by Karen Hall
He rewound the tape and listened to all of it again. The second listening told him no more than the first. He turned it off again, and resisted the urge to fling the machine across the room.
Great. Terrific. Thank you, God. Things weren’t quite strange enough.
Whatever Vincent had been about to disclose, it was more than the fact that he’d had an illegitimate son more than sixty years ago. Vincent was not prone to dramatics. If Vincent said the news was dreadful, then the news was dreadful. But what? And how the hell was Michael supposed to find out now?
Rebecca was the only person who might have the answers, but how was he going to get them from her? If she wouldn’t let Edna talk about Vincent, what would make her agree to talk to Vincent’s grandson? He had a strong feeling Rebecca wasn’t someone who’d respond to calm reasoning.
He closed his eyes and tried to think. Almost immediately, he saw Edna’s face in his mind, heard her voice: “. . . she makes the pope look like a Presbyterian.”
Of course!
He opened the closet and started searching for a clean black shirt.
Edna opened the door and stopped midbreath when she got a look at Michael. Her eyes were fixed on the Roman collar. Finally she found her voice.
“Did you rent that?” she asked.
“No.”
“You mean . . . that’s what you was, when you was here before?”
“Open the door.”
She did. She watched him enter, still trying to recover. Probably rehashing their earlier conversation, wondering if she’d used any profanity.
“Is she awake?”
“Yeah. But I ain’t supposed to disturb her.”
“You don’t have to,” Michael said. He headed for the hallway. In front of him were two closed doors.
“Which one?” he asked.
“Don’t ask me,” Edna said. “I didn’t even see you come in the house.” She waved both hands at him, dismissing it all, then disappeared into the kitchen.
Michael knocked on the first door. No answer. He moved to the other door and knocked. Still no answer, but he could hear the faint sound of music on the other side. He turned the knob; the door was unlocked. He pushed it open slowly.
He was immediately aware of the flickering light, which came from dozens of votive candles placed around the room. His eyes were drawn to an antique dresser against the back wall, the top of which was covered with more candles and statues of every saint known to man. Above the dresser hung a dime store painting of the Crucifixion in a gold plastic frame. He detected the familiar scent of incense, though he couldn’t tell where it was coming from.
Rebecca was sitting in a wheelchair to the left of him, facing an old mahogany vanity table upon which she’d fashioned a shrine to the Blessed Mother that made Lourdes look subtle. She was speaking in a low, steady mumble. He recognized the rhythm before he saw the pearl rosary in her hands. Her eyes were closed.
Michael took a moment to survey the rest of the room. It was too much to take in at once: the antique bed with a canopy and spool posts, which he remembered as having once been in a guest room at Vincent’s house; a curio cabinet filled with icons, rosaries, relics, an entire shelf of crucifixes; by the bed, a hideous statue of St. Michael—a good three feet tall, ceramic, painted in vivid jewel tones, with gold wings that glittered in the candlelight. St. Michael was standing with one foot on top of a red-and-black-winged Satan, who was lying on his back and staring up in horror at the saint’s lance, which was pointed straight between his horns. All of it was made even creepier by the music, which was coming from a stereo on the dresser. Monks. Gregorian chant.
“Magnificat anima mea Dominum . . .”
Michael closed the door, purposefully making noise. It startled Rebecca; she turned to look at him.
“I knocked,” he said. “I guess you didn’t hear me.”
“You scared me,” she said simply. Her voice was soft, childlike.
“I’m sorry.”
“Do I know you?” she asked. She looked to be in her late seventies, but her voice sounded like that of a twelve-year-old.
“No, you don’t,” Michael said. He took a moment to refresh his memory on the lie he’d concocted on the drive down. “I’m Father Riley,” he continued, borrowing his mother’s maiden name. “I’m new here.” Vague enough to pass muster. “I was asked to stop by and check in on you.”
He smiled and waited, hoping her response would provide some information he could work with. He got his wish.
“Do you work with Father Graham?”
Michael felt his breath catch in his throat. “Tom Graham?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Jesus. Graham? Vincent told Tom Graham about this, but he didn’t tell me?
He took a breath. “Yes, I work with Tom,” he said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. “He knew I was going to be in the neighborhood and he asked me to stop by.”
“He hasn’t been here in so long, I thought he’d forgotten me,” she said. Her tone was plaintive.
“He hasn’t forgotten you. He’s been very busy. And he’s slowing down a little, I think. Cutting back. That’s why he thought you and I should get to know each other.”
She nodded, but was staring at him like she didn’t quite believe it. “You look familiar,” she said.
“I don’t know why,” Michael said, suddenly remembering he bore a striking resemblance to photos he’d seen of Vincent as a young man—which was how Rebecca would remember him. “May I sit?” he asked, hoping to distract her.
She nodded. “I’m sorry. I don’t get much company. I forget my manners.”
Michael sat in a rocking chair next to her. “You like Gregorian chant?” he asked, nodding toward the stereo.
“No,” she said.
She laid the rosary down on the dresser; it hit the wood with a brittle staccato rattle that for some reason made Michael shiver. Rebecca didn’t seem to notice.
“I play it because the Devil doesn’t like it.”
Michael didn’t flinch. He’d been a parish priest just long enough to have developed a good poker face.
“Really?” he asked, with no patronizing tone whatsoever. Rebecca nodded. “How do you know that?” he asked.
“Jesus told me.”
“I see,” Michael said. “Has He . . . been here recently?”
“He’s always here. You know that.”
“Yes, but . . . how did He tell you that?”
“In my head.”
“Oh,” he said, nodding as if it made perfect sense.
He took a moment to study her face. Her eyes were a clear, pale green; her white hair was tied in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. Even behind the wrinkles and the weariness, it was easy to see that she had once been a beauty.
“You look so familiar,” she said. Something in her tone made him feel terribly guilty. Since she wasn’t the shrew Edna had made her out to be, Michael wondered how much it could hurt if he leveled with her. Besides, if he told her who he was, it would take a lot less time to get the information he needed.
“Rebecca,” he said calmly, as if speaking to a frightened child, “I wasn’t honest with you. My name isn’t Riley. That was my mother’s name.” He gave her a second to take that in, then continued. “I’m Father Kinney. Michael Kinney. I’m Vincent Kinney’s grandson.”
In less than a second, the expression on Rebecca’s face changed to pure terror.
“Edna!” she screamed. “Edna!” She reached for a bell that was sitting on the vanity and started to ring it with all her might.
“Wait,” Michael said, trying to grab the bell. Rebecca threw it at the door and screamed louder. “Edna!”
“Calm down,” Michael said. He put his hand on her shoulder, trying to reassure her.
“Don’t touch me!” she screamed. “Don’t touch me! Get out of my house!”
“Rebecca, I’m not—”
“Edna!” she screamed again. The door opened and Edna flew in.
She hurried to Rebecca.
“What did you do?” she asked, flinging a look at Michael.
“Nothing, she just—
“Get him out of here! Get him out!” Rebecca was completely hysterical, having trouble catching her breath.
“You heard her!” Edna said, loud enough to drown out Rebecca and the music. “Get out!”
Michael wanted to argue, but he was worried about Rebecca. Edna was opening a prescription bottle she’d snatched off the vanity. “Should I call someone?” Michael asked.
“No!” Edna shouted. “Just get out!” Michael didn’t move.
“GET OUT!” Rebecca screamed with every ounce of her strength.
With a parting look at Edna, Michael turned and left. He ran to the car, got in, and peeled away.
It was a little after ten o’clock when he rang the doorbell at the rectory at Sacred Heart. He waited. He heard shuffling, then the door opened. “Michael?” Graham was wearing a navy silk smoking jacket and bifocals and had a paperback in his hand.
“We have to talk,” Michael said.
“Of course.” Graham nodded, as if this were no unusual request. “Come in.”
Michael followed him down the hall to his study. The light was on. Graham sat behind his desk and motioned for Michael to sit on the sofa.
“Have you read this?” Graham asked, holding up the paperback. Michael shook his head without looking at it.
“It’s fascinating. A collection of essays from doctors analyzing the Crucifixion. The one I was just reading is by a member of the faculty of the medical school at Duke University. He’s talking about this rare phenomenon called hematidrosis, caused when severe anxiety is followed by sudden calm. Evidently the abrupt restriction of the dilated capillaries forces blood into the sweat glands, which results in a person actually sweating blood—”
“Tom,” Michael interrupted, “I’m not here to talk about the Crucifixion and sweat glands.”
“I’m sorry,” Graham said, putting the book down and adopting his best grandfatherly pose. “Of course you aren’t. I was presuming you wouldn’t mind a brief distraction.”
“I already have a hell of a distraction. I just left Rebecca’s house.” He realized he had no idea what her last name was, but the look on Graham’s face told him he didn’t need it.
“Oh,” Graham said quietly.
“Obviously you’ve known about this for a long time.” Graham didn’t reply. “Would you mind telling me what the hell is going on?”
“I don’t think I’m the person to answer that question.”
“No, but you’re the person who’s alive.” It was an unnecessarily sharp reply, but Michael didn’t care.
“And that is very much to the point,” Graham said, in a paternal tone.
“Meaning what?”
“Your grandfather is dead. Why dig up his past?”
“What am I supposed to do, keep paying this woman’s room and board and ignore the fact that no one will tell me who the hell she is?”
“Michael, if Vincent had wanted you to know, he would have told you.”
“He tried to,” Michael said. “He was explaining it on a tape that he was making right before the operation, but he didn’t get very far before they came to get him.”
“Maybe he changed his mind.”
“He didn’t change his mind! He died! And stop talking to me like I’m a ten-year-old!”
“I’m sorry,” Graham said in the same syrupy tone. “I didn’t realize I was doing that.” Michael counted to ten and waited for visions of homicide to pass.
“Look,” he said, forcing himself to stay calm, “Vincent left me this tape with a long, incoherent preamble about some horrible thing he did. I went to try to get the rest of the story from Rebecca, and she became foaming-at-the-mouth hysterical the minute I told her who I was. You’re the only person who can tell me what the hell is going on, and I deserve to know!”
Graham waited a moment, letting Michael’s anger hang in the air and dissolve into a cold silence. Then he spoke calmly and evenly.
“Michael, I have complete confidence that everything you need to know will be made known to you, but it can’t be through me.”
The look on Graham’s face told Michael the rest. Whatever it was, Vincent had told Graham under the seal of confession.
“Fine,” Michael said, his cool voice matching Graham’s. He stood up. Graham didn’t.
“Then I guess there’s no point in asking you why Vincent might have pulled strings to get me to Barton?” Michael asked, unable to resist one final attempt. Graham just stared at him, having already answered the question.
“All right,” Michael said. “Good night.” He headed for the door in a huff.
“Michael? When was the last time you made a retreat?”
Michael could feel his blood pressure rising. He stared at Graham, unable to think of an answer that wasn’t objectively sinful.
“You don’t have to answer,” Graham continued. “Just something to think about.”
Right. My entire life is imploding, my future is a train wreck waiting to happen, the only relative I had in the world just died and left behind some horrible secret that you won’t tell me, but a couple of weeks in the woods with the Spiritual Exercises ought to fix me right up.
“Tom,” Michael said, relenting, “things have been happening to me . . . like at the funeral, when I couldn’t speak. You knew. You said the St. Michael prayer. Who is going to help me if you don’t?”
Graham didn’t reply. He opened a drawer in his desk, and took something out. He walked over to Michael and handed him a business card.
“Call this person,” he said.
“Who is it? The retreat director who could save my misguided life?”
“Just take it and call the number.”
Michael took the card and stuffed it in his pocket, though he didn’t know why.
He was in his car before he took the card out of his pocket. He would have torn it up on the spot, except he couldn’t help wondering who Tom Graham thought might be wily enough to save even Michael.
He turned on the map light, held the card under it, and read it.
CHARLOTTE DUNNING
210 Shorter Avenue
Rome, Georgia 30125
(706) 555-9212
The first surprise was that it was a woman. He’d been convinced Graham had in mind some wizened priest who’d come out of retirement long enough to whip Michael into shape. It was hard to believe that Graham even knew a woman.
Below the name, in the left corner, was a job description that left Michael equally puzzled: Author/Lecturer. Really? Graham thought a lecture would do it? A lecture on what? His eyes finally registered the word in the right-hand corner: across from Charlotte Dunning’s job description was a more specific title. He stared in disbelief. All by itself, chilling in its simplicity:
Demonologist
SEVEN
Michael called Charlotte Dunning shortly after sunrise. She told him she’d been expecting his call for “years,” offering no explanation. She said she had a full schedule for the day, but could see him anytime after five p.m. At 5:05 he was sitting in her living room. He hadn’t expected Laura Ashley and needlepoint, but Charlotte Dunning’s living room was like something from a childhood nightmare. The walls were adorned with an assortment of African tribal masks and other less recognizable but equally sinister items. Grimacing gargoyles peered out from every nook and cranny; tables and shelves displayed everything from statues of winged demons to a collection of genuine Haitian voodoo dolls. Michael expected a Santeria priestess to step out of the shadows at any moment.
Charlotte herself seemed reasonably normal. She was in her midsixties, with weathered skin and silver-gray hair, wore faded jeans and a Duke sweatshirt. She chain-smoked without apology as she rummaged through an oak filing cabinet on the other side of the room. Michael sat on her sofa with a cup of coffee that would kill a horse and a copy of her latest book, Hel
l on Earth: Real-Life Encounters with the Demonic. Under normal circumstances he would have been interested, but he couldn’t concentrate on anything right now except to wonder why Tom had sent him here. (He’d posed that question immediately upon crossing the threshold, but Charlotte had just laughed and said, “Patience, Father. The Baptists tell me we’ve got at least three more years until the Rapture.”)
She closed the file drawer she’d been searching through and opened another one.
“My father’s filing system,” she said. “Sheesh. He died ten years ago and I have yet to figure it out. From what I can tell, the alphabet was in no way involved.” She smiled. “I know I could refile it all, but I seldom need any of it. I keep it around mostly out of sentiment.”
“Was your father . . . in the demon business, too?” Michael asked. She laughed.
“You’re uncomfortable with the term ‘demonologist,’ Father?”
“I’m not uncomfortable. I’m just not sure what it means.”
“It’s not complicated. A person who studies demons.”
“Does that mean you believe in demons?”
“If I didn’t, I’d be wasting time studying them, wouldn’t I?”
“You could study other people’s beliefs,” he said, trying to sound as condescending as she had.
“That’s true,” she admitted. “That’s how my father became a demonologist, actually. He began his career as an anthropologist. He went all over the world, studying various cultures’ concepts of evil, until he started to realize there was a lot more to it than just legends and superstitions.”
“What happened to convince him?”
“The same thing that happened to all the near-death scholars. He kept hearing identical stories from people all over the world who’d never laid eyes on each other.”
“I had a near-death experience when I was a kid and I didn’t see a tunnel or a light or any of that.” Which had nothing to do with anything, but Michael felt the need to announce it.
