by Mike Pace
Zig slapped him on the back. “You’d do the same for me.” As he closed the door, he paused for a moment and turned back.
“And think about the doo-wop remark. Could be key.”
CHAPTER 51
With Eva’s help, Tom cleared the empty beer cans and food trash from the table.
“You’re lucky to have a good friend like Zig,” she said.
“I know. I’m sure he’s the one who pitched my case to Master-son. Still can’t believe the firm posted a hundred grand for me.”
“To them, it’s a rounding error. And not to diminish his good deed, but the firm had two choices—throw you under the bus, or indignantly proclaim your innocence and the gross injustice of your arrest. Luckily, and maybe it was Zig who tipped the balance, they opted for door number two.”
When he cleared the last unopened beer from the coffee table, he reached for the pop-top.
“Tom—” Eva eyed the beer. An uncomfortable silence. “Look, it’s not my place to—” she purposely didn’t finish the sentence.
Tom momentarily froze with embarrassment. His voice sounded weak. “Uh, you’re right. Probably had enough.”
“I’m sorry, I have no right—”
“No, you’re absolutely correct. I have to be careful.” He placed the unopened beer can in the fridge. He knew on occasion he probably drank too much, but he felt he was always under control. Fact was, he had no idea how long it would take for the priest to get back to him, but if it happened soon he’d need to have his wits about him. He doubted an exorcism would work if he’d been drinking. “I need to have a clear head to assist in my defense.”
In two steps she was in his arms. She kissed his neck and whispered, “I really care about you and don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Her warm body pressed tight against him felt wonderful. Despite his attempts to stop it, her embrace loosened the last remaining bricks in the wall—the tears trickled at first, then flowed unabated. She squeezed him tighter as his body heaved; the emotions from the last two months spilled out and there was nothing he could do to stop them.
After a while he pulled back, grabbed a paper towel off the roll on the kitchen counter, and wiped his eyes. “Sorry about that.”
She kissed him. “Don’t be. You okay?”
“For the moment. Just, you know, the whole thing, everything, seems surreal.”
He blew his nose into the paper towel with a honk loud enough to call a gaggle of geese. They both laughed much harder than the honking deserved.
Eva put on hot water for tea. “Look, on the drinking, my brother was a functioning alcoholic, and it ruined his life. As I said, I have no right to nag you, but maybe at some point if you decide you might need some help, I have a bunch of contacts.”
“Thank you. I mean it when I say I’ll keep that in mind. But for now, what’s the attorney-client stuff you mentioned?”
She readied two cups with a chamomile tea bag and a squirt of honey from the bear-shaped squeeze bottle. “We need to talk about the gun.”
“It was mine.”
“I assumed that. Why did you get it and who did you get it from?”
Tom paused as he struggled with how to respond. He didn’t want to draw Chewy into this case. Also, how was he supposed to answer the “why” question? Tell the truth? That he needed the weapon to kill random citizens so his daughter would remain safe from two preppy demons from hell? The last thing he wanted to do was lie to Eva. He’d already done that once. Maybe his only path was to tell the truth about not being able to tell the truth.
“I promised you I would never lie to you, so I’m very sorry, but I can’t answer either of those questions. I know what I tell you is protected, but my reasons go beyond my case, and I’m sure you’re curious, and maybe a bit angry I’m not telling you everything, but please trust me that I have no choice.”
She held his gaze for a moment, then poured the boiling water into the cups.
He took hold of her arms and turned her around. “I will also repeat what I hope you already know—I had absolutely nothing to do with Jess’ death.”
“I know, and I hate that you’re keeping things from me, things that may help me keep your butt out of jail. I appreciate you not telling me something that isn’t true, but—”
“Eva, I need, I really really need you to trust me.” He held her gaze and neither spoke for several moments.
“Okay,” she whispered. “But you have to promise you’ll tell me all you can the moment you’re able to.”
“Promise.”
He kissed her and his heart soared when she kissed him back. She pulled back, took a cup of tea, and returned to the table. Tom followed suit.
“I met with Percy Castro before I came over. He gave me full discovery and didn’t seem displeased you were out of jail. My guess is, he knows the government’s case against you is not overwhelming, and he’s hoping you’ll do something stupid to strengthen it. So be careful of everything you say. I doubt if your phone’s tapped, but it’s possible. And that, of course, also means your cell. When you and I talk on the phone, you must keep your comments very vague. The only time we can have a substantive discussion is when we’re alone together like this.”
“Guess that means we’ll have to be spending more time alone together.” He attempted a smile.
She didn’t reciprocate. “I’m serious, and you need to take this seriously, unless you really took a liking to prison food.”
“Anything interesting come out of your meeting with Castro?”
“Yeah, noise. Or more precisely, the lack of it. All neighbors were interviewed and no one heard a shot. Given the sound made by that model of Glock, one, if not both, of Jess’ neighbors should’ve heard the shot.”
“So?”
“So maybe the shooter used a silencer, and lucky for you, no silencer was found at the scene of your crash or in the search of your apartment.”
“Are the cops buying this silencer theory?”
“Castro was noncommittal. Key question. Was your gun threaded, you know, so a suppressor could be screwed onto the barrel?”
Tom thought for a moment. “I know I sound like an idiot, but I don’t remember. Can’t you make the cops show you the weapon?”
“Yeah, just trying to save time.”
“Is there a way for ballistics to tell if a silencer was used?”
“Depends. The new ones don’t leave a trace, but older versions, going back to the Vietnam War, used baffles or wipes, inner chambers made of plastic, rubber, or foam to suppress the sound from the exploding gases as the bullet passed through. These wipes would often leave a mark on the bullet. And to answer your next question, yes, I have an appointment set up with the ballistic lab tech assigned to the case to see if there was any evidence of a wipe stain on the bullet that killed Jess.”
“Even if all this pans out, the cops’ll just say I ditched the silencer.”
“Probably. But if you ditched the silencer, why not the gun? Remember, all we have to do is instill reasonable doubt in a single juror.”
He barely heard her words. He was consumed with a gun, but it wasn’t the one in police custody. He needed a new weapon to take one more life, and he needed it now.
“Don’t look so down,” said Eva. “You’re out of jail, and while it’s an uphill battle, we have the time to plan a defense that’ll keep it—are you with me here?”
“Sorry.” He looked at her across the table, so beautiful, so trusting, and he realized he needed his mind to blank out for a while. No more thoughts of demons and death, of jail and juries. He stood, walked around the table, bent down and kissed her.
She smiled. “We really need—”
He kissed her again, this time lingering longer. She stood, and they embraced, then she reached for the buttons of his shirt.
CHAPTER 52
By noon the next day, Tom had called Father Matthew twice to check on the status, reminding the priest of the approaching deadlin
e—emphasis on dead—just over four days away. After the second call, the priest told him to stop calling, he was moving as fast as he could.
The time seemed to drag on forever. Tom felt imprisoned in his own apartment. He couldn’t go to work for either PDS or the firm. Because of his notoriety, he was reluctant to go out in public. Tuesday and Wednesday afternoons he arranged for Gayle to bring Janie over to see him for a couple of hours while she and Angie went shopping. He felt a need to spend every moment hugging his daughter, but he didn’t want to creep her out. He helped her with her homework, and they watched TV and snacked on popcorn. Those few hours were some of the happiest in his life, and his heart cracked each time he heard Gayle knocking on the door to take Janie back to Arlington.
Eva and Zig came over with takeout Tuesday and Wednesday nights. For a couple of hours, Tom did his best to forget about his troubles. Wednesday, Zig brought Marcie, and the four of them watched a movie. But the monster—not the murder charge, but the big monster—always lurked in the back of Tom’s mind.
After the movie, at Eva’s prodding, the four of them discussed the case, which mostly consisted of Eva gently questioning Marcie about anything she may have forgotten about Jess, her missing phone, her mood changes, her associates, and any secrets Jess may have confided that could’ve slipped Marcie’s mind.
Marcie genuinely tried to help, but it became clear after a few sessions that she really knew nothing that would contribute. During these discussions, Tom struggled to appear interested—after all, he was charged with first-degree murder, and his friends were trying their best to assist him. But his mind was on one thing only—his exorcism to save Janie.
Several times, Eva caught Tom checking his phone and asked him about it. He couldn’t tell her he was waiting for word from a priest on scheduling his exorcism, so he did what he promised her he would never do and lied, telling her he was expecting a call from his cousin Estin.
Wednesday night, Eva stayed over, although she complained that his nightmares—she reported in the middle of the night he’d shout out angrily to some guy named Chad—kept her from a good night’s sleep.
Thursday morning he received a bit of good news. A city councilman had been discovered having secret affairs with young teenage girls. The politician got a big red stripe of his own and, Tom fervently hoped, the fickle public would forget about the Intern Killer.
Thursday night, he and Zig decided to test his hoped-for fall from celebrity, and went out to Napoleon’s for a burger and beer. To Tom’s delight, although a couple of patrons stared for a few seconds, nobody bothered him. When Zig brought up the case and the doo-wop reference, Tom cut him off.
“Let’s not talk about the case for one night.”
“You’re absolutely right. So let’s talk about our favorite subject.”
“Sports?”
“Women. You and Eva look like maybe you might have something going there.”
“Don’t know about her, but I really—”
Tom’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He looked at the screen to see a text from Father Matthew: Be at your apt in 1 hr.
After making a feeble, bullshit excuse—he had a headache, he had a stomachache, he couldn’t recall which—he’d left Zig at the bar and jogged home, making it in under ten minutes. Having pushed for this time to come, he now felt hesitant, maybe a little scared. Maybe a lot scared.
His only understanding of the exorcism rite came from an old movie. The previous night, when Zig asked him if he had any flick requests, he’d mentioned The Exorcist as casually as he could.
Though he’d seen the movie a number of times, it still scared the crap out of him. The sight of Linda Blair’s head swiveling 360 degrees, spewing green vomit, the vile profanity coming from her young character’s mouth, the rising bed, the screams.
Matthew had said a true exorcism was nothing like the depiction in the movie, but Tom was skeptical. The goal of the rite was to force Satan or his demons from their warm nesting place inside a human body. If Chad and Brit were indeed camping out in his soul, then evicting them would be no walk in the park.
Tom sat at his small table and watched the clock on the kitchen wall. Forty more minutes. His eyes fell on his bed. Would he be lying down? Standing? Sitting at the kitchen table chatting with the priest? He realized his bed was in its usual state of unmadeness, which probably wasn’t a word. He knew very few men who made their beds unless their wives or girlfriends told them to do it, or if mixed company were expected. Why make a bed when you’re just going to mess it up again in sixteen hours? But a priest was not like a regular guy, so he probably ought to make the bed.
He took his time, carefully folding each corner of each sheet and each blanket. He fluffed up the pillows, then concluded it was probably time to change the pillow cases, actually, long past time. When he was finished, he figured he’d probably set a record for the amount of time a heterosexual male took to make a bed. Then he wondered if there was a bed-making category in the Guinness Book of Records. Then he wondered if the Guinness book guy was the same as the Guinness beer guy? If so, there probably was a bed-making category, male division. Then he wondered if he were going mad.
Then there was a knock on the door.
Tom jumped to answer it. The priest entered along with a woman. Like the priest, she was dressed in black.
“We’re early,” said Matthew. Tom immediately saw that he was carrying a large black satchel.
“No problem,” responded Tom. “Actually glad. I’ve been getting a little stir crazy waiting around.”
“This is Sister Irene,” said Matthew.
Probably only a few years older than Tom, Irene would’ve been generally considered attractive with even a modicum of makeup. As it was, she came across as a warm, wholesome woman, with clear eyes and a disarming smile. Her garb consisted of a long black skirt and a plain white blouse. No white apron and nothing on her head.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Booker.” She smiled, no doubt reading his thoughts. “I teach at Georgetown, where more contemporary clothing is permitted.”
“The rite requires two participants other than the afflicted,” said Matthew.
Tom remembered the last scenes of the movie, where Father Karras assisted the exorcist, Father Merrin, when he performed the rite on Linda Blair.
“Sister Irene is fully aware of the nature of your affliction,” added the priest.
“Sure, great, good to meet you. The more the merrier.” Should he offer them a beverage? Probably not. They weren’t here to—
“You by any chance have a Coke?” asked the nun. “My throat’s a little dry.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Make that two,” said Matthew.
Tom performed his host duties while Matthew talked.
“First, as I told you, I’ve never done this before. But I checked with the diocese, and, while I will concede they weren’t overly thrilled, they advised me to proceed. Sister Irene and I have been going over the liturgy, rehearsing if you will, and I think we’re ready.”
“As ready as we’ll ever be,” said the sister.
Tom handed each of them a glass of Coke on ice. “So, do I lie down on the bed for this, like in the movie?”
Matthew hesitated only for a moment. “If you wish.” He glanced at Sister Irene. “There’s another less comfortable alternative, maybe a bit more radical, but possibly more effective.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes to increase the chances of success.”
“The idea would be to place you in the same position as Christ when he died for our sins.”
Tom stood against the wall with his arms outstretched. “No problem.”
“Your arms will tire, and no one really knows what to expect. Chances are, absolutely nothing will happen. But if something does occur, you might decide it safer for yourself and us if passive restraints were employed.”
“Passive restraints? Sounds so…passive.” Tom figured if the demons were indeed inside hi
m, they might become royally pissed if they were evicted. “Sure, why not?”
Matthew surveyed the room until his eyes fell on the double casement windows behind the kitchen table. With Irene’s help, he moved the table aside. The casements were only half windows—the sill looked to be about shoulder height. At the base of each window, a brass handle used to crank the window open protruded out from the sill. Matthew opened his satchel and removed two red silk scarves. He wrapped one of them around a crank handle and pulled hard, testing the handle’s strength. The handle appeared solid.
“Do you need to use the restroom first?” asked Sister Irene. “I’m afraid once we start, there won’t be an opportunity.”
“I’m good.”
Tom stood in front of the double windows, spread his arms, and allowed Irene to tie his wrists to the crank handles. She moved quickly, like an experienced nurse preparing a patient for surgery. He tugged against the silk, testing it. “You learn how to tie those knots in Girl Scouts?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” She must have noticed his quizzical expression. “Nuns don’t descend from Mars, Mr. Booker. We all have had lives prior to entering our chosen work, lives that for the most part were pretty normal.”
Tom wondered if “pretty normal” meant she wasn’t a virgin.
Her eyes twinkled. “And the answer to the question that’s popped into your head is ‘yes.’”
She stepped back and removed a white surplice from the satchel, then helped the priest don the tunic. Matthew withdrew a purple stole and draped the scarf around his neck. He pulled a black case about the size of a large coffee mug from the satchel, unzipped it, and removed a silver flask.
“Holy water?” asked Tom.
The priest barely nodded. Irene closed the blinds on the windows and turned out all the lights except a single reading lamp next to the couch. Matthew withdrew two black prayer books from the satchel and handed one to Irene. Bookmarks allowed each of them to find the appropriate page. They positioned themselves ten feet away from Tom.
Matthew took a deep breath and glanced at Irene, who responded with a reassuring smile. They closed their eyes in silent prayer, and the only sound Tom could hear was his own breathing.
