by Karen Hall
“There’s nothing else to say about it. Now please leave before you wake up my family.”
Michael nodded. He certainly didn’t want to cause her any more pain than he already had. He walked toward the door. She didn’t follow him. He stopped in the doorway.
“Donna . . . I’m really sorry,” he said. “I would have been there for you, if you’d told me.”
She looked at him, unimpressed. “No, you wouldn’t have. And you’re not going to use me now to ease your conscience.”
It was as painful as she’d intended it to be. He left her standing in the living room, staring out the window at the rain.
He drove back to the villa as fast as he dared, given the weather and the condition of his head and heart.
Dear God . . . Dear God . . .
No prayer would form in his mind.
Why would God listen to you?
Back at the villa, Michael sat in the library and tried to pull himself together. He’d barely given Donna a thought after he’d dumped her. He’d been entirely focused on his future. And it had been the same way with Tess. He’d never thought about what her future might look like, if he left to marry her. That wasn’t love, he now realized. And he knew what it was.
He sat for a few minutes, praying for the strength to do what he had to do. Then he picked up the phone and dialed.
Tess answered on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“It’s me,” he said.
“Hi, you!” She was in a great mood, which was only going to make it worse.
He sighed, still trying to find the words.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“No,” he said.
“Are you calling to break up with me?” Tess asked, her happy mood gone.
“Yes” was all Michael could say.
“You’re breaking up with me over the phone?”
“It’s complicated, but I can explain,” Michael offered.
“Don’t.” The sound of the phone hanging up was like a slap across his face.
It took Michael a moment to hang up. He wanted to call her back immediately and try to make her feel better about it, but he knew he couldn’t. He sat in the dark, aching for what he knew Tess was going through. And for Donna, and for sins upon sins. Lies, lust, fornication, broken vows, more lies, disobedience, pride, hatred . . .
And a dead child.
The thought was more than he could bear, and he broke down sobbing. Deep sobs that racked his body with a twisting pain and took every ounce of his breath. The weight of the grief crushed him.
The floor creaked and he opened his eyes to see Gabe standing there, purple stole in hand. Michael caught his breath and tried to reel himself back in. Gabe came over and sat on the ottoman in front of him. Donned the stole but didn’t say anything. Waited.
Michael sat up, crossed himself, muttered a perfunctory “Bless me Father for I have sinned,” and started spewing iniquities. The pain he had caused Tess, and Donna. The entire laundry list, ending with his murdered child. He wept with sorrow as his carefully orchestrated life lay in ruins before him.
“It’s too much,” Michael managed to say.
“You said you trusted God’s mercy.”
For having a lover, Michael thought. Not for this. And Gabe was right. He had presumed God’s mercy. He hadn’t asked for it.
Gabe leaned closer to him and spoke firmly. “Do you believe in the sacrament of reconciliation, Michael?” he asked.
Michael weighed it. If he didn’t believe in it for himself, he couldn’t believe in it for anyone else.
“Yes,” he whispered.
He bowed his head and forced himself through an Act of Contrition.
“. . . with the help of thy grace to sin no more and to avoid the near occasion of sin.” And this time he meant it.
There was not a trace of smugness in Gabe’s voice as he absolved Michael. The words washed over him and the weight that lifted was almost tangible, and Michael realized that a state of grace was a real thing.
Immediately there was a loud bang and a loathsome roar from down the hall.
“He didn’t like that,” Gabe said with a trace of a smile.
Back in the room, they found Randa quivering in a corner, terrified. The air was frigid and the presence heavy and overwhelming, and a foul stench permeated the air. There were two distinct voices coming from Jack. One maintained a low growl that never stopped. The other was Jack’s voice, but with a ragged edge, as though he was getting over a bad cold.
Michael and Gabe were both gagging from the stench as they found their places in the Roman Ritual. Michael found his first, as Gabe barked, “Skip the preliminaries.” Michael agreed. Things had ratcheted up intensely; there was no time to lose.
“I command you, unclean spirit, whoever you are, now attacking this servant of God—”
“He’s my servant!” the thing bellowed.
“—by the mysteries of the incarnation, passion, resurrection, and ascension of our Lord—” Michael started to choke on the stench, but Gabe barely missed a beat.
“Christ, by the descent of the Holy Spirit—”
There was a loud explosion and the window blew out as if from a tornado. A huge wind swept through the room. With supernatural strength, Jack broke all the straps and stood up. At the same time, a lamp flew across the room like a missile. Its heavy brass bottom slammed squarely into Gabe’s forehead, knocking him to the floor. Jack headed for the destroyed window and dove through it.
The wind was gone and the room was quiet. Michael knelt by Gabe, who was struggling to maintain consciousness.
“I’m okay,” Gabe said. He tried to get to his feet but lost his balance and fell back to the ground.
“I have to go get him,” Michael said.
“I’m going with you,” Gabe said, groggily.
“I don’t have time for you to recover. I’ll lose him.”
Gabe nodded. Michael turned to Randa, but she cut him off before he could speak.
“Don’t even try to tell me to stay here.”
Michael and Randa caught up with Jack, driving Randa’s car, as he headed south on I-75. For a while they kept him in sight, but he was going too fast and they lost him.
“How are we going to know where he’s going if we can’t see him?”
Michael didn’t know the answer to that.
Dear God, I can’t fight him if I don’t know where he is.
The silence did not surprise Michael. Seconds later, though, he was shocked to hear the demon’s voice in his head, clear and loud.
“Este vez, Padre, nadie estará allí para atraparte.”
It took Michael a little while to translate.
“This time . . . no one will be there . . . to catch you.”
“I know where he’s going,” Michael said.
“How?” Randa asked.
He ignored her and drove.
Of course. It made perfect sense. The Winecoff, where he’d killed Michael’s family. Where he had tried to kill Michael. He’d probably laughed that night, and sang his little “salsipuedes” song. Probably reveled in all the carnage, but he hadn’t gotten the one thing he’d really wanted. He hadn’t killed Michael. Vincent had been waiting to catch him.
Michael parked the car on a side street and led Randa up the street to the Winecoff. The glass doors to the lobby were covered with brown paper. Michael pushed them anyway. When they refused to budge, he looked around. On the other side of the building was the Chinese restaurant. Neon lights glowed in the window: DINE IN OR TAKE OUT and DELIVERY AVAILABLE, but the OPEN sign was not lit and the doors were locked. Michael motioned for Randa to follow him and ducked into the adjacent alley so they could check out the side of the building. From there, it was obvious how Jack had gained entry. One of the windows on the first floor had been smashed and was now open. Michael climbed through it and helped Randa in after him.
They ran into the lobby, where they made a beeline for the
interior stairs. At the bottom of them, Michael stopped. “Okay,” he said to Randa. “I need you to stay here—”
“I’m not—”
“Randa!” Michael raised his voice enough to shut her down. “This is going to take everything I’ve got. I cannot be worrying about you and your safety. You have to sit here, for Jack’s sake if not for mine.”
Randa sat. She pouted, but she sat.
“And Randa . . . Pray. You can believe it later. Just pray.”
She nodded, and he left her and quickly climbed the stairs. He removed a plastic holy water bottle from his pocket as he went, like a cop taking his gun out of its holster.
By the time he hit the second landing, he knew he was right. He could feel the presence by the heaviness in the air and the heaviness in his soul. He had to stop on the third landing just to summon the strength to make it the rest of the way. The air was impossibly heavy and he was swallowed in a sudden onslaught of grief. The fire had started here, not more than twenty feet from where he was standing.
On the sixth-floor landing he was hit by another wave of grief, and this time it was paralyzing. Knowing its source gave him no power over it.
He sat on the stairs and cried. Sobbed. Deep, tight sobs that made his throat ache. His breath wouldn’t come, and when it did, he started to cough and couldn’t stop. When the coughing finally stopped, the sobbing started again. Everything inside him, body and soul, ached until he didn’t think he could live through it.
God, why did You let them die? All those innocent people. Why did You punish them for what Vincent did? Families, Christmas shopping. Fathers on business trips. A bunch of high school kids in town for the Junior Assembly . . . they were probably so excited to be here . . . their parents were probably thrilled for them to be staying at a big hotel in Atlanta, waiting for them to come home and tell their stories. And my family, completely ignorant of their maliciously summoned fate. Why, God? Where the hell were You?
No answer. Never any answer to the pain. Never any answer to anything. Just orders.
Pack. Move. Keep going.
Why? Why should I keep going?
He knew the answer to that. He picked himself up and started back up the stairs, counting the floors as he went. The stairs were lit only by what little light spilled through the dirty windows. The stairwell smelled strongly of urine. The paint on the walls had flaked off in sheets that had fallen to the floor and now crackled under Michael’s feet. The paint on the handrail was peeling badly, too; it broke off in his hand, along with years’ worth of dust. He kept moving. Reached the eleventh floor. He slowly stepped into the hall. Michael had spent countless hours over the years studying the floor plan of the building in Vincent’s scrapbook, trying to figure out how his family could have escaped. He knew the suite of rooms where his family had died was on the other side of the building. He knew Jack was waiting.
He tightened his grip on the holy water, all the while thinking how stupid he was to consider it a defense.
Can’t kill me. I’ve got holy water.
The hall was littered with food wrappers, old blankets, and other signs of the street people who called this hellhole home. The smell of urine was even stronger. Michael ignored it and made his way down the hall.
There were three rooms to the suite, and three doors. They were all closed. Michael chose the middle one, which led to the room that had been the parlor; it accessed both bedrooms. The bedroom doors were closed, too. Michael knew which room Jack was in: the one where his family had stayed that night. He took a moment to center himself.
The light from the hot stretch of Peachtree cast a blue glow into the room. The paint on the walls was peeling, not just in places, but everywhere. Michael looked out the window. What must it have been like? To sit here staring out at safety, at the world going about its business, while death moved rapidly closer?
Must have felt a lot like I feel right now.
He reached for the knob on the door to the corner room. Turned it. Pushed the door open slowly.
He saw Jack—or rather, the wretched thing that now controlled Jack—glaring at him with a repulsive smile on his miserable face.
“Well, look who’s finally here. Did you have to run to New York first and screw your girlfriend?”
Michael felt himself cringe at the accusation, but forced himself to ignore it. He couldn’t afford the distraction. Had to get his bearings. The room was small and hellish. Same peeling paint; same blue light from the street; same strange shadows. There was an odd metallic smell in the room that Michael recognized but couldn’t place. Jack was standing in the corner, grinning mockingly at him.
Jesus, what now? Everything that hasn’t fazed him before?
There was nothing else to do. Michael crossed himself.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son . . .”
“Oh, no,” the demon said. “No. We’re not going to do the mumbo-jumbo again. And we need to clear up a few things about who’s running the show.”
Before Michael could wonder what he meant, it started again. His psyche was invaded by a sense of futility. Hopelessness. Pointlessness. The overwhelming impression that everything good and beautiful and holy was just a façade. Michael tried to fight it by conjuring up an image the demon couldn’t defile.
A rose. It withers and dies and rots and stinks . . . A child. Who grows into an adult who lives a miserable, useless life full of pain and heartache, until gradually the body begins to break down at the same rate as the hope, and the dreams die and rot just like the body.
“Stop!” Michael yelled. The demon just laughed.
Michael could sense something changing. He began to feel dizzy. The air grew heavy and hot. The smell came back. The room started to spin. He felt the same pressure as before. The same pain shot through his head. He closed his eyes; it was all he could do not to scream. He could feel himself shaking, straining against the pain. It lasted for a full two minutes, and then it was gone, as suddenly as it had appeared.
The smell had changed. The rotten garbage smell was gone, replaced by a strong smell that Michael instantly recognized, from a lifelong fear.
Smoke.
He opened his eyes. The room was much darker, and full of smoke. The air was hot and thick. He dropped down and tried to crawl toward the window. He couldn’t see anything through the smoke; didn’t know where the window was. He moved in what he thought was the right direction.
He heard a sound he didn’t recognize immediately. It seemed to fade into the room. As it got louder, he recognized it as a child crying.
A child? What child?
The smoke grew thinner and he could see the window. But there was something else. He squinted, tried to focus his smoke-filled eyes.
No. It can’t be.
There were people by the window. Two women, one holding a toddler. Two men. All coughing, struggling to breathe. The women were crying. The child was crying.
No. He can’t do this.
But obviously he could. Michael was back there. Or maybe the demon had just made it all materialize. It didn’t matter.
A reenactment. Aren’t they all the rage now?
Vincent. Michael’s parents. His grandmother. Himself. He glanced out the window. There was no Ritz-Carlton. Somehow, he was back there. Being forced to live through it. Feel it. Smell it.
Michael tried closing his eyes, but the scene didn’t disappear. If anything, it got clearer. There was nothing he could do but watch.
His father and Vincent were throwing a rope made of wet bedsheets out the window. The other end was tied to the bed frame. They tugged on it to make sure it was tight, then Vincent started down it.
“Send Claire down when I get to the ladder,” Vincent said to Michael’s father. Matthew nodded. The women were holding on to each other, crying. Laura was rocking Michael in her arms, trying to calm him. They all had to put their heads out the window to breathe, though the smoke-filled air outside wasn’t much of an improvement.
Michael looked at his father. Matthew Kinney, standing there, alive. A man who’d never been anything but a question mark to Michael. Michael had never realized how young Matthew had been when he died. Ridiculously young. And handsome. He looked like a younger version of Vincent. He looked strong in body and spirit. Michael had never imagined his father as strong. He tried to move closer, to be closer to Matthew, but found he couldn’t move at all.
“He made it,” Matthew said, watching Vincent through the window. His voice was full of amazement. “We’re going to make it.”
The women were laughing through their tears. “Come on, Mother,” he said to Claire. “There’s no time to spare.” He helped Claire through the window. “Don’t look down,” he said. “Use your feet to feel for windowsills.” Claire nodded. Matthew kissed her on the forehead, and she started down the rope. She looked terrified, but she moved quickly. Matthew and Laura watched.
“You’re doing fine,” Matthew called. “You’re almost there. A few more feet.” He stopped to cough, and to take a breath.
“I can’t believe it,” Laura said, laughing, crying. “We’re not going to die.”
“Come on, let’s get you down,” Matthew said. “Give me Michael.” Laura handed the child over to Matthew. She kissed them both.
“Don’t drop him,” she said, her eyes pleading.
“Laura, I’d die before I’d drop him,” Matthew said. Michael felt a different kind of pain shoot through him. He could feel the love from this man he’d never known. The love that was about to be ripped away from him.
My God . . . don’t make me live through this . . .
Why should He answer your prayer? He didn’t answer theirs.
Laura climbed through the window and started down. Matthew watched her disappear. “You’re doing great,” Matthew said. “There’s a windowsill about two feet below you. Just try to—” Matthew began to look concerned. He seemed to be listening to something Michael couldn’t hear.
