by Deanna Chase
Larson rubbed his chin, obviously processing the information. “I see your problem. The IRS lists provide some help, but the playing field is still large.”
“And teeming with bugs,” I added.
“I can’t do anything about the vermin, but I’ve been doing some research on my end, and I think I may be able to narrow your search.”
“Great,” I said. “How?”
“Apparently, the monk whose cell was the most destroyed was Brother Michael.”
“Should that mean something to me?”
“No, but Brother Michael is the monk who committed suicide.”
“That is interesting,” I said. “I still can’t figure out why a monk would commit suicide.” I was talking more to myself than Larson, and I answered myself, too. “He wouldn’t. Not unless he’d lost his faith or believed it was for the greater glory of God. Or if the death was indirect and he wasn’t really looking to kill himself. Like someone running into a burning building to save a baby, even though he knows he probably won’t get out.” I met Larson’s eyes. “Or someone running who leaps from a building to escape demons, perhaps?”
“Most likely,” he agreed.
“Or maybe it was more proactive,” I said. “What if the thing Goramesh was looking for wasn’t in his cell? And what if the monk was afraid he’d reveal the location if he were tortured?”
“And so he killed himself rather than reveal it?” Larson frowned thoughtfully. “Possible. Definitely possible.”
“Yeah,” I said, warming to the idea. “The demon tortured him, and Brother Michael broke, revealing San Diablo. But rather than spill the rest of it, he threw himself from the window.”
“Very good,” Larson said, nodding slowly. “Yes, yes, I believe you’re on to something.”
I sighed, proud and frustrated all at the same time. “Not enough. We already knew it was in San Diablo, and we’re not any closer to knowing what it is.”
“Patience, Kate. When you next review the archives, keep an eye out for donations from Italy. Or anything that could have a connection to Brother Michael.”
“Right.” I said, making a mental list. Benedictine, Florence, monasteries. I’d try to find out the monk’s family name, and Laura could try to track down relatives in California, or see if Brother Michael had any connection to Larnaca, or that cathedral in Mexico. You never knew. “At least we have a little bit more of a plan.” I still didn’t relish the detective end, but at least I could see some tiny bit of progress.
He glanced at his watch. “We should wrap this up. I have a status conference in a criminal case schedule in fifteen minutes.”
“Sure,” I said. “No problem. But you haven’t told me where Eddie is yet.”
“Of course, of course,” he said. “He’s currently living out his days at the Coastal Mists Nursing Home.” Something flashed across his face. Worry, perhaps? “I hope he’ll be of some help, but we shouldn’t get our hopes up. My understanding is that on a bad day he makes no sense, and on a good day he rattles on about decapitating demons in his youth. The staff thinks he’s crazy.” Larson met my eyes. “I’m more inclined to think he has Alzheimer’s and is reliving his glory days.”
I didn’t say anything, but I felt oddly defeated. Larson had already told me Eddie was feeble, so nothing had changed in that regard, but now another worry nagged at me—would that be me one day? Alone at the end of my days, senile and yammering on about my escapades with Eric?
No. I had a family. I had kids. I had a husband who loved me. Unlike Eddie Lohmann, I wasn’t alone. I closed my eyes then and said a silent prayer for Eddie. I’d never met the man, but still we shared a bond.
I’d pay him a visit. It was, after all, the least I could do.
Chapter 14
I stopped by Laura’s before heading to Coastal Mists and found her perched at her kitchen table, her laptop open, her fingers tapping at her keyboard. I moved to stand behind her and found myself looking down at the Web site for the Larnaca tourist bureau.
I’m trying to impress you with my resourcefulness,” she said. “How am I doing so far?”
“Not bad.”
“Good. Because the only location you told me about was Larnaca, so after this, I’m stumped. Although I did do some research on the cathedral earlier this morning.”
I’d begun to read over her shoulder (the site raved about Larnaca’s easygoing pace coupled with its fascinating links to the ancient past), but at that I looked up. “St. Mary’s Cathedral?”
“Yeah. Since you said that Goramesh is looking here now, I figured I could start by researching the cathedral.”
“Pretty interesting history, don’t you think?” I asked.
“Did you read about the saints’ ashes used in the mortar?”
I could practically see her face fall. “You already knew about that? I thought I’d be telling you something new.”
“Sorry. Old news. That’s why Eric and I used to think this town had so few demons.” I snorted. “So much for that theory.”
“Well, demon-free or not, the cathedral sure has a lot of tragedy.”
“What do you mean?”
“Five of the original missionaries were murdered. Martyred I guess is the word. They were burned on individual pyres. Just horrific stuff.”
“Wow,” I said. “I had no idea.”
“Really?” She brightened considerably. “You really didn’t know?”
“I really didn’t. Tell me.”
“Well, the yuck part was that they were burned, but the fascinating part is that the cathedral still has their remains. The church kept the ashes in bags, saving them in case any of the martyrs were sainted.”
“I’ve seen them,” I said, remembering the coffee-sized bags in the display case. “So, were any of them sainted?”
She shook her head. “No, but one of them was beatified. That’s the first step, right?”
I nodded. “I doubt any of that’s helpful to us, though. The martyrs are part of the cathedral’s formal collection, so they’ve been on the Web site forever. Goramesh wouldn’t have to sneak around to find them.”
“Oh.” She leaned back, her enthusiasm fading. “At least it makes a good story.”
“Come on, Laura. I haven’t even asked you to help yet, and already you’re doing great.” I said all this in the same voice I use to tell Allie that her math homework was going really, really well. As uneasy as I’d been about Laura helping me originally, now I was keen on the idea. I didn’t want her to get discouraged and distracted, moving on to other more consuming things such as closet reorganizing or dust-bunny wrangling.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“So tell me about this,” I said, focusing again on the Web site about Larnaca and sounding more chipper than I felt.
“I just pulled it up,” she said. “I haven’t even read it yet myself.”
“Look,” I said, noticing a paragraph in the middle of the page. “It says that Larnaca is where Lazarus lived.”
“Rising-from-the-dead Lazarus?”
“I think so.” I leaned over her and pointed to a link labeled Places to See. “Click there.”
She did, and a list of tourist attractions came up.
“There,” I said. “Lazarus came to Larnaca after he was resurrected, and a church was built on the spot where his remains were said to be found.”
“A church,” Laura repeated. “Do you think that’s where the shrine was? The one that was spray-painted?”
“Could be, I guess.”
“But what’s the connection to Mexico or Italy? Or to San Diablo, for that matter?”
“I don’t know.” I chewed on the side of my lip, then paced her kitchen as an idea started to form. “Both the demons that attacked me talked about an army rising. So maybe the desecration of the shrine and the various cathedrals is symbolic. Jesus and Lazarus rose through the power of God, and the demons are going to rise through the power of Satan?” It sounded like a B-movie plot, but it
was the only idea I had.
“Maybe,” Laura said. She sounded as dubious as me.
“This is all so frustrating,” I said. “And what does any of it have to do with bones?”
“Could be symbolic, too. You know, like ‘Dem bones gonna rise again.’” Laura’s voice was singsong. I just stared at her. She exhaled. “The song,” she said. “You know.”
I didn’t know, and told her as much.
“Didn’t you go to church camp?”
Obviously Laura hadn’t completely assimilated my description of my childhood. “I lived at the Vatican, Laura,” I said. “There wasn’t a lot of singing around the campfire going on.”
“Right. Sure. Of course.” She laughed nervously. This was going to take a while for her to get her head around. “So, I guess you probably didn’t sit around with the other Hunters telling ghost stories, huh?”
“Sure we did,” I said. “Only they weren’t stories. They were object lessons in how to survive.” I could still vividly remember how Eric and Katrina and Devin and I would huddle in the alcove between the boys’ and girls’ dorms. We’d share our own escapades along with any other stories we’d picked up from older, more experienced Hunters. Like Allie now did at her slumber parties, we’d stay up into the wee hours talking. But we weren’t doing it for fun. It was work. Survival. Knowledge, after all, is power.
“Your childhood sucked,” she said.
“Pretty much.” But even though I said the words with feeling, a part of me knew that—given the choice—I wouldn’t have lived my life any other way.
“I can see why you retired early,” she said. “Probably extended your life expectancy by decades.”
I didn’t answer. Thoughts of Eric spilled into my head. Retiring hadn’t saved him. Death had wanted him, and it had taken him. And even with all of Eric’s fighting skills, when it was his time, he’d still lost the battle.
“You okay?”
I shook my head, dispelling my thoughts. “What?”
“I asked if you were okay?”
“Fine,” I said. I moved to the table and grabbed my purse. “I’ve got some more information you can plug into Google,” I said. “Want to come with me to see Eddie Lohmann? I’ll give you the rundown on the way.”
Her brows rose. “Come with you? Real sidekick stuff? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Don’t get used to it,” I said, giving her a stern glare. I’m pretty sure, though, that my smile destroyed the effect.
As soon as we were on the road, I relayed my conversation with Larson, giving her all the key words to plug into her next search, and telling her in particular about Brother Michael. I also told her what Larson had said about Eddie’s condition.
“That’s a shame,” she said. “I was hoping you’d have some help.”
“I have you,” I said.
“I was thinking more along the lines of help that wouldn’t squeal like a girl and run the other way at the sight of a spider, much less a demon.” Her smile, however, told me how pleased she was by the comment. “So where’s the turnoff?”
We spent the next ten minutes trying to find the poorly marked driveway for Coastal Mists Nursing Home and Eddie Lohmann. I pushed thoughts of Laura and the cathedral and Lazarus out of my head, my attention focused solely on my newly founded Adopt a Geriatric Hunter program.
“So what exactly are we doing here?” Laura asked as I pulled into one of the many empty parking spaces. I had the feeling the residents of Coastal Mists weren’t inundated with visitors.
“I’m not entirely sure.” If he had all his marbles, I wanted to run the situation by Eddie and get his opinion. But the Goramesh problem notwithstanding, I just wanted to meet Eddie. I didn’t know the man, and yet I already felt a connection to him. Melancholy mixed with nostalgia, I’m sure. There were no other Hunters in my life. Eddie was a Hunter. Ergo, I’d latched on.
Pretty transparent pop psychology, but sometimes the most obvious answer really is the truth.
The entire front of the building was landscaped, with native plants lining the walkway, giving the place the external appearance of a fine hotel. The moment we stepped inside, the illusion faded, replaced by a hollow, antiseptic scent, as if the home’s administrators were trying just a little too hard to hide the fact that there was dying going on here.
I realized I’d stopped in the foyer and was hugging myself. Beside me, Laura didn’t seem the least bit perturbed. Mentally, I chastised myself. I’d seen all sorts of death and fought all sorts of demons. If the scent of a nursing home didn’t bother Laura, I sure as heck wasn’t going to let it bother me.
The hallway opened up into a large foyer, the focal point of which was a round nursing station that apparently doubled as a reception desk. A woman in an old-fashioned nursing uniform, complete with starched white hat, greeted us with a thin smile. “Can I help you?” she asked abruptly, even before we’d completely approached the desk.
Her tone caught me by surprise, and I started. I caught Laura’s gaze, and her eyes widened a bit, letting me know that it wasn’t just my imagination. I chalked it up to PMS and plowed on. “We’re here to see Eddie Lohmann. Can you tell me what room he’s in?”
She stared at me for so long I began to wonder if there was something gross on my face. I was just about to ask again (I am nothing if not optimistic) when she peered at me over the rim of her half-glasses and sniffed.
“Your name, please?” She shoved a registry in my direction.
“Kate Connor,” I said. “And this is Laura Dupont.” I started to sign in.
“Relatives?”
“By marriage,” I said, not missing a beat as I scrawled my name and Laura’s in the appropriate column.
I glanced at Laura long enough to see her brows rise almost imperceptibly. Then I pushed the registry back toward Nurse Ratched. Her lips pursed as she read our names, then she lifted her chin and surveyed me once again through narrowed eyes. I was beginning to feel downright paranoid, and I can’t say I particularly enjoyed the sensation.
“By marriage,” she repeated.
“He’s related to my husband,” I said, the lie coming naturally. “Why? Is there a problem?”
“Visiting hours for nonrelatives end in five minutes. If you’re family—”
“We are,” I said firmly.
I expected her to argue, but instead she raised a hand and a twenty-something girl in a candy-striper uniform came trotting over, her name tag introducing her as Jenny. “See these ladies to the media room. They’re visiting Mr. Lohmann.” To us, she said, “I’m surprised we haven’t seen you here before.”
“A long story,” I said. “We just found out that Eddie was here.”
“Hmmm. Well, I hope you have better luck with him than we do.” And with that cryptic remark, she returned her attention to the papers on her desk, leaving Laura and me to follow our candy-striper down a long, dim hallway.
Most of the doors were open, and as I peered into the rooms, I could see twin beds and various other bits of furniture and personal belongings. The rooms reminded me of the tiny monk cells that had doubled as dorm rooms in my youth, and I wondered if in some way Eddie hadn’t come full circle.
I noticed that most of the rooms were empty, and when I asked our guide, she explained that most of the residents were in the television parlor, which happened to be where we were going. “I’m so glad you’re here to visit him,” Jenny said. “He never gets visitors and it’s such a shame.”
“How long has he been here?”
“About three months. At first he was really disoriented, but I think he’s starting to get used to the place. A little clearer, you know?”
“That’s great,” I said, but my mind was elsewhere. Weird that the Vatican had just learned he was here. At the very least, I was surprised the diocese didn’t send a volunteer around to chat with him and a priest to give Communion.
I didn’t have time to ponder those things, however, because we’d
arrived. The hallway opened out into a second foyer that I presumed had been a secondary entrance at one time but now obviously served as the famous media room. Two threadbare couches sat in front of a small television currently displaying Jerry Springer in grainy black-and-white. What was this? The Dark Ages?
The residents sprawled on the two couches, and the old man at the end kept shouting “You tell ‘em, Jerry!” at the television. The other two didn’t even flinch, and I took a guess that this was considered normal behavior in these parts. In addition, the room sported two card tables (surrounded by four old men playing cards, one of whom was trailing an IV rack) and a single rocking chair. A blue-haired lady with a hump in her back stood by the rocker, methodically whapping the end of her cane against the thigh of the old man seated there as she mumbled incoherently. (As I circled around, I realized the cause of the mumbling—she’d removed her teeth. The old man just ignored her, eyes glued to the television.)
I leaned closer to Jenny. “Which one is Eddie?”
“DEMONS!”
I jumped, then identified the howler as the same old man who’d been egging Jerry on. Now he was shaking his fist at the television screen. I looked in that direction and had to admit his assessment had some merit. The kid Jerry was interviewing had so many pins and tattoos that he looked like something out of a Hellraiser movie.
“THEY’RE EVERYWHERE. IN OUR TELEVISIONS. UNDER OUR BEDS. IN MY RICE KRISPIES. SNAP CRACKLE, THEY SAY. SNAP CRACKLE!” He whipped out a spritzer bottle and took aim, spraying fine mist toward the television, but mostly only dampening Jenny, who was slowly moving toward him.
Laura took a step backward. I grabbed her arm. She’d volunteered, after all. And I wasn’t too keen on facing Eddie by myself. (And, yeah, for a second I considered backing out, too. But I’d come to see Eddie, and see him, I would.)
