After half an hour of being grilled, Michael managed to convince Gabe to put Randa and Jack in adjoining rooms at the end of the hall so they could get some rest. Now the two priests sat in the dimly lit library, going over it all again.
“What makes you so sure it’s demonic?” Gabe asked.
“Because of what I learned about Vincent’s past. The family curse. Jack and I are the only ones left and we’re the ones who are going through this insanity.”
“That’s not definitive.”
“And because I feel it.”
Gabe smiled. “Have you explained your ‘feelings’ to a psychiatrist?”
Michael looked down at his hands. How could he cut through this crap? He felt sure there was no time to waste.
“No,” he admitted.
“I strongly suggest you start there,” Gabe said. “And the diocese is going to require it anyway.”
Michael shook his head. “Look, I don’t expect you to understand feelings, since you don’t have any, but I’m right about this.”
“Maybe you are. But you need to go through the proper channels to find out.”
Michael leaned down to look Gabe squarely in the eyes.
“I know there’s a human being in there somewhere,” Michael said, “and I really need to talk to him.”
Gabe shrugged. “I’m listening.”
“I tried the ‘proper channels’ last time. It took months, and in the end, we were denied permission anyway. And three people ended up dead because we wasted all that time. This . . . thing . . . that is attached to my bloodline, it doesn’t just destroy the people it possesses. It takes out as many innocent bystanders as it can along the way. The body count is already high. If you don’t help me, you will have blood on your hands, I promise you.”
“This is not a minor favor you’re asking.”
“I know that.”
“Okay, regarding my feelings? I feel like I don’t want to go back to Syria.”
“No one will know.”
Gabe sighed; actually thought about it for a moment.
“Have you ever had any dealings with the demonic before?” Michael asked.
“Aside from my superiors, you mean?”
“The real thing,” Michael specified.
To his surprise, Gabe nodded.
“I assisted in an exorcism. Once. A long time ago, in Baghdad. A fifteen-year-old girl who swore she was Ishtar.”
“Did it end well?”
“Not for Ishtar,” he said.
“So you know.”
Gabe nodded somberly.
“Is that why you don’t want to do it?”
“No. I told you the truth. I don’t want to end up in trouble. As meaningless and unrewarding punitive jobs go, I actually like this one.”
“You were ordained before 1972. So you were ordained an exorcist, just as I was.”
“And if, like last time, my superior asked me to be involved in an exorcism, I would not hesitate. But that is not what is happening.”
“We both know you have no respect for your superiors.”
“Respect is irrelevant. I took a vow of obedience.”
This was not going to work, Michael realized. He moved to the sofa and sat next to Gabe to underscore the importance of what he was about to reveal.
“You leave me no choice but to tell you the truth about Vincent, and it’s not pretty.”
Gabe nodded for Michael to continue, and he did. He spared no detail of the entire sordid mess. Gabe remained stoic, for the most part, but Michael noticed something shift in his eyes. By the time Michael was done, Gabe understood the full depth of Michael’s request.
“I suspect,” Michael concluded, “that Vincent asked me to bring those books here so that we would meet. I also suspect he didn’t believe I could do this by myself.”
Michael expected Gabe to concur, but he didn’t. He remained quiet, thinking about it.
“I do realize what I’m asking of you,” Michael said. It was true. He now knew well the weight of a broken vow. “But if no one has ordered you not to be involved, you have merely committed the sin of failing to ask permission. It’s not the same thing.”
“You’re going to lecture me on obedience?” Gabe asked.
“You would hear a dying man’s confession if you didn’t have faculties to hear confessions in that diocese, wouldn’t you? Because his soul would be at stake. How is this different?”
Gabe took it all in. Thought about it for a long moment.
“All right,” he said quietly.
Without further comment, Gabe left the library and headed for the stairs.
“Where are you going?” Michael asked.
“To get ready,” Gabe said, without looking back.
Gabe was waiting in the hallway, dressed in his cassock and a surplice, with a purple stole around his neck, when Michael came down the stairs. When Gabe handed him a stole, he kissed it and put it around his neck.
Gabe had prepared the room and Michael could see Jack already lying on the bed, arms and legs strapped to the mattress frame.
“I’m sorry about the straps,” Michael said.
Jack shook his head. “Don’t be. Make sure they’re tight.”
Michael looked at Randa. “Are you okay?”
Randa nodded. “Father Novak said I could stay.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” Randa said. “I’ll stay out of your way, but I don’t want to leave Jack.”
Michael nodded. Out in the hallway, he could see Gabe motioning for him to come there. He excused himself.
“I want you to hear my confession,” Gabe said, “and vice versa.”
Oh, hell.
Of course Gabe was going to say that. Michael gave himself a mental kick for not anticipating it. Now what was he going to do?
They went to the library. Confession had never bothered Michael in the least, even if he knew the other priest. But he hadn’t been since he’d met Tess. And the last person on earth he wanted to tell was the guy who was about to hear his confession.
Just do it. Leave Tess out.
That was it. He had no other choice. He’d deal with that later.
Once he’d made the decision, it was relatively painless. No surprises, except that Gabe actually admitted to pride. A sprinkling of sins against charity, some anger, some envy, the occasional impure thought. All routine stuff. Then Acts of Contrition, Hail Marys, absolutions, good to go.
Outside Jack’s door, they ran through the plan like a rock band going through a set list. Holy water. Litany of the Saints. Our Father. Psalm Fifty-Three. Gospel readings. And then . . .
They began. Jack showed no reaction to the holy water. They knelt and began the Litany of Saints, which Gabe had insisted they chant in Latin, so Michael made him take the lead. He didn’t mind. The chanting calmed him, and Gabe had a pleasant voice. But if his friends could see him now . . .
“ . . . Kyrie eleison . . . Spiritus Sancte Deus . . . Sancta Maria . . . Ora pro nobis . . .”
The room remained calm through an hour of prayers. Jack kept his eyes closed and did not move. There was no smell, no heavy feeling, no voices in Michael’s head. He began to doubt himself. He’d never seen any sign that Jack was possessed. He’d assumed it because of the blackouts Randa had described and the story of Vincent’s demon. He was the one who had experienced the voices, the nausea, the presence. Maybe the wrong person was lying on the bed?
There was a rustle as Jack shifted his body weight to face the priests. His eyes were open now and, as Michael watched, his mouth twisted into a strange smile.
“You’ll get your turn, Padre.”
The putrid odor started to fill the room. Michael and Gabe exchanged a glance: an unspoken “Here we go.” Michael continued the prayer.
“God of Heaven and Earth, God of the angels and archangels, God of the prophets and apostles, God of the martyrs and virgins—”
This prompted a howl of laughter that clearly did not belong to Jack. It was tangible. Michael could feel it on his skin. Randa was staring at Jack, wide-eyed.
“Virgins!” The demon laughed with delight. His eyes were fixed on Michael. “What do you know about virgins?” He laughed again, and then slowly turned his head toward Gabe.
“And what have we here? If it isn’t the high priest Caiaphas.”
Gabe didn’t look up from his book. Michael picked up the prayer again and mumbled it to its conclusion.
“You’re wasting your energy, Padre,” the demon said, suddenly. “You can’t put out the fire from inside the burning building.”
“By the authority of Jesus, I command you,” Michael said. “To what name will you answer?”
“You know my name,” Jack said. He chuckled. “You need to learn your own name.”
The air was heavy. It felt like a living thing. The odor had intensified; it smelled like an open garbage can on a hot summer day. Michael stopped and took a couple of slow breaths, trying to brace himself for the presence. Randa recoiled and steadied herself against a dresser. Gabe remained unfazed.
“Mi casa es tu casa, Padre,” the demon said. “Salsipuedes.”
“Digame tu nombre,” Michael demanded.
“No,” Jack said, grinning.
“Tu nombre,” Michael repeated.
“No te acuerdas de mi?” Jack asked, the grin widening.
“You will obey me,” Michael said, “by the—” He stopped. The pressure in the air had grown much worse in an instant, bearing down on him. A pain shot through his head. It took his breath and he couldn’t speak. He shot a look at Gabe, who took the baton.
“Quod nomen est tibi?” Gabe asked the demon.
“Ana-Sin-Emid,” the demon answered, laughing.
“Quod nomen est tibi?”
“Naramsin,” the demon said, and then cackled again.
Michael had recovered enough to speak. “What was that?” he asked.
“Ancient Babylonian names. Ana-Sin-Emid means ‘I trust in sin’ and Naramsin means ‘he who exalts sin.’ He’s playing with me.”
Gabe returned his attention to the demon. “Quod nomen est tibi?”
The demon issued a deep-throated growl in Gabe’s direction, followed by:
“Father Brilliance. Proud of that IQ, aren’t you? So what? Every single thing He gave you is meaningless.” He laughed heartily and then continued: “When you die, you will have had no effect on the world. The Jesuits did my work for me.”
Without taking his eyes off Jack, Michael groped on the nightstand and found a crucifix. He grasped it tightly and held it up to face the demon.
“Quod nomen est tibi?” he demanded.
“Yes, I know. You can speak Latin, too.”
A sound filled the room. A gruesome symphony—thousands of voices at once, all screaming in utter agony. Souls in complete despair. The demon was opening a window of their prison, allowing the sound and the feeling to reach out and grab all of them.
Michael lifted the crucifix and held it over Jack. He was trying to speak, but could not. Jack’s smile turned into an equally hideous frown. He stared at the crucifix with a look of pure hatred. A low and inhuman groan came from somewhere deep in his throat. At the same time, something in the air broke loose, and the pain and the sounds started to fade. Soon they were gone entirely. The only sound in the room was that of Randa and the priests trying to catch their breath.
Suddenly the demon spoke again. “Put . . . it . . . down . . . you . . . bastard . . .”
The voice was different now. Grating. Each word seemed to take an enormous effort.
“He . . . doesn’t . . . control . . . me . . .”
“He cast you and all like you into the pit,” Michael said. “And by His power I command you to return.”
“I . . . am . . . not . . . stained . . .” The demon’s voice was getting stronger. “. . . by . . . his stinking blood.”
“You are not saved by His blood,” Michael said. The thing growled again.
“You don’t know him!” the demon spat, his words now coming fast and sharp. “You know lies! He was no one!”
“Then why hate Him?”
“Because, you useless pig! He gets power from you brain-dead slime and your fairy tales! He had no power until you gave it to him! He was no one! You don’t see the most obvious thing.”
Michael didn’t respond for a moment and Gabe jumped in.
“Lord, hear my prayer.”
“And let my cry be heard by you.”
“You weak shit!” the demon spat at Michael. “Your bread is bread and your wine is wine and nobody is going to save your ass! You’re going to stand in front of the same wrath I did, and you’re going to get the same amount of mercy!”
“Our Father,” Gabe began, and Michael and Randa quickly joined in. When they finished, Gabe picked up the prayers again.
“God . . . it is an attribute of Yours to have mercy and to forgive . . . Hear our prayer, so that this servant of Yours—”
“You’re not a skillful confessor, Father Holy Pants. Padre Pio would have known.”
Gabe kept praying as Michael could feel his stomach constrict. He hadn’t remembered that the demon would blurt out his unconfessed sins.
“He forgot to mention the leggy redhead in New York. He goes up there every other week for . . . spiritual direction.”
Gabe stopped praying and looked at Michael.
Demons lie. Don’t believe it.
Gabe knew. He might not be Padre Pio, but he’d looked up too quickly for Michael to lose his shocked expression. He handed his Roman Ritual to Randa.
“Hold my place,” he said.
Jack’s eyes were closed and he appeared to be asleep. Gabe headed into the hallway and Michael followed him, feeling like he was being called to the principal’s office.
“You have a girlfriend ?” Gabe barked.
“You’re going to believe a demon?”
“Absolutely not,” Gabe said. “I want to hear it from you.”
Michael was trapped. To buy some time, he made his way to the library. Gabe followed on his heels.
“Yes,” Michael said, figuring simplicity was his best defense.
“And you think you can confess, not mention the girlfriend, have me think I’ve absolved you, and then go exorcise a demon?”
“I don’t want to make any major life decisions until this is over.”
“You already made a major life decision that precludes this one. Are you deranged?”
“No. I’m counting on God to be more merciful than you.”
“That’s not mercy you’re asking for; it’s cheap grace. See Bonheoffer. There’s a copy of The Cost of Discipleship in the library.”
“Do you possess an ounce of compassion?”
“Michael, mercy is meaningless without justice. What you are doing is lying and inviting God to share in your lie. You’re asking God to un-God Himself—to give up righteousness so as to approve of your moral cowardice!”
Michael knew, in some recess of his soul, that Gabe was right. But there was nothing he could do about it now, and they certainly couldn’t stop in the middle of an exorcism.
“We have to get back—”
“No,” Gabe said. “I’m not playing your game. Pick up the phone now and break up with her now, and mean it now, and then I’ll absolve you and then we’ll go back in there.”
“I’m not going to break up with her on the phone.”
It seemed like a no-brainer to Michael, but Gabe’s face turned a darker shade of red.
“You’re not an idiot. How can you believe in the Devil and think you won’t end up in Hell for breaking a vow you made to God ?”
“Gabe, you’re a dinosaur,” Michael bemoaned. “No one believes what you believe anymore.”
“The truth doesn’t become untrue because it’s no longer popular!” Gabe snapped. “And the fact that it doesn’t make any sense to you, or to me or to anyone else, is completely irrelevant to God.”
Randa appeared in the doorway, for which Michael wanted to hug her.
“I’m sorry for interrupting,” she said, “but he’s asleep now.”
“Good,” Michael said. “We could all use a break.”
They sat at the dining room table and picked at the pizza they’d ordered. No one was hungry but they knew they needed to keep up their strength. Gabe had barely spoken at all for the last hour. Thankfully Randa was taking up the slack, mostly with theological questions. Michael was sure his answers were driving Gabe insane.
“If God is so good,” Randa asked, “why would He allow demons to exist? Or any evil, for that matter?”
“Ask him,” Gabe said, nodding to Michael. “I’m not a sound bite guy.”
“But you’re the scholar,” Michael said.
“Okay, Adam and Eve,” Randa said. She looked at Gabe. “Explain to me how everyone on earth came from two people and we’re all being punished because of an apple and a talking snake.”
“For starters, in Hebrew the story is not about Adam and Eve but ‘the man’ and ‘the woman.’ Eve isn’t named as such until the story is over and Adam is just ‘the man’ until chapter four. Secondly, the account is ‘prephilosophical.’ It wasn’t written in the categories of Greek metaphysics, which didn’t exist when it was written.”
Randa put up a hand to stop him. “I’m not a scholar. Can you give it to me in crayon?”
Gabe tried again. “The story sets out the key points: that the human race has a single origin, divinely intended. That the man was endowed with rationality and free will, which he could have used righteously or unrighteously; that he used it unrighteously; that the consequences remain with us. It all sounds like bad Bronze Age mythology because the philosophical essay format had not been invented. And to dismiss it as ‘mythic’ is to make the same kind of mistake that a nine-year-old makes in criticizing the design of a chess set because real knights don’t look like that. The Biblical account uses narrative categories to express distinctions of moral and metaphysical significance, rather than bio-anthropological generation.”
“My head hurts,” Randa said.
Michael had to admit to himself anyway that it was an impressive analogy.
“So if it’s not meant to be taken literally, but it’s also not meant to be taken as a myth, what does that leave?” Randa asked.
“The truth,” Gabe said, without missing a beat. And then he busied himself with clearing the table. When he had gone into the kitchen, Michael smiled at Randa.
“He’s what people call an ‘old school’ Jesuit. Luckily there aren’t many left.”
“Is the fact that you two hate each other going to make this fail?”
“No,” Michael answered, though he knew it wasn’t going to help.
Gabe returned from the kitchen just as they were interrupted by the sound of moaning coming from Jack’s room.
“We should get back to it,” Michael said.
“If you go back in there,” Gabe said, “you deserve whatever happens to you.” With that, he left the room.
“What is he talking about?” Randa asked Michael.
“Nothing relevant,” Michael said.
“He’s leaving? I thought there had to be two of you.”
“He’s just taking a break,” Michael assured her. “We’ll be okay.”
Back in the room, they found Jack awake, but clearly not present. The demon glared at them, full of hate. The room was so cold they could see their breath, and filled with the now familiar rancid odor. Randa went to her corner. Michael picked up his stole, kissed it and put it around his neck, then picked up his book and found his place.
“I’ll start where we left off,” he told Randa, as if that made a difference to her.
“Alone again, Padre?” the demon asked with a sneering smile. Michael ignored him and resumed the prayers.
“You who made man in Your own image . . .”
“What are you going to do? Cast me out by boring me to death?”
“Look on this Your servant, Jackson Landry, who is assaulted by the cunning of the unclean spirit . . .”
“The primeval adversary,” the demon said, mockingly. “The ancient Enemy of earth . . . Enemy of the faith . . . Enemy of the human race . . . Best Supporting Enemy in a Recurring Role . . . and let’s not forget Most Likely to Succeed. Is this it? Is this the best you’ve got to throw at me? Name-calling by a fraud in a clown suit?”
Michael looked up. Weighed it. Anything the demon could be tricked into revealing about himself could be used to trap him later. It was worth the digression.
“Okay,” Michael said. “Why don’t you tell me who you are.”
“You know who I am.”
“I don’t know your name.”
“And you think I might be stupid enough to tell you?”
“Are you the only one?” Michael asked, trying a different approach.
“Oh, Padre. We are legion. You know that.”
“Are you the only one possessing Jack?”
“It’s all the same, you fool.”
“What’s the same?” Michael asked. He glanced at Randa. She was watching, riveted.
“Tell you what,” said the demon. “You want to know who I am? Who we are? Why don’t I give you our résumé?”
Something happened. It was as if Michael’s mind suddenly became a projection screen and someone flipped a switch to roll the film. He was bombarded by a series of images. Pictures of horror and death. The nightly news without network mercy. He saw starving children with distended stomachs; skeletal bodies of AIDS victims; people hemorrhaging from the Ebola virus, their internal organs exploding like grenades. Natural disasters. Earthquakes, landslides, floods, fires, blizzards, droughts, hurricanes, tsunamis, tornadoes. Concentration camps: men lined up for the showers; children being wrenched from the arms of sobbing mothers and thrown against concrete walls. War-ravaged cities. Wailing children running naked through the shells of bombed-out buildings. Derailed freight cars spewing toxic fumes, poison gas in crowded subways, fourteen-year-olds with Uzis gunning each other down in the streets, suicide bombers driving cars full of dynamite into mosques, hypodermic needles washing up on pristine beaches, rescue dogs sniffing through the rubble of a daycare center that had been blown to bits by fertilizer and diesel fuel mixed with blind rage and raw hatred—the stench of death and destruction and waste and hopelessness. The putrid underbelly of God’s allegedly glorious creation. Everything behind the façade.
And then the reel changed, and Michael began to see a montage of mankind’s pitiful attempts at defense and protection. Labels on soup cans, airbags in cars, BABY ON BOARD signs, alarm systems, security gates, Mace canisters, the surgeon general’s warnings, air-popped popcorn, turkey hot dogs, consumer reports, smoke detectors, antiradiation computer screens, earthquake kits, tornado warnings, flash-flood watches, iron lungs, organ transplants, bottled water, nonfat ice cream, rosaries hanging from rearview mirrors, plastic Jesuses on the dash . . .
Pathetic, Michael realized. All our little safeguards and superstitions. Trying to fool ourselves into thinking we have any kind of control. We’re the South in the Civil War—too proud to admit we are greatly outnumbered, poorly armed, and rapidly depleting our meager resources. Left with nothing but shame and humiliation, and the war-torn ruins of our souls.
“Where’s Jesus, Padre? Conjure Him up and let Him explain why I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong because you don’t know anything but lies,” Michael said. It was a third-grade reflex. Nothing more.
“Who told you that? The Caped Crusader? Tell me, if God created everything, wouldn’t that make Him the Father of All Lies?”
Before Michael could figure out how to answer, the demon was off on a new track.
“You want me to set you straight about Junior? It’s a very simple story. He looked different. The whole world is in an uproar two thousand years later because he was taller than the average first-century Palestinian Jew. Because his hair was lighter than everyone else’s and his eyes were blue. A fluke of nature, like a white buffalo calf. It had to mean something. He looked different, so he had to be divine. If he’d been just another scruffy little Jew, no one would know his name by now.”
“Did they kill Him for having blue eyes?”
“They killed him for being a self-righteous prick.”
Don’t listen. It’s a lie.
“Is it, Padre? Then where is He? I’m here. You’re here. Where’s Superman?”
Michael opened his mouth to speak and realized he had nothing to say. Randa was staring at him, worried.
“In fact,” the demon went on, “where has He been all these years? Where was He when your precious grandfather was raping a thirteen-year-old girl and she was screaming for His help? Where was He when your mother’s brains were splattered all over Peachtree Street? Or when Tallen Landry used the Christmas Eve congregation for target practice?” He took a break to laugh, then went on. “I got one even better. Where was He the night you dumped Donna Padera?” He laughed. “You and your famous ego. You thought she was so upset because she couldn’t stand the thought of living without you. You might have suspected something if you’d ever bothered to know her any better.”
“What are you talking about?” Michael asked. How the hell had Donna Padera gotten into the act?
“Poor Donna. Your first victim. Believed everything you told her. Fine upstanding Catholic boy from a good home, with a rich and famous saint for a grandfather. If Michael Kinney said it wasn’t a sin, then by God, it wasn’t a sin. Let’s see . . . first it wasn’t a sin to jerk you off, because that wasn’t really sex. Then it wasn’t a sin for her to give you a blow job, because it wasn’t a sin unless she could get pregnant from it. And then my favorite part. ‘We might as well go all the way because if God’s going to be mad at us, He’s already mad.’ ” He stopped to laugh. Then stopped laughing. “She didn’t want to do any of it, but she wasn’t about to lose her prize-catch rich Catholic boy. And you knew it. You used it. You used her. Now, tell me. How is that so different from what your grandfather did?”
Michael felt himself reeling. He’d been ready for attacks on his sex life, but it had never occurred to him the bastard would start with high school. He’d made a big mistake by talking to the demon in the first place. He’d broken the cardinal rule of exorcism, and now he was paying for it. He was no longer in control.
He opened the book again and looked for his place.
“Oh, no,” the demon said. “We’re not finished. You haven’t told me where your friend was the night you dumped Donna. And I haven’t told you why she was so upset that night. You’re so vain, you thought it was about losing you.”
Michael told himself not to listen to whatever lie the demon was in the process of making up.
“On the one hand, I was sorry to lose another generation of Kinneys to torment. On the other hand, you owed me a sacrifice.”
What is he talking about?
“Your son,” the demon said with a wide grin. “You dumped Donna the day she found out she was pregnant.”
Michael stopped breathing.
That can’t possibly be true.
“Oh, but I’m afraid it is. She didn’t tell you because she didn’t want to stand in the way of your hallowed calling. She spent a lot of time calling on His Majesty about it, but I guess He was too busy to weigh in.” He chuckled. “So she did the easy thing and made it go away. She thought that would be the end of it. They always do.”
Michael couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move.
“And where were you, for that matter?” He snarled. “Trotting off to show the world how holy you were. You’re about as holy as I am. You’re a murderer, from a long line of murderers! And you call me unclean? You’re gonna cast me out? I’ve got a news bulletin for you about what’s waiting for you on the other end of your leaky raft!”
Michael forced his legs to move and walked out of the room. Behind him, the demon was laughing hysterically.
He put the book down on a hall table. His hands were shaking. It couldn’t be true. Donna would have told him. Surely she would have told him. He might not have ever been in love with her, but they’d always told each other everything. There was no way she wouldn’t have told him.
Randa appeared behind him. “Michael?”
“I’m okay,” he said. He took a deep breath. “I need a break. I need to go and do something. Why don’t you try to rest, and I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“Okay,” she said, clearly puzzled.
“Just don’t talk to him. Go take a nap and leave him alone.”
She nodded. He felt bad about leaving her, but he had to. He couldn’t go on with this until he knew the truth.