by Karen Hall
In addition to the fact that he shouldn’t possibly have been able to remember the fire that well, there was something else about the guy that gave Michael a bad feeling. Even as he described the horror in vivid detail, his eyes were dead. If anything, he seemed to be trying to suppress a chuckle. And there was something familiar about his voice. Michael couldn’t place it, but it wasn’t a comforting familiarity. More like something from an old nightmare.
The bum looked back at Michael. The dead eyes came alive for a second, and the face looked a little more human. Then, without warning, the bum broke into a rotten-toothed grin, which turned into a laugh—a brittle, cackling laugh. Michael felt himself jump, startled. He was too confused to move, even though he was starting to get nervous. This guy’s insanity was not necessarily harmless. Still, Michael stood transfixed, for reasons he couldn’t understand.
The bum stopped laughing but continued to stare at Michael. It was a chilling stare. Penetrating. Michael felt like the creep was looking into his soul.
It’s the look. AGAIN?
“I don’t have to tell you about the fire, do I?” the bum asked. Michael couldn’t speak. How could this lunatic know?
Because you were standing here staring at the building with a forlorn look on your face? It doesn’t take a Rhodes Scholar.
“Well . . .” Michael said, his voice trailing off. He didn’t want to divulge anything to this creep and his stroke-of-luck intuition. What he wanted was to get the hell out of there, but somehow he didn’t like the idea of turning his back on the guy. And what was he supposed to say to announce his departure? “Have a nice evening” ?
“Hey, don’t let me hang you up,” the bum said. “I just run my mouth, I got nothin’ else to do.”
Michael nodded, again unsettled by the guy’s clairvoyance.
Michael wondered what Bob Curso would do. Bob spent his days in un-air-conditioned buildings in the Bronx with guys like this. How did he find some common plane for even the most basic communication? He wished Bob were here, except if Bob were here, he’d be laughing his head off at his friend the pampered Jesuit. (“You guys are gonna get to Heaven and be pissed off that they don’t serve two liqueurs after dinner.”)
Still, Michael told himself, there was more going on than his aversion to two years’ worth of BO. This guy was bad news.
Evil.
The derelict obviously had no intention of leaving, so Michael was going to have to either walk to his car backward, or turn his back and pray. He decided on the latter.
“Well . . . good night,” Michael said. The bum just nodded, apparently unfazed. Michael turned and started down the hill, walking as fast as he could without looking as nervous as he was. He listened for the sound of footsteps behind him. None. Thank God.
Now that he felt relatively safe, Michael chided himself for his paranoia, not to mention his lack of compassion. The bum was just a guy who’d fried his brain with drugs or alcohol, for reasons that would probably tear at Michael’s heart if he knew them. Or else he was at the mercy of screwed-up brain chemicals, which certainly wasn’t his fault.
Would your hero Jesus be hurrying down the hill, greatly relieved to make a getaway?
“Hey!”
Michael stopped and turned back to look at the bum.
“Bring your wallet next time, Father!” he yelled.
Michael froze. He wasn’t wearing anything even remotely clerical.
“What makes you think I’m a priest?” Michael asked.
He smiled again. “Isn’t the better question, what makes you think you are?”
Michael tried again to place the voice. Did this guy know him? Had they crossed paths somewhere along the way? He strained to remember, but nothing came to him. He turned around again and headed for his car. Behind him, the bum broke into an insane, piercing cackle.
Around three o’clock in the morning, Michael sat bolt upright, trembling in the dark, gasping for air. In the middle of the dream it had come to him, splitting his consciousness like lightning from Hell.
He knew where he had heard that voice.
SIX
Jesus.
How?
How could the voice he’d heard come from Danny, six months ago in Long Island, turn up in a homeless wino in downtown Atlanta?
It wasn’t the same voice. It was just similar.
No. He knew all about the fire. He knew all about you. He knew you were a priest!
There has to be some logical explanation.
Something was wrong. Now. In the room. Everything looked normal, but there was a heaviness. He recognized it: a milder version of what he’d felt in Danny’s room.
It’s in here.
He turned on the light. The feeling remained. He shivered, then realized that the room was cold. Not ordinary cold. Icy, but stuffy at the same time. He was having trouble breathing. The air was too thick. There was an odd smell, like a smoldering candle.
It’s getting stronger.
The air was closing in on him, squeezing from all sides. He tried to move; his body was paralyzed. The air squeezed tighter. He felt as if he were in a pressure chamber. It had never been this strong with Danny.
“Get . . . out . . . of . . . here . . .” he managed to whisper. But the only response was that the pressure became more intense. Michael could almost hear it laugh. He searched his mind for the words Bob Curso had used.
“I . . . command . . . you . . .” He was barely able to force the words out of his mouth, much less sound commanding.
God, help me. It’s going to kill me.
“ . . . in . . . the . . . name . . . of . . . Jesus . . . Christ . . .” There was a loud sound, like wind through a tunnel. He felt the air reverse direction. The squeezing became pulling. A sucking motion. For a few seconds, he felt he was being pulled apart.
Then it was gone.
The sudden absence of pressure almost threw him to the floor. He steadied himself, then looked around, checking the corners. But he knew it was gone. The air was warm again.
His first impulse was to tell himself he’d imagined it. Or maybe it was something physiological. He’d worked himself into a state because of the bum. He’d convinced himself the demon was after him, and had given himself an anxiety attack.
But he knew better. The same way he’d known during Danny’s exorcism. It wasn’t in his mind. It was on the outside. A presence. With a will and a fury of its own.
With a trembling hand, he picked up the phone and dialed Bob’s private number. Held his breath until he heard Bob answer.
“Hello?” Groggy. Annoyed.
“Bob, it’s Michael Kinney. I’m sorry to—”
“Hello?” Bob insisted, angrier.
Michael yelled into the phone. “Bob, it’s Michael—” The line went dead. Michael cursed the phone company and hit the Redial button. A ring. Another ring. A clicking sound. A sickeningly sweet voice: “The number you have dialed is not in service at this time. Please check the number and dial again.”
Michael hung up; he tried again, dialing the number carefully. He heard two rings, another clicking sound, and then loud static—crackling, popping, white noise in the background. A final try yielded the same. He gave up.
He put on his sweats and hurried to Vincent’s study. He searched the bookshelves and pulled down all the books he’d accumulated during the Ingram case. He stacked them on Vincent’s desk, then began a frantic search of the chapter headings, looking for any reference to a demon stalking a priest who’d participated in an unsuccessful exorcism. Nothing. At the bottom of the stack, he started again, this time combing the indexes. POSSESSION. In the Bible, Catholic views of, Characteristics of, History of, Legal aspects of, Medical treatment of. See also: Multiple personality disorder; Exorcism. EXORCISM. Characteristics of, Duration of, History of. See also: Possession.
A noise in the room. Tapping. He jumped half a mile and slammed the book shut; looked up to see Barbara standing in the doorway, tapping on the door
. Dressed in black.
Oh, hell. Vincent’s funeral.
“Sorry I scared you.”
“It’s okay,” he said, trying to catch his breath.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” he said, too quickly. She came over; looked at the stack of books.
Don’t read the titles.
She leaned over and read the titles. “Demons? Again?”
“Barbara, I don’t want to hear it.”
“Hear what?”
“Anything. Sarcasm. Jokes. Good-natured ribbing. Just leave it alone.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Don’t even think anything. I’d love to be cynical and sophisticated and smug, but I don’t have that luxury anymore!”
“Michael, I don’t care if you believe in the tooth fairy. I just came to tell you the limo will be here in half an hour.”
He nodded. “I’ll be ready,” he said, and left her.
The church was packed and people were standing in the aisles, which didn’t surprise Michael. What did surprise him was the absence of Gabe Novak. He thanked God profusely for that, and for the fact that Novak and Vincent had not been the fast friends that Barbara, for some reason, had mistakenly declared them to be.
When Tom Graham had finally concluded his lengthy eulogy, Michael took his place at the podium. Looked at the notes and decided to skip the intro. Anyone who didn’t know who he was could ask somebody later.
“When I was about thirteen years old—” His voice was shaky. He cleared his throat and tried again. “—I went through a brief cynical phase and I stopped going to Mass. I’m not sure how I had it worked out in my mind, because I still wanted to be a priest. I guess I was going to find a way to do it without the Church. An ongoing struggle . . .”
Chuckles from people in the crowd who knew of his recent troubles, which gave him a moment to take a breath and steady himself. He still felt weak from the . . . (What? Demonic attack?)
“Vincent sat me down one day and asked me what I thought I was doing. I said, ‘Grandpa, there’s nothing at that church but a bunch of hypocrites.’ Vincent looked at me and nodded and said, ‘Well, there’s always room for one more.’ ”
(Laughter.)
Okay . . . take a breath . . . keep reading . . .
“If you knew Vincent at all, you knew that side of him. It wasn’t my favorite side. Especially when I was thirteen.”
He could feel his throat starting to constrict. He forced himself past it, kept reading.
“Vincent’s cancer was diagnosed a little over four months ago. I’d gone with him to the doctor, just because I happened to be in town. Neither of us had expected the news to be as grave as it was. We drove home in silence. I was in shock, I think. Vincent was his usual stoic self. About ten minutes into the drive, he asked me if I minded taking him to Marietta. I asked, ‘What’s in Marietta?’ He said his favorite computer store was there, and he wanted to go by and see if they had a color printer that had just come out. I thought he’d flipped—the news had been too much for him and he’d gone into some kind of bizarre denial. I said, ‘Vincent, you know, the doctor said—’ ‘I heard the doctor,’ he said. ‘That’s why I want to go right now. They may have to order it.’ ”
(More laughter. Nods of recognition.)
Okay. Home stretch.
He opened his mouth to speak again, but was surprised to find that no sound came out. He tried again, and this time his throat began to tighten, as if someone were choking him. He couldn’t breathe. At the same time, he could feel the presence again. The oppressive weight of it. He could see the alarmed looks in the faces of the gathered mourners and he wanted to assure them he was okay, but he wasn’t. He struggled again to draw a breath. Suddenly Tom Graham was in front of him. In his face, whispering.
“St. Michael the archangel, defend us in battle, be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the Devil . . .”
Michael tried to join him, but whatever had taken control of him would not let him speak, or even form the words. He bowed his head and let Graham finish. He managed to mouth an “amen” at the end. Graham whispered, “Can you go on?” Michael shook his head no. “Then sit down.” Michael nodded and obeyed. Graham took over. The congregants assumed Michael was too choked up to continue.
With the pressure off him, Michael was able to draw small breaths, and then larger ones. He was breathing normally by the time Graham finished the eulogy, but went through the rest of the Mass in a daze, trying to understand what was happening to him. And trying to understand Tom Graham’s actions. Why had he chosen the St. Michael prayer? How had he known Michael was in the grip of something demonic?
Michael spent the afternoon in Vincent’s study, packing books into boxes. He could hear Barbara knocking around in another part of the house, and was grateful for her presence. He dreaded nightfall. He was halfway thinking about going back to Barton for the night.
He heard Barbara’s voice from down the hall.
“Michael, I’m on my way to see you. I’m five feet from the door. Don’t jump out of your skin.”
“Thank you,” he said as she appeared in the doorway. Things had warmed up between them in the course of the day. She’d probably written off his rant this morning as anxiety about the funeral. He hadn’t had any problem selling “panic attack” to explain his episode at the Mass.
“I need you to sign some papers,” she said. “Something about putting all of Vincent’s money into one trust fund, and they need to do it before the will is read, don’t ask me why. All I know is, I was swarmed by suits at the funeral.” She laid the papers on the desk. “All the places are marked with tabs.”
Michael made his way through the maze of boxes.
“Do you know who Edna Foley is?” Barbara asked.
“No. Should I?”
“I don’t know. She lives in Jonesboro, and Vincent has been sending her a check for fifteen hundred dollars every week for almost ten years. I’ve never had access to his private account before, so this is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“Me too.”
“I can’t find a phone number for her, so the only thing I know is to drive to Jonesboro and ask her who she is.”
“Give me her address and I’ll do it.”
“You? Don’t be silly.”
“I want to. I need a break anyway. I wouldn’t mind the drive.” Anything to get my mind off whatever happened to me this morning.
“Well . . . okay.” She handed him the address. “Will you be okay if I go home?”
“Please.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes.
She gave him a quick hug, which he tried his best to return, and then she was gone.
The temperature had dropped considerably since the funeral. Even in a wool sweater and blazer, Michael was chilly. He turned the collar of the jacket up as he climbed the three steps to the unadorned front stoop and rang the doorbell. Hearing nothing, he followed it with a knock. He waited. The glass on the front door was covered with a lace curtain, so he couldn’t see inside. The neighborhood was decidedly working class—small one-story houses; a few side porches full of outdoor furniture and hanging baskets. Rocking chairs and painted antique milk cans. People trying to inject a soul into rental property.
He knocked again. He was about to give up when he heard a sound; the door opened and he was confronted by a middle-aged black woman wearing a white uniform and an expression that was anything but welcoming.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m looking for an Edna Foley.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. She folded her arms across her chest and didn’t say anything else.
“Does she live here?” he asked.
“Depends on what you’re sellin’.”
“I’m not selling. My grandfather just passed away and I’m trying to figure out why he’s been sending checks to a woman named Edna Foley, at this address.”
“Who’s your grandfath
er?”
“Vincent Kinney.”
An undefined look replaced the scowl. “Well . . .”
She unlocked the screen door and opened it. She motioned him inside.
“I’m Edna Foley,” she said. Michael hoped the surprise didn’t show on his face. “I got somethin’ on the stove,” she explained, and headed to the kitchen.
He followed, assuming that was what she’d intended. He stopped at the doorway of the small kitchen. Edna was at the stove, stirring a pot of something that looked like navy-bean soup. It smelled wonderful, but somehow he had the feeling she wasn’t going to invite him to stay for dinner.
“Mr. Kinney died,” she said, to herself. She shook her head. “That’s the last news I needed to hear.”
“I’m not exactly thrilled about it myself.”
“Well, I’ll work till the end of the month, then it’s gonna be your problem what to do with her.”
“With who?”
She didn’t seem to hear him. “I said from the start, I just do my work and cash my check,” she huffed. “I don’t wanna be mixed up in nothin’ . . .”
“Listen,” Michael said, interrupting, “let’s start at the beginning. Why was Vincent sending you money?”
“It’s my salary, plus some extra to pay the rent. He said it was easier for me to do that than him.” She picked up a large saltshaker and shook it liberally into the pot. “And if you think I don’t earn it, you stay here a couple of days.”
“I don’t doubt that you earn it. I just need to know what it’s for.”
“I cook and clean and do the laundry and buy the groceries. And I do ’bout everything for her. She can’t do much for herself anymore.”
“Who?” Michael asked, restraining himself.
Edna stopped stirring and looked at him; she seemed to put it together. “You don’t know?”
“No. Whatever is going on here, I don’t know anything about it.”
“Well,” she said. She shook her head. “I don’t know much myself. Just what Mr. Kinney told me when he hired me. He said he was a friend of the family and he wanted to get her out of that county hospital. I don’t blame him. I’ve seen that hole.”
