Chapter Ten

Buffalo, NY, July 16th, one year ago

“Your time will come, Father Fucking Bonaventura!”

Leo sat up so fast his back barked in protest. For a moment he was in the Central American jungles again, a young priest filled with the fire of righteousness, facing off against evil. Then the remnants of his dream dissolved, leaving him back in the real world, surrounded by the sterile whiteness of his hospital room. A relic well past his prime, his remaining days dwindling fast.

Perhaps down to nothing.

He glanced at his watch. Just past four in the morning. He still had two hours before the nurses would come in to prep him for his stent surgery.

They won’t have to worry about waking me. I don’t think I’ll be going back to sleep tonight.

He’d been in Tapajo again, fighting to expel the demon haunting that poor boy. Why had his subconscious chosen to dredge up that particular event? It had been months since he’d even thought about what happened in that hut. And years – decades, really – since he’d suffered any nightmares about it.

Why now?

The question nagged at him. Most of the time dreams meant nothing; they were just the subconscious working through things. Had that been it? A manifestation of his fear that he’d die on the table?

Or one of those rare instances of something more?

Tapajo was a lifetime ago; since then, he’d done so much and seen things that would give anyone a lifetime of nightmares. Exorcisms, too many to count. Mostly simple cases of mental disorder, a scattered few actually involving the expulsion of an evil entity. Nothing on the scale of what he’d dealt with in Guatemala, but frightening nevertheless. Evil was evil. Even the lowest of the lesser demons made a potentially deadly foe if taken for granted. There’d been plenty of fakes, too, scam artists hoping to cash in on the popularity of books and movies like The Exorcist, The Amityville Horror, or The Hinsdale House.

And then there’d been the other things, the things no one could really explain. Or see. Ghosts. Poltergeists. Random supernatural happenings. He’d investigated many of them, disproved some of them, and developed a healthy respect for the ones that remained mysteries. Along the way he’d earned more than one letter of censure from Rome. Their official stance had always been a firm denial of ghosts or psychic phenomena or anything else that couldn’t be explained by science or the Bible.

Other than demons, of course.

This from an organization that worships a ghost and a zombie as parts of its Holy Trinity.

Over the years, the number of exorcisms – and the number of priests trained to perform them – had fallen and risen as the Church went through phases of traditional beliefs vs. more modern approaches. Spiritual and psychological schools of thought were always battling for supremacy.

Of course, some in the Vatican still steadfastly followed the old ways, the men who kept the records, trained the incoming exorcists, remembered their own encounters back when priests were really priests and not just psychiatrists with stiff collars. And it was only because of his relationships with those men, and the favors they owed each other, that he’d remained on as both teacher and exorcist long after he’d exceeded the usual retirement age.

But all good things must come to an end. And when that happens, you find yourself in a chair, napping in the sun until it’s time for lunch. Or lying in a hospital room waiting for a bunch of people you don’t know to stick a tube in your heart so it keeps working.

All so you can hopefully spend the next five years napping in your chair and slowly turning into a vegetable.

Leo rolled over on his side and let the cheap industrial pillow soak up his tears.

“Getting old sucks,” he whispered, using one of his students’ favorite words because it felt more appropriate than anything else he could think of.

The idea of going to Heaven no longer comforted him as it had in his youth. As much as he believed he’d be united with God and Jesus and his family on the other side, in a place of beauty and peace, the concept of death terrified him. He wasn’t ready to leave this world, and for the first time he understood why so many of the sick and injured fought so hard against it. He used to think they simply lacked true faith. Now he knew better.

It was fear.

“Your time will come, Father Fucking Bonaventura!”

A shiver skittered down Leo’s spine and his whole body twitched in response.

Was today his time? The way it had been Anibal’s?

Thoughts of death descended on him again, and he wiped away more tears. This time it wasn’t his own mortality that frightened him, but the idea of losing the ability to care for himself. To think.

When the nurses showed up two hours later and injected his first sedative of the morning, it was a relief to drift away.

Tijuana, Mexico, July 16th, one year ago

Rob Lockhart groaned in pain as blinding sunlight bathed his face.

“Tengo que ir.”

The girl’s voice emerged from somewhere within the supernova burning his retinas. He rolled over, turning his head away from the window. Another moan escaped him, this one born from his memory of what he’d done rather than the tequila-fueled jackhammers blasting away in his skull.

Ramona. Her name came with a picture of her face. Raven hair, eyes to match. Elfin features. She’d been standing on the corner of Coahuila Street when he’d stumbled out of the bar, his blood full of tequila and his heart filled with terrible desires. He’d truly intended to drink himself into oblivion so he couldn’t pursue his fantasies.

The moment he’d seen her, he’d succumbed to temptation.

He couldn’t help it. She’d reminded him too much of the others, the ones who’d haunted his nightmares for more than fifteen years. The ones who still waited out there somewhere.

“Cuánto cuesta?” he’d asked. How much? There’d been no doubt as to her profession. No one except whores, thieves, and drunks loitered in Tijuana’s red-light district at that time of night.

“Veinte dolares,” she’d replied, her eyes displaying more years than her true age, which Rob guessed at no more than fifteen. Not that he cared. She was both the reason he’d come to Tijuana and the reason he’d tried to drink himself into a stupor.

Hating himself to his very core, he’d handed over the money and led her to his hotel.

Now, five hours and another twenty dollars later, regret and self-loathing lay on his soul like twin hundred-pound weights.

“I must go,” Rosa repeated, this time using broken English. He sat up. She still stood by the window, her thin body glowing in the sunlight. Rob felt the demon lust awakening even as he understood she had posed just so to achieve her desired effect on him. He reached down and felt for his pants. Took out his wallet. Slightly more than a hundred dollars. If he spent it carefully….

He held up a twenty. Rosa smiled and climbed back into the bed.

In his mind, her body paled and her eyes turned a deep violet as he lost himself in his darkest desire.

Two hours later, Rob crossed the border from Tijuana to San Ysidro, California. At just past nine, very little was open in the border town, but he knew from experience the Jack in the Box just past the Greyhound bus station would be doing a lively business. He ended up parking a block away and even that short walk left him drenched in sweat and his head ready to burst. The smell of alcohol and sex clung to him, constant reminders of yet another fall from grace. In his rumpled, dusty clothes, he blended in perfectly with the day laborers, homeless, and fellow partakers of the red-light district’s less savory offerings. Waiting in line between a strung-out woman with two small children and a man in ragged clothes who stunk of old shit and piss, he silently said his morning prayers.

Ain’t Christianity the best? his subconscious whispered, while he mentally recited the Hail Mary. Defile your soul for what, the hundredth time? Two hundredth? But say a few imaginary invocations and all is forgiven. You’re a clean slate again.

Rob ignored the voice and moved on to the Our Father. He took a break from his devotions to order three breakfast tacos, French fries, and a soda, then repeated the cycle.

Food can’t fill the hole inside you, and all the showers in the world can’t wash away the stains on your soul.

As if he didn’t know that. He had an addiction, one far worse than drugs or alcohol.

Addict? You’re a pervert. The first step is admitting the problem.

“Shut up,” he mumbled around a mouthful of egg and hot sauce. “It’s a disease.”

He’d read that several years ago and latched on to it like a lifeline. A disease. Diseases could be cured. And as much as he hated to admit it, the only way to control it was to give in once in a while. Fall off the wagon, release the pressure building up inside. That didn’t make it right, and he feared he’d burn in Hell someday for all his transgressions, but it beat the alternative.

Rotting in a prison cell for the rest of his life.

He hoped that someday God would answer his prayers and rid him of the curse he’d carried since his teenage years. In the meantime, he’d make his periodic visits to Mexico, where what he needed might not be legal, but the authorities turned a blind eye to it.

Therapy provided by the Church hadn’t worked, and eventually they’d given up on him. But he hadn’t given up on himself. God would come to him, show him the way. He felt sure of it.

He just needed to figure out what kind of sacrifice the Lord wanted in return.

In the meantime, he had work to do.

He crumpled his garbage and tossed it into the bin. Outside, the dazzling sunlight jabbed tiny claws into his optic nerves and baked his skin as he walked back to his car. By the time he got back to the one-room apartment he called home these days, he was ready for a drink, his bed, and a few hours of sleep.

Then he could start planning the route for his next tour.

Hastings Mills, NY, July 16th, one year ago

Stone woke to bright, warm sunlight covering him like a blanket. He opened his eyes and frowned at the unfamiliar ceiling staring down at him before remembering he’d sacked out on the Rawlingses’ couch sometime after 4 a.m.

The smell of fresh-brewed coffee teased his nose, rousing him to full wakefulness. His back, stiff from the sagging cushions, protested as he got up, but he ignored the aches and headed into the kitchen, where Claudia was pouring a cup.

“God, I need one of those,” he said, inhaling the delicious aroma deep into his lungs. Claudia pointed at some empty mugs on the counter and sat down at the table, her eyes averted from his. Not a good sign. Either she was more upset from their conversation the previous night than he’d thought, or the presence in the house was really affecting her. He was about to ask when Randi joined them, her hair still shower wet and her t-shirt clinging tightly to her chest. Claudia glared and then looked away.

Or it’s option three.

“Jesus, is there anything better than fresh coffee in the morning?” Randi made hers the same way he remembered, light and sweet, and sat next to Claudia, who acknowledged her “Good morning” with the barest of nods. If Randi noticed her dark mood, she didn’t show it.

“So, what’s on the agenda for today?” Randi asked.

“Ken and I are heading into town to see about replacing the damaged equipment. Del and the twins are going to hit the grocery store. I was hoping you’d keep an eye on Abby, since she’s already comfortable with you.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Shari entered the kitchen, wearing the same scowl as her sister. She sat down and proceeded to sip from Claudia’s cup. A moment later, Abby wandered in and stared at him. Dark circles hung under her eyes and she held a stuffed bunny in her arms.

“When will you make the bad things go away?”

An uncharitable thought crossed Stone’s mind – Jesus, kid, I’m trying my best – and he had to bite his tongue. Claudia and Shari both shot angry looks his way. He put a hand on Abby’s shoulder and leaned over.

“We’re going to make the house safe for you and your dad. It’s just going to take a little while.”

“You promise?” she asked. Her voice quavered in a way that reminded him too much of Evan Michaels. A promise had been made to him, too, although not by Stone. A promise that in the end hadn’t been kept.

I hope to god it still haunts that goddamn priest as much as it does me.

“Cross my heart,” Stone said, making the motion across his chest and praying he wasn’t giving her false hope. She managed a weak smile that made him feel better and worse at the same time.

“Mr. Graves never lies.” Randi tossed him a ‘You better not screw this up’ look and took Abby’s hand. “Now, how about we make you some breakfast?”

“Okay, Ms. Z.,” she said, her face brightening.

Stone motioned at Claudia to follow him out into the hall but she averted her gaze.

With a sigh, he went to find Ken.