You’ve already sold it, I thought.
“Maybe I should brew some more coffee,” Liz suggested.
“I’m great, kiddo,” Danny said with his customary grin.
“Maybe you’d prefer something stronger?” I said.
His grin faded. He’d forgotten, I could see, that I knew of his alcoholism.
“What’s so funny, Father?” Danny asked, his expression stony.
I opened my mouth to respond, but Casey broke in.
“Why did you come over tonight, Father? No one invited you.”
I glanced at him, taken aback by his tone. I don’t know what I expected from Casey—Respect? Gratitude for ridding him of the demon?—but the only emotions I read in his eyes now were mistrust and what might have been dislike. Just what did he remember? I wondered. And what might he now suspect? Could he sense the presence of Malephar within me? In one way, Casey and I were inextricably linked. We’d both housed the same demon, both experienced his debased thoughts and yearnings.
Yet Malephar had remained quiet for several minutes. Why? Was he biding his time, waiting until he could leap forward, seize control of me, and shock everyone with his filthy utterances? Or was he plotting something far worse, an orgy of violence that would leave everyone except Danny, his kindred spirit, a pile of unrecognizable offal?
“Father Crowder was worried about us, Casey,” Liz said, her brows knitting. “We should be thankful he’s here.”
“Absolutely,” Danny said. “The Father’s a hero. He saved you from Sutherland, didn’t he?”
Danny might as well have smacked me in the face.
“Did he?” Casey asked.
“Hell yes, he did,” Danny answered. “You shoulda seen Sutherland’s face when that monster wriggled inside him.” Staring at me now. “That look in his eyes…that gruesome smile. He looked like he’d do the foulest things imaginable. I still shiver thinking about it.”
Liz looked like she might be sick. “Maybe we should talk about something else.”
“Of course, Liz,” Danny said. “I don’t know what I was thinking, so soon after all that terrible stuff went down.” Again, his glance lit on me, and I saw he’d recovered from the initial shock of finding me alive. “Let’s talk about Father Crowder and his plans. You going back to work, Father?”
“Tomorrow. I’m to meet with—”
“You might rethink that. I don’t mean to be rude, but you don’t look so good. Not sleeping much?”
My mouth was cotton dry. “Not tonight.”
Danny nodded. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I tried to sleep earlier, but I kept having these crazy dreams about people getting cut open. Then I decided to get out of the apartment, drive around a little.”
“You have any leads?” Casey asked.
He didn’t need to explain. The Sweet Sixteen Killer wasn’t just the biggest story in Chicago; after Makayla Howell’s slaying, it was dominating national headlines.
But Danny didn’t bat an eyelash. “Nothing yet, Case. Unfortunately. But we’ll catch the bastard soon, I guarantee you that. I can barely rest knowing he’s still out there hunting innocent girls.”
And Danny regarded me with a look so smug that I longed to rend him to pieces.
¨¨¨
We sipped coffee and talked until, a few minutes later, Danny stood and announced he was going. Liz offered to walk him to his car, but he insisted she remain with me and Casey. She did venture as far as the doorway, and as they were saying their goodbyes, Casey turned to me and said, “I’ve seen you staring at Mom.”
I attempted a smile. “Casey, you know I’m bound by my vows. And your mother is a married woman.”
“But not for long, huh? Bet you’re real torn up about that.”
“I don’t blame you for being cynical. Few have experienced what you have. You have trouble trusting people.”
“I trust Danny and Mom,” he said. “And my sister, but she doesn’t really count.”
“How is Carolyn?”
“None of your damned business.”
I could only stare at him. This was a radical and unpleasant departure from the boy I’d known before that terrible night. He’d been kind, polite, almost—to borrow Danny’s description of him—too passive.
Now he looked ready to unmask me for the fraud I was.
Did he suspect what was inside me?
Liz reentered and clapped her hands together softly. “What are you guys talking about?”
“Nothing, Mom,” Casey muttered, rising. “I’m going to bed.”
“Good night, Casey,” I said.
He left without answering.
Liz regarded her interlaced fingers. “He’s had a rough go.”
“You don’t need to apologize.”
“I just wonder… maybe he associates you with what happened. With what was in him?”
“How could he not?”
She shivered, hugged herself. “Let’s not talk about it, okay? I need to get you situated.”
“You’re sure you want me to stay?”
“Of course.” She smiled a little. “Unless you have somewhere else to be.”
My body tingled. I glanced through the window at Rosemary Road, which was steeped in darkness. I thought of Danny, out there somewhere. It was possible he would return tonight. Watching him with Casey and Liz, I couldn’t imagine him hurting either one of them.
But I’d seen what was in his mind. I couldn’t take that chance.
“I’m ready,” I said.
She cocked an eyebrow. “For what?”
Heat rushed to my face. I felt my scrotum shrivel.
She laughed softly, took my hand. “I like it when you’re bashful.”
Chapter Six
I don’t know what I expected when I approached St. Matthew’s Cathedral the next morning. Perhaps it was the movies I had watched as a child or the horror novels I had indulged in as an adult. Whatever the case, I feared some violent physiological reaction from Malephar as I approached the grand front steps and the venerable Gothic archway, some spiritual recoiling or even a tangible attack on me for subjecting him to a setting he must find abhorrent.
Yet the demon remained silent.
My sense of relief only lasted a couple minutes. There was a note on my office door instructing me to meet Father Patterson in his office immediately.
Feeling condemned, I made my way out of the reception area, down the stairs to the basement, and through the long, dim corridor that spanned the length of the cathedral. Father Patterson had always intimidated me. He was tall, powerfully built. Though he was a year or two past fifty, Patterson looked ten years younger. His brown skin showed no signs of aging, and his well-manicured black hair contained no strands of white.
Unlike Father Sutherland, Joe Patterson had never overlooked my many shortcomings. When I would participate in a metaphysical discussion, he invariably found the weak spots in my thinking, and when I dared to contradict him, he would mercilessly rebut me. On several occasions, Father Sutherland had played the role of intermediary and smoothed out the tension between us. But even then it had been patently obvious to all in attendance that Patterson regarded me and what he dubbed my radical views with contempt.
Drawing nearer to Father Patterson’s wing, I eyed the flickering fluorescent overhead lights with dread. Father Sutherland, my protector, was gone. For the foreseeable future, Patterson was not only my superior, he was my direct supervisor, and as Sutherland’s best friend, he would have an especial interest in the events of a few nights prior.
Would he discover the inconsistencies in my story? Would he read the lies in my face?
I turned the corner, tromped up the steps to his office. His secretary, a mousy girl with reddish brown hair and skin so pale she almost glowed, was watching me with unconcealed interest.
I nodded at her. “I’m here to see—”
“He’s waiting for you,” she said. Then, with a hint of apology, “He’s a trifle grumpy. He tho
ught you’d be here earlier.”
Terrific.
Wordlessly, I opened the heavy oaken door and discovered Father Patterson glowering at me from across his burnished cherry wood desk. The desk looked like an antique, as did most of the furnishings in the office. Rather than the easygoing, eclectic décor of Father Sutherland’s study, Father Patterson’s office bespoke of propriety and order, efficiency and tastefulness. Whereas Sutherland had sometimes worn rumpled frocks, Father Patterson looked like a priest in a movie—not a hair out of place or a garment unpressed.
I closed the door behind me and gave Father Patterson what I hoped was a disarming smile.
He did not return it.
Nor did he offer me a chair. I folded my hands behind my back, but that seemed prideful, so I laced my fingers before me and glanced about the office. “This is a handsome room,” I commented.
Patterson continued to appraise me. His brown eyes contained no warmth at all. I reminded myself of what Sutherland used to tell me whenever I shared my uncharitable opinions about Father Patterson. He has seen much and lived through much. You must not judge him too harshly.
Which would’ve been fine had Patterson not judged me so harshly.
Still, I would try. I owed Peter Sutherland that.
“Should I sit?” I asked.
He gave me the merest spreading of his hands, as if to say, Well, get to it then.
I got to it. The chair cushion was surprisingly deep. I felt like the dark leather seat might swallow me up.
I ventured another smile. “I was told you wanted to see me?”
“You’re pretty cheerful for a person who just lost his mentor.”
I flinched, not only at the hostility of Patterson’s words, but at the boom of his voice. I had forgotten about that, was unnerved by that deep bass rumble.
I shook my head. “I’m not cheerful. I was merely trying to be polite.”
“Polite,” Patterson repeated.
“Yes, I…” I cleared my throat. “I’m very distraught over Father Sutherland’s passing.”
“You mean his murder.”
My throat constricted. I pushed up on the armrests. “Have they changed their ruling? The last I heard, they called it a suicide.”
The callous brown eyes watched me. “Who cares what ‘they’ called it? You were there, weren’t you? You’d know better than anyone.”
I squirmed in my chair, aware of how guilty the movement made me appear. I couldn’t help it though. Patterson’s eyes were hard, unblinking.
I said, “The demon went into Father Sutherland and—”
“Why not you?”
I squinted at him. “I’m not sure I—”
“Peter Sutherland,” Patterson said, “had the spiritual resolve of twenty men. He was devout, his faith ironclad. He would never have been overtaken by whatever spirit you claim was in that house.”
“In Casey,” I corrected. “In the boy.”
Patterson waited.
I’d begun to perspire. “I told the police everything I know.”
A dour nod. “And I’m telling you to tell me.”
“I don’t know—”
“Yes you do know,” he said, sitting forward. “This isn’t like a verse of scripture you can twist and manipulate to serve your own bizarre agenda.”
Oh my, I thought. That. I couldn’t believe Patterson was going there in these circumstances. Whatever arguments we’d had about our interpretations of the Bible had nothing to do with Peter Sutherland’s death, yet here was Patterson carrying on as though we were participating in a spiritual debate rather than discussing the death of a man we both loved and admired.
I did my best to maintain a level demeanor, but I was not about to be bullied. “We can quarrel about Leviticus on another occasion, Father Patterson. At the moment, I think we should focus on—”
“Oh you think, do you? You think we should look at things from your perspective instead of God’s?”
I began to shake my head, but he overrode me. “Then let’s do that, shall we?” Elbows on his desk blotter, open palms facing heavenward, he said, “On one hand, we have Peter Sutherland, whose record as a man of God was unimpeachable, who was trusted by mayors, Congressmen, bishops, and cardinals. Not to mention every single parishioner of St. Matthew’s.”
“I know who Father Sutherland was,” I said, a heat building at the base of my neck. “You don’t need to tell me—”
“I do need to tell you, Father Crowder. You need to be reminded. He was godly. A steadfast believer. A fisher of men.”
“He was all those things,” I agreed. Unexpectedly, a thickness formed in my throat. “He was like a father to me. He took me in and made me what I am.”
“His only weakness,” Patterson said. “I never understood what he saw in you.”
“You can’t—”
He silenced me with a raised hand. “I don’t dispute his affection for you, Crowder. From a spiritual perspective, his willingness to prop you up with his faith was exactly the sort of generosity that made him so beloved.”
I subsided into sour silence. I hated Patterson making of me a charity case.
He went on, nodding at an open palm. “So on this hand we’ve got Father Sutherland. And over here,” nodding at his other hand, “we’ve got a junior priest who questions the authority of the Bible.”
My cheeks burned. “It’s not the authority of the Bible I’ve questioned, it’s the veracity of its sources.”
“The Good Book is the truth, Crowder. It’s as simple as that.”
“Weren’t we given minds—by divine grace—to think? Aren’t we supposed to question?”
“Sin, yes. Scripture, no.” A mordant smile. “That’s blasphemy, Jason.”
“I call it utilizing the intelligence that God gave us.”
Patterson’s smile disappeared. “Are you questioning my intellect?”
The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. “No, Father. I’m merely inviting you to use it.”
The senior priest’s jaw muscles flexed. For a moment I thought he might leap over the desk at me. “You’re treating Sutherland’s death as disrespectfully as you treat the Bible.”
“One has nothing to do with the other.”
“They certainly do,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “There is such a thing as objectivity, you know.”
“Fine,” I said, my voice going thin. “Here’s an objective fact: Father Sutherland and I—together—exorcised the demon from Casey Hartman’s body. Then he attacked Father—”
“He?” Patterson’s eyebrows went up.
“Malephar,” I explained.
The curling of a lip. “The spirit told you its name?”
“Yes.”
“Spirits don’t have a gender, Father Crowder.”
I fingered my Roman collar, aware I was on tenuous footing. “I got the impression the demon was male.”
“And how did you come by that conclusion? Wasn’t its host male?”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t you male?”
That stopped me. “Are you questioning my manhood?”
Patterson chuckled, a sound that made my fists clench. “I’d never question your masculinity, Jason. Big, strapping guy like you.”
I sighed. “Why don’t you come out and tell me what you think happened?”
Patterson’s gaze was wintry. “I think you’re responsible for Peter Sutherland’s death.”
¨¨¨
My heart thundered in my chest. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then why the overreaction?” Patterson pressed. “You look like you’re about to swoon.”
I gnashed my teeth at his word choice. Swoon made me sound like a maiden in a cheesy romance novel. Another deliberate belitting.
Patterson rose, crossed to a counter along the interior wall of the room, opened a cabinet, retrieved a glass, and filled it with water from a sink I hadn’t noticed. He brought me the
water, placed it on a silver coaster lined with green felt. I didn’t accept the glass, instead took a moment to collect myself. While I willed my heart to stop racing, I noticed a gold, rather sharp-looking implement lying beside the coaster.
“I collect letter openers,” Patterson explained, returning to his rolling chair. “You like that one? It was a gift from Peter, ironically. You look closely, you’ll find an inscription.”
I didn’t want to do anything Patterson suggested, but so great was my fear of discovery that I welcomed any diversionary tactic, even one Patterson had suggested. With quaking fingers, I snatched the letter opener from the table and held it up to the lamplight.
TO JOE, it read. HERE’S TO MANY MORE MORNINGS AT THE FEELY CENTER.
“He was referring,” Patterson said, “to our racquetball games at the fitness club down the road.”
My throat was desiccated. “I know what he was referring to.”
“I always wondered why you never took part in our morning workouts,” Patterson said. “The last several years, we took up swimming too. I’ve become very comfortable in the water.”
I examined the inscription, pictured Father Sutherland as he’d been only a week ago. Early sixties but as fit as most men in their twenties. Strong, virile. The kind of man others aspired to be.
Patterson’s tone was reflective. “You see my point, don’t you, Crowder? You see why it’s so hard to believe that the ‘demon,’ as you call it, would overcome Peter rather than you.”
“It wasn’t a matter of physical strength.”
“So you say.”
“Did you plan this ambush?”
He went on as though I hadn’t spoken. “Let’s pretend for a minute your story is true. Even if it weren’t a matter of physical strength, it would be a matter of spiritual strength. And let’s be honest,” he said, chuckling a little. “The disparity between you and Father Sutherland spiritually was even more pronounced than it was in the physical realm.”
I tried to muster some indignation. “So that’s why you called me here today. To insult me?”
Exorcist Falls Page 16
