Sixteen Killer
Chapter One
My notion was to meet the murderer in darkness. The decision was not only a symbolic one—though I blush to admit there existed a strain of the poetic in my plan—but more importantly a strategic one. Despite Officer Hartman’s unrelenting depravity, he was, after all, a man, and bound as such by human limitations. He relied on the same senses that all men rely on, and unless he wore night vision goggles, he would find himself at a disadvantage in the darkness.
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