Dark Debts

by Karen Hall

  “What kind of dreams?” She came over and sat on the bed, appearing genuinely interested.

  “I keep dreaming about this guy you think never existed.” She didn’t laugh, to his great relief.

  “What about Him?”

  Michael shook his head. “I don’t know, exactly. It’s not like I thought it would be. He’s not who I thought He would be. But it’s just a dream, right? No big deal.”

  “What’s He like in the dream?”

  He didn’t know why she cared, but he welcomed the chance to talk about it. “Kind of . . . I don’t know . . . it’s not that He isn’t warm, but there’s . . . something else. No. I don’t know. There’s no word for it. It’s like he wants something, and I don’t know what it is.”

  She smiled. “Did you expect Him to have a sappy smile on His face and a robin on His finger? Because that’s Saint Francis. People tend to get the two of them confused.”

  He knew she was trying to cheer him up. Somehow that annoyed him.

  “Never mind. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t joke about Jesus?”

  He stood, looked at himself in the mirror, and instantly wished he hadn’t. He took his glasses back off and laid them on the nightstand.

  “You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

  “I’m working on something.”

  “I mean why you’re here, in my apartment.”

  “I wanted to see you.”

  “Why?”

  He looked at her, puzzled.

  “You said we were taking a break. Have you changed the rules?”

  “I’m leaving. I just came for the meeting, now I’m going back to Atlanta.”

  “That isn’t an answer.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. It was the only honest answer. “I’m in the middle of something and I can’t think about us until it’s over.”

  “What are you in the middle of ?”

  He wanted to tell her, but there was no point in it. They lived on separate planets, and on hers, everyone crawled out of the primordial ooze and evil meant refusing to recycle.

  “I can’t talk to you about it.”

  He saw her bristle at that.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it involves things you don’t believe in.” He was afraid that sounded harsh, so he added, “I’ll tell you about it when it’s over.”

  She nodded, letting it go, for now. She sat on the bed next to him and crossed a leg over his. Started to kiss his face.

  “I didn’t know how long you were going to sleep,” she said. “I can undress and be late for work.”

  He wanted that. Badly. But he moved away from her, leaving her perplexed and frowning.

  “I can’t,” he said.

  “Why not? What time is your plane?”

  “It’s not the plane,” he said. He went into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

  His plane was half an hour late getting into Atlanta, and Annie was leaving for her lunch break by the time he drove down to the rectory. She came to meet him as he was getting out of the car.

  “I left your messages on your desk, Father,” she said.

  “Thanks.” She was probably dying to know where he’d been, but she would just have to die.

  “I guess you heard what happened to your friend,” she said.

  “What friend?”

  “That Landry.” She had a look on her face like she’d just gotten a call from Ed McMahon. “They arrested him for killing a woman out at that trailer court.”

  Michael felt himself go weak.

  Oh, God . . .

  “Are they sure he did it?”

  She nodded. Lowered her voice. “They say he strangled her with a lamp cord.”

  Oh, Jesus . . . It’s my fault, . . .

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Annie went on. “I knew it would happen sooner or later. At least this oughta get rid of him, and we’ll be rid of the last of them . . .”

  In his head, Michael could hear the sound of the demon’s cackle. Sneering. Triumphant.

  “Anyway, that’s the news,” Annie said. “Oh, and that plumber—”

  Michael snapped. “Annie, tell him to get over here and do whatever the hell he wants to do and send me the bill. In the meantime, I don’t want to hear another word about the piddlyshit plumbing problems!”

  Annie had turned pale and could barely nod. He could still feel her wide-eyed stare as he turned away, and he was sure she was already planning her letter to the archbishop. He kept walking. Hell if he cared.

  The police station was filled with stern faces, hushed tones, and self-satisfied looks. The Barton police department finally had a case worthy of its talent, and they were about to get rid of the final Landry, to boot. No one looked surprised to see Michael. They probably assumed the church had been vandalized again.

  “Hi.” A sheriff’s deputy greeted him awkwardly. The Protestants knew they weren’t supposed to call him Reverend and couldn’t bring themselves to call him Father, so he was used to clumsy greetings.

  “Is the sheriff here?” Michael asked.

  “Yeah, but he’s gonna be tied up for a while. Can I help you?”

  “I want to talk to him about Jack Landry.”

  “Is that so?” the deputy asked, with no discernible attitude. “And why’s that?”

  “I think I might be able to help you guys out.” Michael delivered it with subtext and a meaningful look, as if the implications were obvious.

  Come on, Deputy, do the math. Every cop show in the history of television and a trillion B movies . . . Bad guy kills somebody, confesses to the priest . . . Priest has moral dilemma, finally goes to the cops, finds some ingenious way to divulge what he knows . . .

  The deputy’s face was blank for a second, then slowly brightened.

  “Wait right here, Father,” the deputy said. Evidently it was okay to address him as Father if he was going to be on their side. The deputy disappeared quickly down the hall.

  The receptionist looked up from her desk and smiled at Michael, apparently thrilled and grateful that he’d brought a new dimension to the drama.

  “Father?” The deputy was back, motioning for Michael to follow him. Michael was halfway down the hall when a door opened and the sheriff appeared, looking appropriately grim.

  “Father, you wanted to see me?” Translated: “This better be damned good.”

  “Actually, Sheriff, I’d like to see Jack Landry.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “It’s personal.”

  “Well, unless you’re an alibi witness, personal’s gonna have to wait.”

  “You aren’t getting anything out of him. If you were, you’d be in a better mood.” Michael moved on before the sheriff could decide on his level of anger. “I might be able to help you,” he said.

  “I doubt that. Even if he tells you he did it, you can’t tell me.”

  “No, but I might be able to get him to talk to you.”

  “How are you gonna do that?”

  “He trusts me,” Michael lied.

  The sheriff weighed it. He stared at the floor for a long moment. Michael got the feeling he was just waiting until enough time had passed that everyone would assume he’d reasoned it out in his head and decided that Michael had stumbled on a good idea.

  “All right,” he said. “I could use a break anyway.” He led Michael back down the hall, to the door he’d come from.

  “When was he arrested?” Michael asked.

  “He’s not under arrest,” the sheriff said. “He’s being held for questioning.”

  Michael nodded. Somehow he didn’t think the Barton SWAT team was out combing the countryside for the real killer.

  The woman who’d been with Jack at the coffee shop was sitting on a bench in the hallway. She looked exhausted and her eyes were swollen and red. She was justifiably puzzled to see Michael. He searched his mind for her name.

  “What’s going on?”
she asked.

  Before Michael could answer, she saw the sheriff reach for the doorknob.

  “Hey, wait one minute. I’ve been asking you all night to let me go in there.”

  “Are you a priest?” the sheriff asked with a patronizing glare.

  “No. I’m not male, either. What’s the third strike against me? My California driver’s license?”

  “Look, ma’am,” the sheriff said. “I don’t—”

  “Actually, I think it would be a good idea if—is it Randa?” She nodded; Michael went on: “—if Randa came in with me.”

  “All right, Father. You can have her. Just take her with you when you leave.” The sheriff opened the door. “Y’all got fifteen minutes.”

  Michael wondered where that law was written, but didn’t want to push his luck.

  “Thank you.”

  Jack looked up as they came into the room. He didn’t seem to have the energy to be surprised. He looked worn out and distraught. Randa hurried over and hugged him. Jack returned the hug, barely. His eyes were on Michael.

  “Okay,” Michael said, “you have three choices. You can hope they don’t have enough to convict you, and if you’re right, you can go free and then kill the next person who is standing there when you have an episode. Or you can let them lock you up and/or execute you for something you have no memory of doing. Or you can listen to me and do what I tell you to do.”

  “How do you know I don’t remember it?” Jack asked, instantly defensive.

  “Because, unlike you, I know what’s happening to you.”

  “All right,” Jack answered, annoyed. “What’s happening to me?”

  Michael thought for a second. He had to make it something Jack wouldn’t immediately reject. Details.

  “Your father was illegitimate, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “His mother was from a poor family. Itinerant workers. She left home when she was very young.”

  Jack nodded. “I don’t know much about her, but that sounds right.”

  “Okay,” Michael said. “Let me tell you a little about my family.”

  Randa broke in. “Do we really have time for this?”

  “We have to have time,” Michael said, and went on. “My parents died when I was a year old. I was raised by my grandfather. His name was Vincent Kinney.”

  “The architect?” Jack asked. It was Michael’s turn to be surprised.

  “I read,” Jack explained.

  “All right. But what you don’t know is that Vincent is . . . was . . . the father of Will Landry.”

  Jack was clearly stunned. He stared at Michael in disbelief.

  “You mean . . . your grandfather . . .” Randa looked at Jack, then back at Michael. “Your grandfather was also Jack’s grandfather?”

  Michael nodded.

  “There’s more,” Michael said, “and it’s not good. And it’s going to sound insane.” He thought for a second. There was no easy way to say it. “My great-grandfather—Vincent’s father—was a Satanist. Apparently a pretty heavy-duty one, as these things go.”

  “Wait a minute,” Randa said. “A what?”

  “Believe me,” Michael said, “I know how crazy it sounds. I could not say ‘my great-grandfather was a Satanic high priest’ with a straight face were it not true. My grandfather was raised in the cult . . . was a member of the cult until he was seventeen. They—” He took a breath, preparing himself. “The cult kidnapped a thirteen-year-old girl and . . . Vincent . . .” He stopped. He couldn’t bring himself to say it. “Your father was conceived during a Black Mass. Ultimately, that’s what is wrong with you, and that’s what was wrong with your family.”

  “Let me see if I have this straight,” Jack said. “You’re saying this cult kidnapped my grandmother, and your grandfather impregnated her during some kind of a devil-worship ceremony, and that’s how the world was graced with my father’s presence?”

  Michael winced at the harsh sound of the truth. “Yes,” he said. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. The cult planned to use the baby—your father—as a sacrifice to Satan. My . . . our . . . grandfather helped them escape.”

  “I hope you don’t want me to thank you for that.”

  “I’m just trying to tell you what happened. I don’t care what you thank or blame me or my grandfather for. None of that is important. You need to know this: that your father was a by-product of very dark circumstances, and you are now a victim of that.”

  “Jack’s mother always thought there was a curse on the family,” Randa said.

  Michael nodded. “Jack’s mother was right.” He looked back at Jack. “The thing that is hounding you and taking you over and making you black out is an evil spirit. Summoned intentionally by my great-grandfather and ordered to destroy our bloodline.”

  He saw Jack roll his eyes.

  “You know what? I think it’s stupid, too!” It came out loud, and half an octave higher than his normal voice, but Michael couldn’t help it. “I do this for a living and I can barely say the word ‘demon’ with a straight face. You know what else? This thing doesn’t give a damn whether we believe in it or not. So much the better if we don’t. No one will get in its way.”

  Randa shook her head. “It sounds so . . . I mean, I believe in Evil, but . . . demons?”

  Michael nodded again. “I know.” He could see a trace of belief in her eyes; he followed it. “Whether we’re comfortable with it or not—whether we believe it or not—there really is a Devil. There really are demons. There really is some sort of war going on between forces of Good and Evil. All around us. All the time. Infecting our lives in ways we don’t even dream of.”

  “I wish I could believe it,” Jack said. “I’d love to blame everything I’ve ever done on the Devil.”

  “Well, you couldn’t do that,” Michael said.

  “Why not? Isn’t that what you’re saying?”

  “No. These things can’t get in by themselves.”

  “What does that mean?” Randa asked.

  “It means that somewhere along the way, Jack did something to accept its offer. He took some action, willingly, that unlocked the door.”

  Jack was staring at the table. Michael thought he saw Jack react, very subtly, to what Michael was saying. He had a feeling that whatever Jack had done, Jack knew what it was. There was no point in exploring it, though. It didn’t matter anymore.

  “Look, Jack, you don’t have to believe it,” Michael said. “You don’t have to believe anything. Just let me do what needs to be done.”

  “What’s that?” Randa asked.

  “He needs an exorcism,” Michael said.

  Jack laughed sardonically. “Well, I saw the movie and it looked like a lot of fun, but I’m kind of tied up at the moment.”

  “What have you told the police?” Michael asked.

  “The truth. I fixed Cathy’s gutters, I woke up in the woods next to a mostly empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s. I don’t remember anything in between.”

  “Do they have anything? Witnesses? Evidence?”

  Jack shook his head. “They haven’t charged me yet, so probably not.”

  “I don’t see what they could have,” Randa said. “He admits to being in her trailer, so forensics won’t prove anything.”

  “Okay,” Michael said. “We have to get you out of here.”

  “And how are we supposed to do that?” Randa asked.

  Michael had already been thinking about it. He remembered something Bob had said to him the day after Danny slashed his father’s face.

  “He could have passed a polygraph saying he didn’t do it, because he didn’t do it.”

  “Offer to take a polygraph,” Michael said.

  “He can’t do that!” Randa said. “What if he actually did it?”

  “I’m telling you, Jack didn’t do it. He wasn’t even there at the time.”

  Jack looked anything but convinced.

  “Did you know this woman?” Michael asked. Jack winc
ed and shut his eyes tight.

  “Yeah,” Jack finally said, in a barely audible voice.

  “Were you angry with her about anything?”

  “No,” Jack said quickly. “Cathy was my . . .” He stopped. Took a breath. Tried again. “Cathy’s the last person I’d ever want to hurt,” he said, his voice trembling.

  Randa put her arm around him. She had tears in her eyes.

  “Jack,” Michael said, “you have a right to save yourself.”

  “Yeah? And what will I have saved?”

  “Your life.”

  “You’ve gotta do better than that,” Jack said, and looked away.

  Michael gave it a moment, then said, “This thing has already killed a lot of people whom I presume you loved. You’re just spitting on their graves if you let it kill you, too.” Michael left that hanging and tried another approach. “You know, you could have a life. You and Randa could have a life together. I know I just met her, but I’d be willing to bet it would never get boring.” Randa smiled and looked embarrassed. “It’s not too late. Get married. Get a house. Get a lawn mower. Have kids. Name them after your brothers.” He saw Jack flinch at that. “Look, I don’t care if you run away and join the circus. Just don’t let this thing win.”

  “From where I’m sitting, it’s already won,” Jack said.

  “I don’t notice a noose around your neck.”

  “Stick around.”

  “Jack, take the polygraph,” Michael said. “Don’t tell them you don’t remember. Tell them you didn’t do it. And if you pass, then you’ll know that I’m telling the truth.”

  “Don’t you mean when I pass?”

  “Yes. I do.”

  Jack looked at Randa. He reached up and brushed a tear off her cheek with his thumb.

  “Jack, what could it hurt?” Randa asked. “If you flunk, they can’t use it against you.”

  “I’m not sure it’s flunking that he’s afraid of,” Michael said. He looked at Jack. “The real question is, do you have the guts to live, if you pass?” Jack didn’t speak or look at Michael. Michael stood.

  “I’ll leave you guys alone,” he said. Then, to Jack: “I don’t know anything about this woman who died, but if she was your friend, I doubt she would want to be what made you finally give up your life.”