California Demon: The Secret Life of a Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom

by Julie Kenner

  We’d lost touch with Father Oliver after we’d moved to San Diablo. Or, at least, I had. I’d always assumed that Eric had, too. That he’d lost himself in suburbia with me, relishing our new life in our safe new town.

  Now, though, I had to wonder. Had Eric kept in touch with Father Oliver all those years? And if he had, then why?

  Allie gestured frantically toward a nearly hidden driveway, and I turned in. The church loomed in front of us, a mission-style structure that had been built into the hills hundreds of years ago. The parking lot was mostly empty, which wasn’t unusual for a weekday. I drove the length of the driveway, squinting at the signs as I tried to find the residence hall.

  Like so many parishes, St. Ignatius provided housing for retired priests. I didn’t see a sign, though, and I stifled a frown. I’d been so certain he lived on site. If he had an apartment somewhere with an unlisted phone number, I was going to have a difficult time tracking him down.

  Inside the office, a twentysomething brunette greeted us with a perky smile.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m an old friend of Father Oliver, and since I happen to be in town, I thought I’d drop in and visit. But I can’t seem to find the residence halls.”

  “Oh, wow. Like, the residence halls are just back there.” She pointed vaguely out the window. I started to thank her, but she wasn’t finished. “The thing is, though . . . I mean, Father Oliver passed away last year.”

  “Oh, man.” That from Allie, though I totally agreed with the sentiment.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Was he ill?” Father Oliver wasn’t young, but he’d been in good health the last time I’d seen him.

  “Cancer,” the girl said. “We all really liked him. I miss him a lot. He used to eat with me on my lunch break sometimes.”

  “He didn’t happen to leave anything, did he?” It was a longshot, but I had to ask. Father Oliver was my last link to Eric. If he was truly a dead end, then I really had failed my husband.

  “Like what?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure. Letters, maybe? Or specific bequests, like in a will.”

  “I think he left everything to the church.”

  “His stuff, sure. But maybe he left notes for his friends. It sounds like he knew he was dying, and I just—” My throat hitched, suddenly clogged with unexpected tears.

  “We’re wondering if he left my mom a note,” Allie said. “Or maybe one for my dad?”

  “I don’t think so,” the girl said. She shot me a worried glance, as if she was afraid I was going to melt into a pile of blubber right then. “But let me ask Father Carey. What are your names?”

  “Crowe,” Allie said, seeming decades older than fourteen. “Katherine or Eric Crowe.”

  The girl got up, then slipped silently through a door at the back of the room.

  “You okay, Mom?”

  I sniffed, loud and wet. “Fine.” I drew in a shaky breath. “When exactly did you grow up?”

  “If I’m so grown up, why can’t I go out on dates?”

  “And smart, too,” I said. “I’ve got one heck of a clever, grown-up child.”

  “No fair going with the flattery thing,” she said.

  “No fair being so smart.”

  “I’m not going to win this one, am I?”

  “Give it a couple of years. I’ll give in eventually.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “Thanks a lot.”

  I was spared having to come up with a snappy retort by the receptionist’s return, this time on the heels of a silver-haired priest with stooped posture and a friendly smile.

  “Good morning,” he said. “I’m Father Carey. You must be Katherine Crowe?”

  I nodded. “Connor now,” I said.

  “Yes, of course. I heard about your husband’s death. My deepest condolences.”

  “Thank you,” I said automatically, even as the import of his words struck me. “You heard about Eric’s death? From Father Oliver?” I supposed that made sense. After all, I’d notified everyone I knew in Forza; a few had even made it to the funeral. But Father Carey wasn’t a member of that group, and I was surprised Father Oliver would mention Eric’s death to him.

  But then Father Carey continued, surprising me even more. “I’d so enjoyed chatting with him during his visits with Father Oliver. Your husband was a very charming man.”

  “Yes,” I managed, hoping I didn’t sound as startled as I felt. “He was the best.”

  Allie was looking between me and Father Carey, her face pinched with thought. “So, um, did Father Oliver leave anything for my mom?”

  “Gretchen mentioned that you were inquiring as to that. No, I’m afraid that Father Oliver left no specific bequests. I went through his belongings personally, and I can assure you that I saw no papers or correspondence that would seem to be of any interest to you.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Well, um, thank you.”

  I started to turn away, then stopped. “One more thing. How often did Eric come see Father Oliver?”

  Father Carey’s gray eyes seemed to soften. I didn’t want his pity. Didn’t want anyone—least of all Allie—to know that Eric had kept these visits from me. But I had to know.

  “I would say about once a month,” he said. “At times more frequently. But often, significantly more time would pass.”

  “I see. And do you know what they discussed?”

  “That would be confidential, between a penitent and his confessor, and I would feel bound not to share that with you even now that Eric has passed.”

  “But—”

  He held up a hand. “It’s a moot point, my child. I enjoyed Eric’s company, but I had no conversations with him that I would consider substantial. And Father Oliver never revealed to me the nature of their visits.”

  I nodded, strangely satisfied. So it was over. I’d followed the only lead that Eric had left me, but I’d followed it years too late.

  I’d failed. And my husband’s murder would remain un-avenged.

  After hearing Father Carey’s news, I didn’t want to do anything except head home, sleep, and feel sorry for myself. Since I had Allie with me, that wasn’t an option. And, honestly, there’s nothing more mood-altering than a shopping extravaganza with a fourteen-year-old. If you’re in a good mood, it will surely make you surly and irritable. But if you start out in that mood already, well, your spirits have nowhere to go but up.

  We bought decorations for the house, electronic gadgets from Brookstone and Sharper Image for Stuart, and a house full of toys, videos, and books for Timmy. Eddie was harder to shop for, but we ended up going with an engraved pocketknife that Allie described as totally bad ass. I couldn’t really argue. Allie admirably restrained herself from begging for new things. She did, however, compile a detailed list.

  By the time we left the Beverly Center, my attitude had been through a serious adjustment. (Our credit cards had been put through the wringer, too, but I had thirty days before the bills came in, and I’d work up the courage to break the bad fiscal news to Stuart sometime before then.)

  During the ride back, Allie entertained me with stories about Troy, cheerleading practice, and goofy things her teachers did. “Mr. Creasley pats everyone on the head when we’re supposed to be reading,” she said. “It’s totally freaky.”

  “Creasley? Isn’t he your English teacher? The bald one with the sprayed-on comb-over?”

  Allie giggled. “That’s him. So, like, maybe the head pat is Freudian?”

  We analyzed that for a while, then Allie switched gears and was off and running analyzing all her favorite television shows. I listened, commented, argued, and generally had a great time chatting with my kid. I was also grateful. Because the truth is, Allie rarely talks on trips. She’s a car sleeper. But this trip, I had no doubt she’d been trying to distract me. Did I raise a great kid, or what?

  As we pulled into our driveway, Allie swiveled in her seat, staring at the assortment of bags. “Stuart’s going to have a cow.”

  “It
’s Christmas,” I said. “Ho, ho, ho.”

  “Maybe we should tell Stuart not to come into the garage because his present is out here. And then we can smuggle all these bags in when he’s not looking.”

  “Brilliant,” I said. And then my brainiac child and I headed into the house, to dupe my husband about both the reason for our trip to Los Angeles and the amount of money we spent.

  As soon as we walked through the door, Allie made a beeline for the answering machine. I kept going, moving through the house to find Stuart. His car was in the garage, so I knew he had to be around somewhere. I found him, eventually, in Timmy’s room.

  “Hey,” I whispered, coming up and putting an arm around him. In front of us, my little boy was sound asleep, Boo Bear clutched in his arms. “How’d you get him to sleep so early?” It wasn’t even seven. Lately, it was like pulling teeth to get the kiddo down before nine.

  “Sick,” Stuart said. “Poor kid. The medicine knocked him right out.”

  “Sick?” I bent over and felt his forehead. Cool enough. “What happened? Why didn’t you call?”

  “I did,” he said. He leaned over and tucked Timmy’s blanket around his shoulders, then gestured for me to follow him into the hall. “I called your cell twice,” he said after he’d pulled the door shut. “Apparently so did the day care. I picked him up about one.”

  Great gobs of guilt washed over me. “Oh, Stuart. Oh, my poor baby.”

  “Don’t worry,” Stuart said. “I’m fine.”

  I made a face. “Not you. What’s wrong? Did you take him to the doctor?”

  “Ear infection, and yes.”

  “I should have been here.” I shifted my shoulders, adjusting the mommy guilt to a more comfortable carrying position.

  “Why? I managed.”

  “Yes, but—”

  I cut myself off. Stuart had managed. And considering his absences lately, he was due for a serious dose of daddy duty. Which did nothing to ease the mommy guilt, and I took a little comfort in the fact that it would be mommy on deck tomorrow. The day care’s policy was strict—fever free for twenty-four hours before they could return. So school tomorrow was out for Timmy. I imagined he’d be able to return on Thursday. Timmy had yet to have an ear infection that didn’t respond immediately to a nice big dose of nasty pink medicine.

  I leaned past Stuart and pushed the door open one more time. I could hear him breathing—my two-year-old snores— but other than that, he was sleeping like an angel. I pulled the door closed, making sure it clicked quietly into place, then followed Stuart down the stairs to the living room.

  We found Allie there, a phone pressed to her ear. She saw us come in and told whoever it was that she’d call them right back. Mindy, I presumed.

  “Oh my God, Mom! Remember Mr. Creasley? The one I was just telling you about?”

  “The English teacher? The head-patter?”

  “Yes! He almost died. Can you believe it?”

  “I—” I bit back my automatic response that yes, I could most definitely believe it. “What happened?”

  “He went boating early this morning or something. I guess he goes out a lot before school to fish or whatever. Anyway, they found him around lunchtime half-drowned. Isn’t that the freakiest thing?”

  I agreed that it was incredibly freaky.

  “I’m so glad he’s okay. Troy thinks Creasley’s a jerk, but I like him okay. I wish he’d stop with the head patting, but otherwise he’s all right.”

  But I barely heard her. I was too busy wondering what the healthy Mr. Creasley would be up to this evening. And if there was any way I could intercept him. New demons are at their most vulnerable within the first twenty-four hours, but Hunters aren’t usually in tune with the new demon roll call.

  This was an opportunity I didn’t want to pass up.

  This was also incredibly inconvenient. On a normal night, Stuart would be plugging away at the office and I could finagle my schedule to give me some time to prowl the town. But now that I wanted to escape, Stuart got it into his head that tonight would be a good night to rekindle our marriage.

  I gave him an A-plus for the thought, and a D-minus for the timing.

  “SO, Um, where’s Eddie?” We’d had dinner, Allie had retreated to her room, and now we were snuggled on the couch, both with glasses of red wine. Stuart’s thoughts were obviously amorous. Mine were tuned to distraction.

  “Left about thirty minutes after I got home with Timmy. Said sick kids aren’t his thing, but I think it was mostly me.”

  I didn’t bother to correct him. Eddie really didn’t know what to make of Stuart. And vice versa. “Where’d he go? It’s almost ten.”

  “The Paramount’s showing Christmas classics all day every day until New Year’s Day. He said he was going there.”

  Somehow I couldn’t picture Eddie getting too worried about whether Mr. Potter was going to take over Bedford Falls. I hoped Father Ben had come back and the two of them were holed up somewhere, making tons of progress. My fingers itched to pick up the phone and call the cathedral, but I stifled the urge. Ben would call when he knew something. And Eddie would come home in his own sweet time.

  I had a hard time worrying about that for too long because Stuart shifted on the couch and started to massage my shoulders. Yes, I’d been a little bit ticked at my husband for putting his campaign before his family, but we’re talking a shoulder massage here. And he had earned major brownie points in the child-care department today. And, honestly, my shoulders ached and his touch felt good. Even better when his hands started roaming and his lips found my neck.

  I needed to be out there hunting demons, I knew that. But under the circumstances, with my husband right there, silently insisting that I not go anywhere except upstairs with him . . . well, that kind of persuasion is hard to resist.

  l woke Up with A start, then rolled out from under Stuart’s arm so I could check the clock. Just past two.

  I turned carefully, then propped myself up on an elbow as I examined Stuart’s face and listened to his breathing. Definitely asleep.

  I waited a little longer, just to make absolutely sure. Then I slid slowly out of bed, careful not to bounce the mattress, shift the sheets too much, or do anything else that would clue my sleeping husband in to the change in status quo.

  I paused, watching him in the dark, but his breathing stayed nice and even, his eyes shut tight. I checked the baby monitor, and it was on. I turned the volume all the way up, just to make sure Stuart could hear it. If Timmy woke up crying, Stuart would realize I was gone. But that was a contingency that I’d deal with if I had to.

  In the meantime, I padded into the bathroom. I found a clean pair of sweatpants in the closet, and I tugged them on, then topped my fashion statement with a black T-shirt courtesy of my husband’s clean laundry hamper. I tugged on socks, shoved my feet into running shoes, then pulled my hair back and away from my face. Ready.

  I turned off the bathroom light, then opened the door and tiptoed through the bedroom, sparing one last glance for my husband. Still asleep. Good.

  I opened our door just enough to squeeze through and then eased into the hall. And then, only when the door was closed tight behind me, did I breathe again.

  One feature I love about our house is that there is a regular staircase leading up to a small attic, not one of those annoying pull-down ladders. In fact, the door and the attic itself resemble the room Greg and Marsha Brady fought for, as Allie has pointed out to me during her sporadic pitches to convert the space to her own private suite.

  Not that our attic has the love beads and psychedelic colors. We haven’t gone that far. But it does have a finished floor, insulation, a decent light, and lots of storage boxes filled with all the things I’m not willing to keep in our hot, bug-infested storage shed.

  I closed the door behind me and crept up the stairs, stepping carefully since Stuart was directly below me. I navigated around all the boxes—until I reached the far side of the attic and the le
ather and wood trunk I’d hidden under a stack of musty sheets.

  I pulled the linens off and gave the lock an automatic tug, finding it still tight. Good.

  I’d hidden the key on a small nail on the backside of one of the rafters, and I dragged an old chair over, teetering on it until my fingers closed around the key. The lock was sticky, but it turned. The hinges creaked as I lifted the lid, and I cringed slightly, wishing I’d thought to bring some WD-40.

  Inside, I saw the shallow tray exactly as I’d left it, filled with a mishmash of articles I’d ripped out from various women’s magazines. Anyone who bothered to look closely would likely be suspicious—I’m hardly the soufflé type, and I can barely spell decoupage, much less know what it is—but for the most part, the pages served their camouflage purpose well.

  I lifted the tray out to reveal the black velvet cloth covering my tools. I peeled it back and considered the weapons. I don’t like to travel with much—I can hardly wander the San Diablo streets with a crossbow slung across my shoulder— and in the end I picked the lean, mean stiletto knife that Eric had given me for our third anniversary. Completely custom-made, the switchblade knife boasted a double-action release system. I preferred simply pushing the bolster to release the blade, but the knife also presented the option of opening manually.

  I set it aside, then pulled out my battered leather jacket. I’d tried my hand at sewing only twice in my life. The second was when I valiantly attempted to make a baptismal dress for Allie (we ended up buying one). The first attempt, though, had actually been successful. I’d stitched a tight strip of elastic into the left sleeve of the jacket.

  Now, I put the jacket on, picked up the knife, then slid the handle under the elastic. I shook my arm, making sure the knife was secure. Years ago, I’d been able to reach over and pull out the knife in seconds flat. I wasn’t back up to my old speed, but I’d been practicing, and getting better with each try.

  I already had holy water in my purse, but I’d stocked up over the last few months, collecting holy water in gallon jugs. Now, I filled a few vials and tucked them in my jacket pockets.