He screamed in the dream and woke to hear the same scream dying on his lips as he sat up in bed. With the curtains closed, the rising sun had barely lit his room, and for a moment he felt disoriented, wondering where his father’s desk had gone. With the relief that came from knowing he’d only been dreaming, he lay back down, his heart still pounding.
The relief was short-lived. Awake long enough for his eyes to have adjusted to the dim light, he could see that he was alone in the bed, but his other senses told him differently. He could feel someone beside him in the tangle of sheets, felt sure he could detect another person’s scent and hear faint breathing. Julian had had enough women in his bed to know that this presence, whatever it might be, was not female. And as he dove to the floor, shivering in terror, he was convinced that Colin Krebs had conjured a demon lover; but either through his poor Latin or some other error, he had failed to conjure the right gender. Inching away from the bed, afraid to take his eyes off the sheets, yet fearful that he would see something move if he stared long enough, he tried to remember exactly how many times Colin had read the spell.
Chapter One
Marie Doyle leaned back in her chair, a copy of Woman’s Home Companion held before her. She tucked some of her auburn hair behind one ear and tried to finish the story she was reading, her deep blue eyes darting back and forth across the page. Her desk was situated so that if Father Joe were to step out of his office and into hers, he would see her from the side, and she always turned herself just enough so that all he would see of the magazine would be the cover. He never commented on her choice of reading material, and didn’t care if she read during slow moments when there wasn’t any typing or filing to do.
She did not doubt, however, that he would have had a lot to say if he knew she was concealing Weird Tales inside her copies of Woman’s Home Companion and Life, working her way through stories of vampires and werewolves, gothic yarns of murder and mystery, and tales of ancient, dark gods who lurked at the edges of the human world, waiting for their chance to rise again. New issues came out only once a month, and when Marie had worked her way through the latest offering, she would go back through the old copies she’d saved, sneaking them into the church office in her purse and hiding them in her desk until the right opportunity.
There had not been any such moments during the two years she had worked at Lockheed while Ryan fought in the Pacific. Then, it had been constant labor on an assembly line, a steady supply of airplane parts rolling past, ready for her to attach a wire or tighten a nut. She had been proud to do her part for the war effort, maybe even helping to keep Ryan safe. But when she had gotten the telegram and her whole world had fallen apart, going back to the plant had become unbearable. She could not imagine herself working side by side with all those other women, having to endure the mix of public sympathy and poorly hidden paranoia that would have gone on until the next one got the same news.
Instead, she had gone through the “Wanted” ads in the Times and left Lockheed for a secretary’s position at St. Lucy’s. She’d surprised her friends by taking the job, as she had been a bit wild before marrying Ryan. She had been a captivating beauty since her teenage years, blessed with round cheeks and a wide smile, and taller than most of the girls she knew by an inch or two. She’d been able to get the attention of any boy she’d wanted for a long time. Even after she and Ryan were together, they had gotten a reputation as the last couple to leave any party and the pair most likely to drink amateurs under the table. But the war had put a stop to that. After a Japanese torpedo ripped Ryan from her life forever, the quiet life at the little office in St. Lucy’s was just what she needed. The job paid less than war work, but with her widow’s pension she had had no trouble keeping up payments on her green Chevrolet and the little house she and Ryan had shared.
At the time, she had told her friends that the job was just temporary, something to help her through the hard times, a place where she wouldn’t have to wear the dowdy uniform or be reminded with every turn of a wrench that the war still raged.
Only after coming to work for Father Joe had she started going to Mass again more often than at Easter and Christmas; the priest seemed to expect it from her in his kind, avuncular way, and she felt good obliging him. She had felt a bit out of place starting to work for Father Joe, surrounded as she was by people who seemed so much more devout. But Father Joe had been so welcoming that she’d quickly grown accustomed to spending her every day with him at the church.
She felt only a bit guilty at deceiving Father Joe as to her character—but not guilty enough to bring it up at Confession—and not at all guilty over reading things he would have considered blasphemous. Marie had been used to people criticizing this kind of literature—from her father to her teachers and even her husband during the short time they had been together—and concealing her magazines was something she had done for a long time and as a matter of course.
The day had been quiet. Marie had arrived as she did every day just after the end of seven o’clock mass, the few faithful who attended leaving the parking lot as Marie pulled in. Father Joe had needed a few letters typed, and Marie had scheduled an exterminator to come in. She glanced now at the clock, glad to see that it was almost three. Normally, she stayed until four, but had asked permission to leave an hour early today. At ten till she closed the magazine and opened the desk drawer where she kept her purse. The big women’s magazine went into the bottom of the drawer, and the smaller pulp went into her bag, its bright red spine pointed downward in case Father Joe should catch a glimpse.
St. Lucy’s was actually little more than a tiny chapel nestled at the base of the Hollywood Hills, supported generously by its small but wealthy congregation. A kindly, gentle man in his mid-fifties, Father Joe ran St. Lucy’s more like the head of a family than the head of a church, and Marie had never felt awkward about seeing him for Confession, not even when she admitted that she often doubted her faith. She found him now at his desk with a pen in his hand and a dozen sheets of paper before him, many with several lines written, but most of them scratched out. He peered at Marie over his reading glasses as she stood in his doorway.
“I wanted to remind you that I’m leaving at three,” she said.
“Ah, yes,” he said, smiling.
“Was there anything else you needed?”
The priest shook his head. “No, no. That’ll be fine.” The last word barely out of his mouth, he said, “Wait! Yes. You can help me. What sounds better?” He picked up the sheet of paper he had most recently been writing on. “The sins we hide in our hearts make those hearts grow bitter with time. Or this: a hidden sin is like a cancer, flourishing in its concealment, corrupting the healthy soul around it.” He looked up at her expectantly.
Marie felt uneasy giving advice on his sermon and smiled nervously.
“Marie, I’m just looking for your impression,” he said. “There’s no right answer.”
Relieved, she nevertheless answered a bit demurely: “Well, I think the second one’s maybe a bit... frightening?”
He nodded. “Sometimes it’s good for us to be a little frightened.”
Marie suppressed another smile as she thought of the story she had just been reading. “But I don’t think people come to you to be frightened. Do you?”
He sighed good-naturedly and waved his pen in the air. With a smile, he said, “Maybe they should.”
Marie smiled back. “Maybe. But I like the first one better.”
Father Joe nodded. “The first one it is then.” He crumpled several sheets of paper into little wads and tossed them into the wastebasket in the corner, and she saw that the can was almost full to overflowing with identical scraps of sermon. “I expect I’ll see you at Sunday Mass?” the priest said.
“Bright and early.” She half turned to leave, but stopped and said, “Would you like me to empty that for you?” She nodded toward the wastebasket.
“Oh, I’ll take care of it when I’m done,” he said. “But thank
you.”
Sure that Father Joe would forget the wastebasket once he returned to his sermon, she walked over to the can anyway, saying, “It’s all right. I still have to empty mine.”
Without waiting for the priest to respond, she lifted the little trashcan and immediately heard the clang of the metal being struck, felt the shock through her arm as something hit the can. She moved it up only to reveal a startled rattlesnake, and let out a scream both short and loud as the snake drew its head back, its neck curved and poised to strike again.
“Jesus!” Father Joe shouted as he jumped from his chair and backed away from the corner where the wastebasket had been.
Marie stepped back as well. Now she quickly dumped the crumpled paper onto the floor, flipped the trashcan over and slammed it down to cover the snake. She planted her shoe atop the can to hold it in place. The rattle echoed inside, and she felt the snake strike impotently once more at the metal walls.
“Are you all right?” Father Joe gasped.
Her heart pounding, Marie looked over to see the older man’s face covered in sweat. She nodded. “You?”
Not taking his eyes off the wastebasket, he said, “Yes,” and swallowed loudly. “What do we do? Call the police?”
“If you want,” Marie said, her breathing still rapid from the shock. “They may be a while getting here, though.” Her lips had gone suddenly dry, and she licked them now as she regarded the can. She did not relish the thought of keeping the snake captive while she and the priest waited for the police to come to their rescue. “It’s not that big. I think we can kill it.” She paused to catch her breath for a moment, and then added, “If you’ll go out to the gardener’s shed and get the shovel?”
For the first time since the snake had been discovered, Father Joe looked her in the eye, his expression incredulous. “You’re sure?”
She nodded. “It’s fine.”
The priest said nothing but hurriedly maneuvered toward the door, keeping as much space and as many obstacles as possible between himself and the captured snake. Marie heard him pass out the door that led into the church’s rose garden. She knew he would be back in a minute and told herself to take deep breaths, as she would need to be ready for what came next. Considering the can and the pathetic struggle going on inside it now, she felt a bit bad for the snake. It was not the first creature she had known to wander out of the hills and onto church property. In the time she had worked at St. Lucy’s, she had needed to escort several tarantulas and a few gopher snakes out of the buildings and into the chaparral that grew up to the edges of the church grounds. The little rattlesnake had likely been dining on the rats that she had seen about exterminating, and it would be the first of the church’s freeloaders that she had needed to kill.
Still, there was nothing else for it, and so when Father Joe came back with the shovel, she nodded her thanks and suggested he wait outside in case the rattler got away. With another deep breath, she carefully lifted her foot off the trashcan. Holding the shovel tightly, she used it to knock the wastebasket over before she thrust the shovel toward the floor and chopped off the snake’s head, all in one quick motion. The body wriggled in a way that struck her as suddenly more desperate than it had been while alive. She found it repulsive and deftly scooped it up and into the trashcan once she’d righted it, followed by the head. She turned towards the door and Father Joe, who stood motionless beyond it.
“All done,” she said with a big exhale. Trembling, she leaned the shovel against his desk.
The priest simply shook his head, awestruck. “Thank you,” he finally said. “You’re all right?”
“Fine,” she answered, trying to reassure herself as much as him.
Father Joe smiled and sighed with relief. “Even so,” he said, grasping both her hands with his, “that was a dangerous thing. I shouldn’t have let you do it.”
“It’s okay, really. The police probably would have shot it, after all. Wouldn’t do to have guns going off in the church offices, would it?” She smiled at him.
He returned the smile and nodded. “I suppose not.”
Together, they gathered the papers Marie had strewn across the floor and dumped them unceremoniously onto the dead snake. Marie took the trashcan and shovel out to the shed before she returned to the office for her purse and a final goodbye to Father Joe. He surprised her by putting a hand on her shoulder and saying, “Bless you, Marie. And thank you.”
Taken aback, she only mumbled, “You’re welcome,” not sure of the etiquette for receiving a blessing.
The quickest route from the rectory to the parking lot was to cut through the chapel itself. It was April, the weather still chilly, so she pulled a jacket over her blouse and entered the chapel through a side door. The sun shone through stained glass windows and lit the two rows of oak pews with a mosaic of colors. As was her habit, Marie walked quickly in front of the altar, genuflected, and turned to walk toward the double doors at the back. But before she could take a step away from the altar, she stopped, her eyes drawn to a man kneeling in one of the middle pews with his forehead on his knuckles, so all she could see of him was the top of his head.
The chapel was usually empty this time of day, and Marie felt as though she had just intruded. The man seemed not to have noticed her, though she was sure her heels had clicked against the tile floor. Marie considered turning around, but then decided to go ahead and walk quietly down the aisle, trying not to let her shoes make too much noise. She assumed that the man was deep in prayer, but as she neared his pew, keeping an eye on him so that she could smile apologetically if he looked up, she noticed that his shoulders were shaking. He was not just praying, she saw, but full on weeping. Marie felt herself grow flushed as she paused at the end of the pew, the kneeling man only ten feet away from her. If she had felt like she was intruding before, the feeling multiplied tenfold now, and she told herself she should move on and leave him be. At the same time, though, she felt compelled to make sure he was all right or, at the least, offer to fetch Father Joe.
She stood that way for several seconds, holding her breath without meaning to in a desire to remain unobtrusive, frozen by indecision. Finally, she laid her hand on the back of the pew and cleared her throat. The man’s head shot up in an instant, a look of shame and fear on his face. Marie knew immediately she had made a mistake, that she should have let him be, and blurted out, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
Without saying a word, the man wiped at his eyes and began to stand. As he fumbled for a jacket he had laid on the pew beside him, Marie saw that his left forearm was heavily bandaged. Jacket in hand, he turned and began to exit the pew, toward the stained glass windows and away from the center aisle.
Seeing that she had effectively chased him off, Marie pleaded with him. “Please don’t. I was just leaving. I can get Father Harris for you.” But the man was already halfway up the aisle, walking rapidly toward the back of the church without a backward glance. “Or I could just leave you be,” she said, her voice just above a whisper now, as she knew it would do no good.
Seconds later, the closing of the doors echoed through the chapel, and Marie looked down with shame and regret. “Damn it,” she said, thinking neither about how the words bounced off the windows nor the large wooden crucifix above the altar. With a sigh, she moved on to the back of the church. Outside in the small parking lot, she could hear the fading sound of a car engine, and promised herself to mind her own business from now on as she walked slowly to her car.
* * * * * * * *
Fifteen minutes later, Marie parked her car in front of a modest house off of Melrose Avenue just a few blocks east of her own. She had lit a cigarette halfway to Elise’s and put it out now before she gathered her garment bag from the back seat, and walked quickly to Elise’s front door. Her friend answered the door in her slip and ushered Marie inside. “Thank you so much for doing this,” she said, and gave Marie a quick hug. “Just put your things over there.” She waved vaguely in
the direction of her tiny living room and darted back to her bedroom, leaving Marie to wonder just where she was supposed to set anything. The living room was a shambles with dresses in a myriad of colors and styles draped over every bit of furniture, and shoes scattered across the floor.
“You’re just in time to zip me,” Elise said, as she came back out in a long, blue dress that gathered tightly at the waist and dipped low in the neckline.
“You look beautiful,” Marie told her as she pulled the zipper up the back, careful not to catch Elise’s long red hair in the teeth.
“Thanks, sweetie,” Elise said, turning and smoothing the material across her stomach. “Now let’s get you started. What’d you bring?”
After only a glance at the green dress Marie pulled out of her bag, Elise shook her head. “Too country club,” she said. “That the best you had?”
Marie raised an eyebrow, but before she could speak, Elise continued.
“Don’t worry yourself. We’re about the same size. One of mine should work.”
Twenty minutes later, Marie stood before the full-length mirror in Elise’s bedroom, admiring the way she looked in a bright red dress that shimmered when she moved. She had been dressing the part of a church secretary for close to two years now, rarely wearing things that accentuated her figure, and now felt both embarrassed and excited by the way the dress made her look; it hugged her hips and bust and made her feel truly glamorous for the first time since her wedding day. Her auburn hair hung to just below her shoulders, and the curl at the end of it tickled the skin left exposed by the low-backed dress. The image in the mirror took her back to a time when she had dressed more provocatively, before the war, before her widowhood, and before she had gotten out of the habit of trying to raise men’s eyebrows. Seeing herself this way again made her feel good, feminine and confident—almost powerful in the same way she had felt after killing the snake.
The Devil You Know Page 2
