by Karen Hall
He saw only one other car when he parked out front. The villa tended to stay empty during the weekdays, which was fine with Michael. He unlocked the door and stepped inside. The library was immediately on the left, an oak-paneled room with large curtained windows and three walls of bookshelves, floor to ceiling. On a coffee table in front of the sofa, a chess board had been set up. Someone was in the middle of a game. Had it been Gabe and Vincent?
Michael took the box of books to a window seat and set it down. He was debating leaving Gabe a note when, from behind him, a voice said, “Hi.” He turned to find Gabe coming through the library door. Dressed in clerics, of course. Michael wondered if the guy slept in clerics.
“Oh. Hi. I didn’t know you were here. I’m Michael Kinney; I’m Vincent Kinney’s grandson.”
Gabe nodded and extended his hand. “Gabe Novak.”
“Yes, I know. I brought the books that Vincent wanted to donate to the library. I’m told he discussed it with you.”
Gabe nodded. “I looked for you at the wake, but apparently you’d left for an emergency,” he said. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“I understand it was your loss, too,” Michael said, and hoped there was no edge in his voice.
Gabe nodded. “I was very fortunate to spend time with him the last few months. He was one of a kind.”
Michael decided to let that go. He nodded and refrained from comment, other than to tell Gabe he’d better be going. To his surprise and dismay, Gabe asked if he’d like to stay for a drink. Michael could think of little he would less rather do, and couldn’t imagine why Gabe had offered, but he didn’t want to seem like a jerk, so he accepted. Gabe grabbed a couple of glasses and a bottle of Maker’s Mark and motioned for Michael to follow him out to the veranda. Michael tried to figure out how his affection for that particular spirit might have found its way into one of Vincent and Gabe’s conversations. Maybe “Oh, you like bourbon? That might be the only thing that you and my grandson have in common.”
“I’m sorry about missing the funeral,” Gabe said as they sat. “I came down with this hell flu out of nowhere. It was gone the next morning, but the timing was lousy. I had planned to concelebrate, as I assume Tom told you.”
Tom had not. Barbara must have passed on Michael’s feelings about Novak and Tom had kept silent, assuming Michael wouldn’t make a scene at the church. That was an incorrect assumption, but God had swooped in with a well-timed stomach flu. Everyone wins! With the exception of Novak, and Michael was sure he had offered it up for the souls in purgatory.
“So I hear you’re in Barton,” Gabe said.
Michael nodded. “Just for another month.”
Gabe poured the bourbon into two glasses and handed one to Michael. Then he lifted his and said, “To Vincent.” Michael could feel his teeth clench as their glasses clinked. As if this weren’t bad enough, now the guy thought they’d bond over Vincent’s ghost?
“Where to after that?” Gabe asked.
“You tell me,” Michael said, tired of playing nice. “I’m not up on where they send out-of-favor Jesuits.”
Gabe didn’t flinch. “To the missions,” he said. “If they just want you out of sight. If they want you dead, they’ll send you to the Middle East.”
“Have you been?”
Gabe nodded. “Couple of stints, but the terrorists disappointed them, so I ended up here.”
They small-talked about Atlanta while Michael took the chance to study Gabe. He was smaller than Michael had imagined, but still a powerful presence, with the jaw of a Marine and unnervingly inscrutable eyes the color of a blue heron.
After ten minutes of polite but innocuous chatter, Michael excused himself to leave. Gabe walked him to the door and Michael had almost escaped when Gabe said, “Don’t worry about the gulags. They don’t send enlightened thinkers there. You’ll be back in Manhattan by Christmas.”
Really? You’re going to throw that jab as I’m on my way out the door?
“Look. I know you and Vincent bonded because you’re the priest he wanted me to be.”
“He would have preferred that you be faithful to the Magisterium,” Gabe corrected.
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“One is personal and the other is abstract.”
“Semantics.”
Gabe frowned. “Are we seriously doing ‘Grandpa liked you best?’ ”
Michael wanted to slug the guy, but it was true. It really did boil down to that.
“You didn’t really know Vincent,” Michael said.
“And you don’t really know me,” Gabe fired back.
Michael had no response. “Thanks for the drink,” he said, and walked quickly back to his car.
Michael ignored the ringing phone. It was the public line, anyway, and Father was supposed to have a buffer zone between himself and the mere mortals. He tried to remember if he’d seen Annie when he came in this morning. He’d had no fifteen-minute conversation, so he must not have.
He was going through the Ls in the Barton phone book one more time, as if Landry might have been misfiled somehow. He couldn’t imagine why else he was unable to find a Jackson, a Jack, or even a J. Landry. No one in a small hick town (not even the brother of a mass murderer) would have an unlisted number; it wasn’t like a person could hide, even if he wanted to. Still, there was no Landry, and no amount of staring at the page was going to make one appear.
Realizing that Annie wasn’t going to answer the phone, and that the person on the other end wasn’t going to give up, he reluctantly lifted the receiver.
“Saint Bernadette’s,” he mumbled, hoping it was a wrong number.
“Michael?”
“Bob. Thank God. I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“Yes, I know. What are you into?”
“I don’t know exactly,” Michael answered. “I think it’s the same demon. Danny’s. And I have reason to believe it’s transgenerational.” No need to tell him yet whose generations.
“Michael, do not go near that alone,” Bob said.
“I know,” Michael said. “That’s why I called you. And it’s not just that, Bob.”
“What else?”
“It’s me,” Michael said in a low voice, as if he could keep himself from hearing it out loud. “There’s something happening to me. It might be . . . infestation.”
“What makes you think so—” More crackling, followed by a very loud snap. And then the line was dead. Michael hung up, then tried to get a dial tone to get Bob back. There was no dial tone. Only silence.
Annie entered the room with mail and set it on his desk.
“Annie, there’s something wrong with the phone.”
“Then you should call the phone company.”
Michael ignored that. “Do you happen to know anyone in town named Jackson Landry?”
Dead silence as she stared at him.
“Annie?”
“Well, I don’t know him. I know who he is. Why?”
“I need to talk to him about something and I don’t know who he is.”
“Yes, you do, Father.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’ve seen you talking to him at the coffee shop. Because I was thinking I should tell you that you shouldn’t do that. People will talk. It’s bad enough being Catholic in this town.”
“You’ve seen me talking to him? When?”
“At the coffee shop, Father. You know who he is. The one that always wears those blue-jean clothes and sits by himself at the counter.” She lowered her voice. “He’s the one whose brother killed all those people—”
The hermit? The hermit is Jackson Landry?
“—none of my business, but I think you should just leave him alone, like everybody else does. How do you know he won’t kill somebody before it’s over with? I don’t know why he stays here. I wish he’d just move. I’ve got to go, I’m late for the hairdresser. Good-bye now,” she said, and she was gone.
Well, here was another stel
lar development.
Excuse me, I know you hate my guts, but I’m actually your first cousin and we need to have a conversation about our Satanic heritage, because evidently Great-Grandpa Kinney put a curse on us. Has anything strange been happening to you lately?
The odor returned. It wasn’t as fierce as before, and the air wasn’t as heavy.
Maybe it’s getting weaker. Maybe this whole thing will die if I just leave it alone.
The phone rang again. He picked it up, expecting to hear Bob’s voice.
“Saint Bernadette’s.”
“Salsipuedes.” The demon’s voice. He knew it now.
The familiar cackle, loud and long.
“If you have something to say to me, just say it!” The cackle faded out. The phone line popped and hissed, a sound that resembled static but wasn’t.
“Michael . . .” the demon’s voice whispered. Somehow hearing the vile thing use his name made it worse.
“What do you want?” Michael demanded.
“Salsipuedes,” it said, then cackled again. The line went dead.
Michael put the receiver down and sat. The smell remained, and he knew he was not alone.
Salsipuedes. It sounded like Spanish, but Michael didn’t recognize the word.
Maybe it’s not a word, Padre.
The voice again, but now it was in his head.
Michael fumed. This was all bad enough without having to play games. But demons loved games. Bob had told him that.
It’s not a word? Then why is he saying it?
I didn’t say it’s not a word. I said maybe it’s not a word.
Not a word. More than one word?
“Salsipuedes,” Michael said, out loud. “Salsi puedes.” Then he got it.
Sal si puedes.
Get out if you can.
The cackle filled the room again; rose, fell, and finally receded, its echo trailing it. Michael felt no relief in its retreat.
THREE
Randa found a pay phone right outside Tillie’s Good Food Coffee Shop, affixed to the wall of the neighboring establishment, which billed itself as STEPHEN’S QUALITY GROCERY. Evidently there was some bad food in town that the local food merchants felt the need to distance themselves from. She dialed Delta’s reservations number and booked the next flight to LA. It left in two hours. She could make it if she left now.
She bought a Coke from the vending machine outside Stephen’s. It was lukewarm, but she didn’t care. She was buying it mainly to hear the angry sound of the bottle sliding down the chute. She’d turned toward her car, thinking how glad she’d be to see Barton in her rearview mirror, when she saw Jack.
He was standing by her car, waiting for her. The cold anger from a few minutes ago was gone, as was the glazed look. He’d shaved and changed into a clean work shirt and painter’s pants. He looked like the version of himself she’d fallen in love with, which made his presence all the more cloying.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi?” Seriously?
“You’re in my way,” Randa answered.
“I don’t blame you for being angry.”
“Well, that’s very magnanimous of you. Move.” She said it like she meant it, since she knew her façade was likely to crack at any moment.
“It’s good to see you,” he said.
What the hell are you talking about?
“Well, it’s not good to see you and I have a plane to catch.”
“I thought you’d gone back a couple of days ago.”
“You thought, or you hoped?”
“Both.”
She hadn’t seen that one coming. “Excuse me?”
“Randa, I was just trying to protect you,” he said.
“From what?”
He stepped closer to her and spoke quietly. “Look, let’s face it. Whatever it is, it’s in my blood. Everyone in my family goes insane, and the men go criminally insane. If Cam wasn’t immune to it, I’m sure as hell not gonna be.”
“Fine,” Randa said. “So you stay here and rob liquor stores and I’ll go back to LA. What’s the problem?”
“I don’t think you’re hearing me,” he said.
“I hear you. I also heard the part about you pretending to like me so you could get laid.” She said it loud enough to be overheard. She could embarrass him if nothing else.
“What?” He sounded surprised.
“You heard me.”
“Half the town heard you, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about ‘Is that your big accomplishment?’ ” She did the best job she could of imitating him. “And ‘Randa, go home. You’re all out of brothers.’ ”
“I said that?”
“Half an hour ago, Jack. At your apartment. What the hell is your problem?”
“You came to my place? Today?”
“Jack, if you’re going to blame amnesia for the ass you made of yourself, you should go all the way back. Tell me you don’t remember the Ritz-Carlton, either.”
“I remember that,” he said. “But that’s the last time I saw you, until now.”
“Well, was that your evil twin I ran into at your apartment?”
“I didn’t . . . you weren’t . . . I was alone, and then I came to Tillie’s to eat, and until I saw you on the phone, I thought you were in LA.”
She looked at him. The confusion in his eyes was real.
“Jack—”
He cursed under his breath and rubbed his forehead.
“You really don’t remember?”
He shook his head.
“How can that be?” she asked.
He mumbled something she couldn’t understand, although she caught the last word.
“What about Tallen?”
Jack shook his head. “Go,” he said. “You’ll miss your plane.”
He seemed to be totally disoriented.
“No. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I came here to help you. I’m not going home with you like this.”
He looked at her; she could see his focus returning. “You came here to see your family,” he said.
“No. That was a lie. And don’t ask me to explain, because I don’t understand what’s happening to me any more than you understand what’s happening to you.”
That seemed to register. At least he couldn’t find an immediate way to argue with it.
“Things have been happening that you haven’t told me about, haven’t they?” She didn’t know how she knew that, but she would have bet family heirlooms on it.
He nodded. She took his arm. “Okay. Let’s go sit down.” He didn’t offer any resistance as she led him into Tillie’s.
They were greeted by the usual stares and whispers from the Tillie’s regulars as they settled into the booth. Jack had regained his stoic mask and ordered a couple of Cokes as they sat.
“Will you please tell me what has been going on?”
“What I told you before. I’ve been having nightmares, I’ve been hearing voices and seeing things—”
“And now you’re blacking out,” Randa said.
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s schizophrenia . . .”
“I doubt it.”
“Why?”
“You’re way too old to be showing first signs of schizophrenia.”
He smiled. “Oh really, Doctor?”
“Schizophrenia doesn’t explain my conversation with your dead uncle.”
“I told you, he’s obviously not really dead. Or that wasn’t him you talked to. You aren’t going to start with the demon crap, are you?”
“Why are you so touchy about it?”
“Because there’s no such thing as demons. That was just my mother’s way of shirking responsibility.”
“Oh? Does that mean you’re responsible for what’s happening to you?”
He started to answer, but was cut off by the appearance of the waitress and the Cokes. She plunked them down and was gone, along with Jack’s inclination to speak, apparently. H
e sat in a mute funk.
“Jack, Cam knew what was happening to him,” Randa said, trying another approach. “At the end, I mean. He had some weird reason for calling me the night he died, because we hadn’t spoken to each other in a year. He could have called a lot of other people. But he said he had to talk to someone, and I was the only person he knew who might believe what he had to say. And then he said, ‘I’m in trouble that I didn’t even know existed.’ ”
“And then what? The demon took him over and he jumped out the window?”
“Doesn’t it make sense?”
“No. Schizophrenia makes sense.”
Randa fumed. “Jack, there are colleges with parapsychology departments. Duke has one. There are educated people who believe in this stuff enough to specialize in it.”
“I can see why Cam thought you would believe it.”
Randa noticed that Jack was watching a woman at the takeout counter. The woman, who looked like someone who had lived forty-some years the hard way, smiled and waved at him. He smiled and waved back.
“Friend of yours?” Randa asked, trying not to sound catty.
“Yes. I actually have a friend.” He smiled at Randa. “You almost sound jealous.”
“I almost am.”
The woman at the counter picked up her takeout bag and started to leave. She mouthed something to Jack that Randa couldn’t understand. He immediately looked pained. He nodded to the woman.
“Crap. I told her I’d come fix her gutters when it stopped raining and I forgot all about it.”
“I’m sure she’ll live,” Randa said. Jack smiled at her, warmly.
