Jesus.
How?
How could the voice he’d heard come from Danny, six months ago in Long Island, turn up in a homeless wino in downtown Atlanta?
It wasn’t the same voice. It was just similar.
No. He knew all about the fire. He knew all about you. He knew you were a priest!
There has to be some logical explanation.
Something was wrong. Now. In the room. Everything looked normal, but there was a heaviness. He recognized it: a milder version of what he’d felt in Danny’s room.
It’s in here.
He turned on the light. The feeling remained. He shivered, then realized that the room was cold. Not ordinary cold. Icy, but stuffy at the same time. He was having trouble breathing. The air was too thick. There was an odd smell, like a smoldering candle.
It’s getting stronger.
The air was closing in on him, squeezing from all sides. He tried to move; his body was paralyzed. The air squeezed tighter. He felt as if he were in a pressure chamber. It had never been this strong with Danny.
“Get . . . out . . . of . . . here . . .” he managed to whisper. But the only response was that the pressure became more intense. Michael could almost hear it laugh. He searched his mind for the words Bob Curso had used.
“I . . . command . . . you . . .” He was barely able to force the words out of his mouth, much less sound commanding.
God, help me. It’s going to kill me.
“ . . . in . . . the . . . name . . . of . . . Jesus . . . Christ . . .” There was a loud sound, like wind through a tunnel. He felt the air reverse direction. The squeezing became pulling. A sucking motion. For a few seconds, he felt he was being pulled apart.
Then it was gone.
The sudden absence of pressure almost threw him to the floor. He steadied himself, then looked around, checking the corners. But he knew it was gone. The air was warm again.
His first impulse was to tell himself he’d imagined it. Or maybe it was something physiological. He’d worked himself into a state because of the bum. He’d convinced himself the demon was after him, and had given himself an anxiety attack.
But he knew better. The same way he’d known during Danny’s exorcism. It wasn’t in his mind. It was on the outside. A presence. With a will and a fury of its own.
With a trembling hand, he picked up the phone and dialed Bob’s private number. Held his breath until he heard Bob answer.
“Hello?” Groggy. Annoyed.
“Bob, it’s Michael Kinney. I’m sorry to—”
“Hello?” Bob insisted, angrier.
Michael yelled into the phone. “Bob, it’s Michael—” The line went dead. Michael cursed the phone company and hit the Redial button. A ring. Another ring. A clicking sound. A sickeningly sweet voice: “The number you have dialed is not in service at this time. Please check the number and dial again.”
Michael hung up; he tried again, dialing the number carefully. He heard two rings, another clicking sound, and then loud static—crackling, popping, white noise in the background. A final try yielded the same. He gave up.
He put on his sweats and hurried to Vincent’s study. He searched the bookshelves and pulled down all the books he’d accumulated during the Ingram case. He stacked them on Vincent’s desk, then began a frantic search of the chapter headings, looking for any reference to a demon stalking a priest who’d participated in an unsuccessful exorcism. Nothing. At the bottom of the stack, he started again, this time combing the indexes. POSSESSION. In the Bible, Catholic views of, Characteristics of, History of, Legal aspects of, Medical treatment of. See also: Multiple personality disorder; Exorcism. EXORCISM. Characteristics of, Duration of, History of. See also: Possession.
A noise in the room. Tapping. He jumped half a mile and slammed the book shut; looked up to see Barbara standing in the doorway, tapping on the door. Dressed in black.
Oh, hell. Vincent’s funeral.
“Sorry I scared you.”
“It’s okay,” he said, trying to catch his breath.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” he said, too quickly. She came over; looked at the stack of books.
Don’t read the titles.
She leaned over and read the titles. “Demons? Again?”
“Barbara, I don’t want to hear it.”
“Hear what?”
“Anything. Sarcasm. Jokes. Good-natured ribbing. Just leave it alone.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Don’t even think anything. I’d love to be cynical and sophisticated and smug, but I don’t have that luxury anymore!”
“Michael, I don’t care if you believe in the tooth fairy. I just came to tell you the limo will be here in half an hour.”
He nodded. “I’ll be ready,” he said, and left her.
The church was packed and people were standing in the aisles, which didn’t surprise Michael. What did surprise him was the absence of Gabe Novak. He thanked God profusely for that, and for the fact that Novak and Vincent had not been the fast friends that Barbara, for some reason, had mistakenly declared them to be.
When Tom Graham had finally concluded his lengthy eulogy, Michael took his place at the podium. Looked at the notes and decided to skip the intro. Anyone who didn’t know who he was could ask somebody later.
“When I was about thirteen years old—” His voice was shaky. He cleared his throat and tried again. “—I went through a brief cynical phase and I stopped going to Mass. I’m not sure how I had it worked out in my mind, because I still wanted to be a priest. I guess I was going to find a way to do it without the Church. An ongoing struggle . . .”
Chuckles from people in the crowd who knew of his recent troubles, which gave him a moment to take a breath and steady himself. He still felt weak from the . . . (What? Demonic attack?)
“Vincent sat me down one day and asked me what I thought I was doing. I said, ‘Grandpa, there’s nothing at that church but a bunch of hypocrites.’ Vincent looked at me and nodded and said, ‘Well, there’s always room for one more.’ ”
(Laughter.)
Okay . . . take a breath . . . keep reading . . .
“If you knew Vincent at all, you knew that side of him. It wasn’t my favorite side. Especially when I was thirteen.”
He could feel his throat starting to constrict. He forced himself past it, kept reading.
“Vincent’s cancer was diagnosed a little over four months ago. I’d gone with him to the doctor, just because I happened to be in town. Neither of us had expected the news to be as grave as it was. We drove home in silence. I was in shock, I think. Vincent was his usual stoic self. About ten minutes into the drive, he asked me if I minded taking him to Marietta. I asked, ‘What’s in Marietta?’ He said his favorite computer store was there, and he wanted to go by and see if they had a color printer that had just come out. I thought he’d flipped—the news had been too much for him and he’d gone into some kind of bizarre denial. I said, ‘Vincent, you know, the doctor said—’ ‘I heard the doctor,’ he said. ‘That’s why I want to go right now. They may have to order it.’ ”
(More laughter. Nods of recognition.)
Okay. Home stretch.
He opened his mouth to speak again, but was surprised to find that no sound came out. He tried again, and this time his throat began to tighten, as if someone were choking him. He couldn’t breathe. At the same time, he could feel the presence again. The oppressive weight of it. He could see the alarmed looks in the faces of the gathered mourners and he wanted to assure them he was okay, but he wasn’t. He struggled again to draw a breath. Suddenly Tom Graham was in front of him. In his face, whispering.
“St. Michael the archangel, defend us in battle, be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the Devil . . .”
Michael tried to join him, but whatever had taken control of him would not let him speak, or even form the words. He bowed his head and let Graham finish. He managed to mouth an “amen” at the end. Graham whispered, “Can you go on?” Michael shook his head no. “Then sit down.” Michael nodded and obeyed. Graham took over. The congregants assumed Michael was too choked up to continue.
With the pressure off him, Michael was able to draw small breaths, and then larger ones. He was breathing normally by the time Graham finished the eulogy, but went through the rest of the Mass in a daze, trying to understand what was happening to him. And trying to understand Tom Graham’s actions. Why had he chosen the St. Michael prayer? How had he known Michael was in the grip of something demonic?
Michael spent the afternoon in Vincent’s study, packing books into boxes. He could hear Barbara knocking around in another part of the house, and was grateful for her presence. He dreaded nightfall. He was halfway thinking about going back to Barton for the night.
He heard Barbara’s voice from down the hall.
“Michael, I’m on my way to see you. I’m five feet from the door. Don’t jump out of your skin.”
“Thank you,” he said as she appeared in the doorway. Things had warmed up between them in the course of the day. She’d probably written off his rant this morning as anxiety about the funeral. He hadn’t had any problem selling “panic attack” to explain his episode at the Mass.
“I need you to sign some papers,” she said. “Something about putting all of Vincent’s money into one trust fund, and they need to do it before the will is read, don’t ask me why. All I know is, I was swarmed by suits at the funeral.” She laid the papers on the desk. “All the places are marked with tabs.”
Michael made his way through the maze of boxes.
“Do you know who Edna Foley is?” Barbara asked.
“No. Should I?”
“I don’t know. She lives in Jonesboro, and Vincent has been sending her a check for fifteen hundred dollars every week for almost ten years. I’ve never had access to his private account before, so this is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“Me too.”
“I can’t find a phone number for her, so the only thing I know is to drive to Jonesboro and ask her who she is.”
“Give me her address and I’ll do it.”
“You? Don’t be silly.”
“I want to. I need a break anyway. I wouldn’t mind the drive.” Anything to get my mind off whatever happened to me this morning.
“Well . . . okay.” She handed him the address. “Will you be okay if I go home?”
“Please.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes.
She gave him a quick hug, which he tried his best to return, and then she was gone.
The temperature had dropped considerably since the funeral. Even in a wool sweater and blazer, Michael was chilly. He turned the collar of the jacket up as he climbed the three steps to the unadorned front stoop and rang the doorbell. Hearing nothing, he followed it with a knock. He waited. The glass on the front door was covered with a lace curtain, so he couldn’t see inside. The neighborhood was decidedly working class—small one-story houses; a few side porches full of outdoor furniture and hanging baskets. Rocking chairs and painted antique milk cans. People trying to inject a soul into rental property.
He knocked again. He was about to give up when he heard a sound; the door opened and he was confronted by a middle-aged black woman wearing a white uniform and an expression that was anything but welcoming.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m looking for an Edna Foley.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. She folded her arms across her chest and didn’t say anything else.
“Does she live here?” he asked.
“Depends on what you’re sellin’.”
“I’m not selling. My grandfather just passed away and I’m trying to figure out why he’s been sending checks to a woman named Edna Foley, at this address.”
“Who’s your grandfather?”
“Vincent Kinney.”
An undefined look replaced the scowl. “Well . . .”
She unlocked the screen door and opened it. She motioned him inside.
“I’m Edna Foley,” she said. Michael hoped the surprise didn’t show on his face. “I got somethin’ on the stove,” she explained, and headed to the kitchen.
He followed, assuming that was what she’d intended. He stopped at the doorway of the small kitchen. Edna was at the stove, stirring a pot of something that looked like navy-bean soup. It smelled wonderful, but somehow he had the feeling she wasn’t going to invite him to stay for dinner.
“Mr. Kinney died,” she said, to herself. She shook her head. “That’s the last news I needed to hear.”
“I’m not exactly thrilled about it myself.”
“Well, I’ll work till the end of the month, then it’s gonna be your problem what to do with her.”
“With who?”
She didn’t seem to hear him. “I said from the start, I just do my work and cash my check,” she huffed. “I don’t wanna be mixed up in nothin’ . . .”
“Listen,” Michael said, interrupting, “let’s start at the beginning. Why was Vincent sending you money?”
“It’s my salary, plus some extra to pay the rent. He said it was easier for me to do that than him.” She picked up a large saltshaker and shook it liberally into the pot. “And if you think I don’t earn it, you stay here a couple of days.”
“I don’t doubt that you earn it. I just need to know what it’s for.”
“I cook and clean and do the laundry and buy the groceries. And I do ’bout everything for her. She can’t do much for herself anymore.”
“Who?” Michael asked, restraining himself.
Edna stopped stirring and looked at him; she seemed to put it together. “You don’t know?”
“No. Whatever is going on here, I don’t know anything about it.”
“Well,” she said. She shook her head. “I don’t know much myself. Just what Mr. Kinney told me when he hired me. He said he was a friend of the family and he wanted to get her out of that county hospital. I don’t blame him. I’ve seen that hole.”
“Does this woman have a name?”
“Rebecca. I usually call her Becky or Miss Becky, but he called her Rebecca. When he talked to me, I mean. He didn’t never talk to her. He wouldn’t even let me tell her he was payin’ her keep. He sent some priest over here to tell her the rent was bein’ donated by somebody anonymous, and to this day she thinks I’m a volunteer from the Red Cross. I told her they had a program for shut-ins and—”
“Let me get this straight,” Michael said, cutting her off. “This woman—Rebecca—was in a county institution. My grandfather took her out—”
“The priest took her out. Mr. Kinney said she wouldn’t accept nothing if she knew it was from him.”
“Okay. He had a priest take her out. He hired you and he’s been paying you and paying her rent for ten years. Is that it?”
“That’s it.”
“And Vincent didn’t tell you why he was doing this?”
“Just what I told you.”
“What about the priest? Do you remember his name?”
“Yeah. It was Father something.”
“That’s very helpful,” Michael said, matching her sarcasm. “Do you remember what he looked like?”
“Yeah. Like a white man in black clothes. It was ten years ago.”
“Was he from around here?”
“I don’t know. I told you, I just do my job. I don’t ask questions.”
“And that’s absolutely all you know?”
“That’s it.”
“Then why do I have the feeling there’s more?”
Edna bristled. “Who are you? Matlock?”
“I’m the person who’s got your paycheck in his back pocket,” he said. It got her attention.
“All right.”
“What?”
“I didn’t hear this from him. She told me this, years ago, back when she used to talk a lot more than she does now. And she didn’t know how much she was tellin’ me, ’cause she didn’t know I knew Mr. Kinney. But if there’s one thing I can do in this world, it’s put two and two together, you know what I mean?”
Michael nodded. He had no idea what she meant.
“She told me she got pregnant when she was thirteen, and she had to run away from home,” Edna continued. “She’s been on her own ever since. So I asked about the baby’s daddy and she got all upset and said she didn’t want to talk about it. So I figured it must have been Mr. Kinney.”
WHAT?!
He struggled to keep his composure. “Why?”
“Why else would he be payin’ her rent and payin’ for me?”
Damned good question.
“Maybe he’s a friend of hers. Or a friend of the family, like he said.”
“Then why would he tell me not to mention his name to her? And why didn’t he never come to visit?”
Two more damned good questions.
No way! Not Vincent!
“Like I said,” Edna continued, “she didn’t want to talk about the father. She said she didn’t even want to think about it.”
“How old is she?”
Edna shrugged. “I don’t know. Old.”
Was Vincent fourteen when it happened? Or was he twenty-five? It makes a hell of a lot of difference! Assuming any of this is true.
It can’t be true!
“What happened to the child?” he asked with forced steadiness.
“What do you mean?”
“Is he still alive? Do you know where he is?”
Edna shook her head. “She said he killed hisself, years ago.”
Jesus. Did Vincent know? Did he ever meet his son?
Edna returned her attention to the soup. “Now, that’s all I know.”
Why didn’t he tell me? How could he keep it a secret all these years?
“Everything’s paid for till the end of the month,” she added. “You better call County and warn them she’s comin’ back.”
“No,” Michael said, almost automatically. “Vincent wouldn’t want that.”
Vincent knew he was dying. He knew I’d end up here. Why didn’t he tell me?
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll set something up . . .” Robot voice. He couldn’t force an inflection. “So you’ll keep getting checks for as long as she’s alive. A trust fund or something.”
She stopped stirring the soup and looked at him.
“You mean it?”
Michael nodded. “Just keep doing what you’re doing.”
Suddenly Edna saw him in a new light. “Bless your heart! ’Cause I ain’t in no mood to be job huntin’ right now.”
Maybe it’s not true. This is all based on Edna’s math. No one involved has said that it’s true.
“Could I talk to her?” he asked, trying not to sound like his life depended on it.
Edna shook her head. “She’s takin’ her nap, and if I wake her up she’ll make my life hell for a month. Besides, it wouldn’t do no good. She don’t hardly talk to me, and I know she ain’t gonna talk to no stranger. And if I told her who you was, she’d throw your tail out and mine right behind it.”
“Then maybe I could come back later. You could set it up.”
“What am I supposed to say?”
“I’m your Red Cross supervisor and I need to talk to her to make sure you’re doing a good job.”
“Uh-huh. And why does my Red Cross supervisor need to talk about something that happened sixty-some years ago?”
She was right. It needed work. They exchanged phone numbers and she started to walk him out.
He stopped in the living room, having noticed a crucifix hanging on the wall by the door. Impossible not to notice it; it was at least a foot high. A severe-looking cross, made of some kind of dark wood. It sported a full-color Jesus wearing a crown of vicious black thorns, eyes rolled heavenward in agony, blood everywhere the “artist” could find an excuse to paint blood.
“Is she Catholic?” Michael asked. He already knew the answer. No Protestant on earth would have that thing hanging in the living room.
“Hmph,” Edna said, rolling her eyes. “She makes the pope look like a Presbyterian.”
“Really?” Michael said, though he didn’t know why it would matter.
“I tried to get her to put it in her room,” Edna said, making no effort to conceal her distaste, “but she said it had to go by the door. I don’t know, maybe they got some rule that it’s gotta be by the door. I hang my dust rag over it when I’m in here watching my stories. She’d have a hissy fit if she knew that.”
It felt somehow very odd to Michael that Edna didn’t even know he was Catholic, much less that he was a priest. He just nodded and let it go, gave her the paycheck, and left. He’d call tomorrow and start working on wearing her down.
Barton was only another fifteen minutes along I-75, and Michael felt obligated to put in an appearance at the church. A priest from the nearest town had been covering for him, but he was starting to feel guilty about not having checked in.
He drove on autopilot and replayed the conversation with Edna, trying to make some sense of it. Too many holes. No place to look for answers, unless he could talk to Rebecca. Even then, Edna didn’t make her sound like someone who’d be at all forthcoming. But if he hadn’t inherited another thing from Vincent, Michael certainly possessed Vincent’s tenacity. He had complete faith in his ability to break through to whatever information remained available.
He reached Barton and pulled into the church’s small parking lot. It was empty except for an ancient Buick owned by his ancient volunteer secretary, Annie Poteet. Annie put in four hours a day, five days a week, if her rheumatism wasn’t bothering her and she didn’t get a better offer. The fact that she was holding down the fort did not comfort him, since Annie generally caused more problems than she solved.
He opened the door to find the rectory filled with flower arrangements and sympathy cards from parishioners, which caught him off guard. It hadn’t dawned on him that they’d have any reaction to his grandfather’s death. He stopped to take it in, and to fend off another wave of guilt.
Annie fairly leaped from her chair the minute she saw him and made a tremendous fuss over him, calling him “Father” about fifteen times in three sentences. Then she went to work giving him the rundown on each flower arrangement and planted basket: who’d sent what, which of the town’s two florists was responsible for each, and a couple of editorial comments about flowers that did not properly reflect the income brackets of the families from which they’d come. From there, she moved on to other late-breaking developments.
“The toilets are backed up again,” she said, in a tone that said this is the blow that’s gonna sink us. “I called the plumber and he said he’s on his way, but you know how they are. He said we’re just going to keep having this problem if we don’t hook up to the county. I know you think it’s too expensive, I’m just repeating what he told me. And Father Hennessey called and said he can take the two morning Masses on Sunday, but not the five o’clock because he’s got the five o’clock at his own church—”
Annie continued, rattling off a list of problems that went on for ten minutes. Michael flipped through a stack of mail and hoped she’d take the hint, but she just prattled on. He heard about half of it.
“—and that charismatic group, whatever they call themselves, wants to know when you can come to one of their meetings.”
“Twelve years after I’m dead,” Michael said, handing her a stack of bills.
Annie stared blankly at him. Decoding sarcasm wasn’t in her job description. Michael tried again.
“Tell them I appreciate the invitation and I’d go to war for their right to exist, but I’m wholeheartedly uninterested in participating.”
Not knowing what to do with that, Annie mumbled something about needing to water the flowers and left the room.
Michael went upstairs and threw some clothes into what used to be his gym bag. (He could still remember the look he’d gotten from Annie when he’d asked her if there was a racquetball court in Barton.) When he came back downstairs, the plumber was there. He and Annie were intensely bemoaning the rectory’s bleak plumbing prognosis. Michael snuck out the back door, unnoticed.
Before heading back to Atlanta, he decided to duck into Tillie’s Good Food Coffee Shop. He needed caffeine if he was going to survive the drive home. He went to the takeout counter and ordered a large coffee from the perky redheaded waitress.
He looked around to make sure he wasn’t snubbing any parishioners. The place was packed with the usual dinner crowd, but he didn’t see anyone from his flock. He was thankful for that. He was completely out of “everything is fine” energy.
The waitress returned to tell him a new pot was brewing and would be ready in a few minutes. He paid her, then sat at the counter, stared at the napkin holder, and resumed his attempt to make some sense out of Edna’s story.
Why hadn’t Vincent told him? How could he have kept such a huge secret all those years?
The same way you kept your secret from him.
It’s not the same thing.
It’s pretty damned close.
What else didn’t Vincent tell me? Was all that saintliness just an act?
No. He spent all those years tracking her down. That means something, doesn’t it? At least he felt guilty.
The irony of it. The two of them suffering in silence, each determined not to disillusion the other. Faking the intimacy they were actually shutting out. It was sad. Sad, and stupid.
He emerged from his reverie to notice someone sitting down on the only empty stool, the one beside him. He glanced over, then wished he hadn’t. It was the weird guy. Michael turned away from him without speaking. He’d made that mistake before, and the hermit had decided Michael was trying to pick him up. But then, he’d probably brought that on himself by spending too much time staring at the guy, trying to figure him out. Michael had heard enough coffee shop gossip to know he lived alone in a boardinghouse and worked as a day laborer. Michael had seen him standing in front of Western Auto, looking out of place among the blacks and Hispanics competing for unskilled employment. It wasn’t just his ethnicity that made him stand out. There was also the look on his face—a look of sharp, angry intelligence. There was something in that look that called out to Michael. Maybe just the fact that he saw the same look every day, every time he looked in the mirror.
The waitress finally appeared with Michael’s coffee. She was gone again before he could ask her for cream. He saw a small pitcher on the counter, an arm’s reach in front of the weird guy.
“I’m not making a pass,” he said as he leaned over the guy. “I need the cream.”
The guy shoved the pitcher over; then, to Michael’s surprise, he handed him a spoon.
“Need this?”
“Thanks.” Michael was careful not to say anything else, although he did detect a subtle change in the energy. At least the guy wasn’t sending the usual death vibes. As had always been the case, Michael felt a strange compulsion to talk to him. Even now, when he knew what a waste of time it was.
Michael stirred his coffee, then handed the spoon back. On impulse, he leaned over and spoke quietly.
“For the record, I’m not gay and I’m not interested in saving you. I don’t believe in that.”
“Which?”
Michael was amazed. He hadn’t expected a response, let alone a response that invited further conversation.
“Saving people,” he said, trying to hide his shock.
“You don’t think people can be saved?”
“Not by other people.”
“Then what’s your job?”
“These days, I’m not very sure.”
The guy was completely thrown by that and didn’t speak. Michael felt a sense of victory far beyond the accomplishment.
Michael picked up his coffee and left. Quickly, while he still had the advantage.
At Vincent’s house, he found a note from Barbara lying on the kitchen counter.
Michael—
You got calls from every Jesuit in North America. They all send condolences, they all want you to call them back, a guy named Larry said to tell you that you’re a jerk for not calling him. Let me know what you found out about Edna Foley. I’m around if you need me.
Michael crumpled the note and tossed it into the trash. He didn’t even look at the phone list. It would still be there in the morning.
He went into the den and poured himself a couple of fingers of Maker’s Mark. He stared at the phone for a few minutes, then finally picked it up and dialed Tess’s number. The machine answered on the first ring.
“Hi. I’m not here. Leave a message after the beep.”
“It’s Jesus,” he said. “There’s some talk going around that you don’t think I exist, so I thought I’d call and set the record straight. I’ve heard a few other things about you, but we can get into all that later.”
He started to hang up, then remembered something.
“Thanks for the wreath, it was lovely. I’m about to drink heavily and go to sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow. I love you.”
He sipped the bourbon and flipped through an issue of Commonweal until he realized he couldn’t care less about the future of Northern Ireland or the interpretation of the Catholic vote in the ’92 election. It was hard to believe he’d ever care about anything like that again. Such musings were a luxury for people to whom life made some degree of sense.
He put the magazine down. He was going to have to find some way to pass the time. He noticed something in the pile of junk that had been accumulating on the coffee table: the tape recorder Vincent had left him. He’d put it there when he came home from the hospital and hadn’t thought about it since. He was going to have to listen to it sooner or later, but the thought of hearing Vincent’s voice was not inviting. Especially tonight.
But . . .
But what if the tape was a confession, of sorts? Was that how Vincent had decided to tell him about Rebecca? Michael picked up the recorder, rewound the tape, and let it play. He braced himself.
“Well . . . if you’re listening to this, it means I’ve moved on to the Big Time. Pour yourself a stiff drink, if you haven’t already.”
Michael smiled at that, even though the sound of Vincent’s voice stung like an icy wind; it was frail, and groggy with pain medication.
“Michael . . . you’ve been the joy of my life, and I can leave here knowing I did at least one thing right. It might be the only thing. I’m proud of you. I’m proud of what you’ve done, and I’m proud of what I know you’ll go on to do. God got Himself a priceless ally the day you signed up.”
Michael stopped the tape. He took a few deep breaths, then started it again.
“I have to tell you . . . bad things, Michael. Horrible, dreadful things. I didn’t want you to ever have to hear this story, but there’s no way to avoid it now . . . because . . . things are happening . . . I thought it was all over, but I saw something this morning . . .” A pause. A sigh. “I don’t know how to tell you this . . . I don’t want you to hate me, but you should.” Another sigh. “Let’s start with something easy. You’re in Barton because of me. I know you’re too smart to think that the shortage of priests is so extreme that they have to start pulling Jesuits out of the order, so you must think you’re there because Bishop Wilbourne was being a vindictive SOB. Not that he isn’t, but that’s not the reason. You’re there because I wanted you there. I called the archbishop and cashed in a few chips. He talked to Frank Worland and they worked it out. I know how unhappy you are there, and I’m sorry about that. Michael . . . I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me after you hear this . . .”
There was a sound in the background. Banging. Rattling. A woman’s voice.
“Okay . . . well. My chariot has arrived. I’ll have to finish this later. . . .”
There was the sound of Vincent turning off the recorder, and then the tape went dead. Michael stared at it in disbelief. The sounds must have been the nurse coming to take Vincent into the operating room. Michael had stayed with him until about fifteen minutes before that, when Vincent had asked to have some time alone. Michael had thought Vincent wanted to pray; now he realized Vincent had wanted to make the tape.
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