Chapter Thirty

Hastings Mills, NY, July 20th, one year ago

Corday Rose sat on the floor outside the cell holding Stone Graves and Randi Zimmerman, his thoughts spinning like a tornado from what they’d told him. He wanted to dismiss it all as bullshit but some of the facts brought back memories from years past.

The deaths at St. Alphonse. He was only a toddler at the time, but growing up he’d heard the rumors. And not just the college. His father had been friends with the previous police chief, Harry Showalter, and after a few beers he used to love telling young Corday and his sister some of the creepier stories Showalter and the other cops would share, back before Showalter disappeared the summer of the big earthquake.

“Whole area’s a little weird,” he said one time. “Witches, devil worshippers, alien hunters, people sayin’ they saw Bigfoot. I’ve seen some strange shit over the years. Something in the water. Or maybe just too many cousins sleepin’ together.”

Caitlyn Sweeney’s suicide. He should have remembered that, even if he didn’t work the case. But he hadn’t known her personally, and there’d been so many cases.

And now that Lockhart fellow had supposedly raised a demon. Two days ago, it would have seemed ridiculous. But with everything that had happened lately….

“Rose!”

The chief’s voice echoed down the stairs, accompanied by heavy footsteps. Corday jumped to his feet.

“Yes, sir?”

“You just up and left your own crime scene? What in hell were you thinking?”

Corday gave a silent curse. He’d hoped Mordecai wouldn’t find out until later, but someone must have radioed in from the motel.

“I, um, needed to follow up on something one of the, uh, suspects said.”

“Follow up? With these assholes?” Mordecai pointed at the cell. “What did your suspect say?”

“Well, it wasn’t so much what they said as what they wrote. On the wall. A single word. In Latin, I think, or maybe Greek. It reminded me of something the Rawlings girl said during the, uh, exorcism. And those people at the motel, performing a ceremony of some kind, I thought maybe—”

“You thought? You thought you had to run like a coward and leave your mess for someone else to clean up? I should fire you right now, but we’re already shorthanded. The whole damn town’s gone crazy. But you can bet your ass I’m writing you up and when this is all over there’ll be a hearing. I—”

“Chief Mordecai, I think you should listen to your officer.”

Mordecai turned at the new voice, and Corday stepped to the side to see who’d spoken.

An elderly man with fresh bruises on his arms and thick glasses perched at the end of a longish nose stood at the bottom of the stairs. Behind him lurked Robert Lockhart, who looked like he belonged in the drunk tank. Sweat stained his shirt and his hair was damp and tangled.

“Father Bonaventura?” Mordecai frowned. “What are you doing here?”

The old man gestured with a trembling hand.

“Praying to God I’m not too late to save this town.”

Chief Mordecai’s office hadn’t changed in the five years since the last time Leo had seen it, when he’d stopped in to bless a cross for the chief’s granddaughter’s first communion. Papers piled high on the desk and on shelves, the same stained coffee mug next to his phone, and so much grime on the windows they barely let in any light.

Someone had brought in extra chairs so that Leo, Lockhart, and the other officer, Corday Rose, could sit. The two paranormal investigators, Zimmerman and Graves, were there as well. Another officer stood by the door. Leo recognized Graves from TV. Something seemed off about him, an angry look in his eyes like he was just itching to start trouble.

Mordecai started things off by pointing at Lockhart. “You’re under arrest. Suspicion of murder. Leaving the scene of a crime. You have anything to say?”

Lockhart stared down at his hands and then glanced at Leo before answering.

“I did it. I killed that poor girl.”

“Son of a bitch!” Graves lunged at him but Officer Rose held him back.

“Satan controlled my hand, but the guilt lies on my soul. I deserve whatever punishment comes my way.”

“Don’t give me that Satan bullshit,” Graves shouted. “You’ve been obsessed with them for years. You’re a goddamn pedophile and a murderer.”

Lockhart shook his head. “My sins are many. And I will answer for them. But Abigail must be cleansed before the evil inside her spreads even farther.”

“Get this nut out of here.” Mordecai motioned to the officer by the door, who took Lockhart by the arm. As they left the room, Lockhart looked back.

“Please, all of you. Listen to Father Bonaventura. He’s faced this demon before. Only he can save you now.”

Mordecai waved his hand and Corday shut the door.

All eyes turned toward Father Bonaventura.

This was the moment he’d been dreading. In all his years with the Church, he’d never run afoul of the law before. Even in the few instances when there’d been injuries or deaths, like the house he’d cleansed for a famed husband-and-wife paranormal investigation team back in his early days at St. Alphonse. It had taken days to drive the evil spirit from that place. But the police had let him do what he needed, with a minimum of fuss.

These were different times. And Mordecai, although a devout Catholic, wasn’t the type of man to believe in demons.

Still, he had to try. Lives depended on it.

“Some of you here know me, others don’t. My name is Leo Bonaventura. I’m a retired priest and a professor emeritus at St. Alphonse, where I instructed theology and religion. I’m also an exorcist.”

“Former,” Mordecai said.

“There’s never a former when it comes to that.”

“Lockhart said you’ve faced this demon before. What did he mean?”

Leo pursed his lips at the Zimmerman woman’s question. Where should he start? The events on Fifth Dallas? Or the very beginning?

They need to know what they’re up against.

“We’re dealing with a demon named Asmodeus. And it killed a very good friend of mine.”

The Hastings Mills annual community yard sale was in full swing despite the heat. Hundreds of people had gathered in Riverside Park, most of them eager to part with a few dollars in the hopes of finding just the right knickknack for their shelf or that rare comic or piece of art at a steal. Others came out of desperation, unable to afford clothes or utensils anywhere else. Rows of tables filled the parking lot, with shoppers pressed nearly shoulder to shoulder as they browsed through mounds of clothing, outdated electronics, mildewed books and records, and rusty pocketknives for the proverbial diamond in the rough.

Wedged between a woman hawking pre-worn t-shirts and jeans, and a man selling music cassette tapes from the eighties, Ian Danziker froze in the act of handing someone change for the old St. Pauli Girl beer mugs they’d just purchased.

It’s time.

The voice was back. The same one that had been speaking inside his head since the night before. It had told him the most amazing things about Heaven and the afterlife. That the end of times was coming, and only he and eleven other chosen ones would ascend to Paradise.

Like the twelve apostles? he’d asked the voice.

Yes, it had told him. A picture had appeared with the words, a long table surrounded by fluffy clouds. Jesus sat at the midpoint, his robes glowing, his halo a brilliant gold. And next to him, Ian Danziker. Only a younger, healthier Ian, without a back stooped from decades of factory work and with hair that was brown and full again. Heavenly Ian smiled, his teeth as white as snow instead of yellowed by a lifetime of smoking.

Ian turned and walked away, leaving the confused customer with her twenty plus the fifteen in change. He picked up his pace as he exited the market area and left the crowd behind. Down the slope to the dikes that had been built to keep the park from flooding when the Allegheny River rose up each spring. From there, a two-minute walk brought him to the Fourth Street Bridge.

Along the way, seven men and women joined him. None of them spoke to him, and he remained quiet, his attention captured by the promise of eternal bliss.

The remaining four waited at the bridge. All of them wore identical smiles.

As one, they climbed over the guard rail and onto the cement lip of the bridge. Thirty feet below, slime-covered rocks sat exposed by the summer drought that had lowered the water level.

“Asmodeus suscitat,” Ian said.

“Asmodeus suscitat,” the others repeated.

Ian closed his eyes. Jesus waved to come and join him.

Twelve people stepped off the edge.

The furniture in the Rawlingses’ living room dropped to the floor with a tremendous crash. The same sound repeated upstairs, in Abigail’s bedroom. In the kitchen, Curt jumped and dropped his cup, which by then was more whiskey than coffee.

A deep, rough voice bellowed from upstairs.

“Father.”

Curt gripped the edge of the sink. He could still hear something of Abby in the bestial tones.

“Father. Come to me.”

Every fiber of his being screamed at him to ignore the command, to run for help. Yet his feet moved him toward the stairs. He clung to the banister with both hands as he began climbing the steps.

“Yesssss. Come.”

The guttural voice urged him on, becoming more insistent the closer he got to the top. When he stepped into the upstairs hall, Abby’s bedroom door swung open. A fetid odor wafted out and Curt’s whiskey-laced coffee came up in a massive eruption that splattered across his shoes.

“Come to me.”

Trailing puke, he made his way down the hall. When he reached Abby’s room, he wanted to scream but only a whimper came out.

She sat cross-legged in the air a foot above her bed. Her pajama top was gone, revealing a body so emaciated her ribs stood out clearly beneath her skin. Fiery red welts and purple bruises covered her flesh, some in the shape of massive hands, others depicting crude symbols he couldn’t identify. Greenish-yellow fluids dripped from her nose and mouth, and more of it stained the sheets and walls.

The temperature in the room felt at least twenty degrees warmer than the rest of the house and Abby’s sweat-soaked hair lay plastered to her neck and shoulders.

Abby’s mouth opened and gobs of slime oozed out. When she spoke, the stench grew unbearable, forcing Curt to cover his face with his arm.

“Tell the priest.” She pointed at the ceiling. He looked up and watched as smoking letters formed in the paint.

Asmodeus suscitat.

The symbols on Abby’s body shifted, blending together and then reforming into crude representations of wild beasts with fangs and horns.

“Go!” she roared.

Curt turned and ran.

The door to Mordecai’s office banged open. The chief looked up, ready to chew someone a new asshole for barging in, but the desk officer didn’t give him a chance.

“Chief! We’ve got an emergency at the park! A whole bunch of people dead in the river.”

“Shit! Send all units there now!” He headed for the door. When Officer Rose tried to follow, Mordecai held up his hand. “Not you, Rose. You wanted these nutjobs let loose, well, they’re your responsibility now. You’re with them, twenty-four seven. Anything happens, it’s on you.”

Mordecai ran down the hall to the bullpen, shouting orders as he went. A moment later, sirens wailed and then faded as five cruisers left the parking lot.

All eyes turned toward Stone. He looked back at them.

“Okay, let’s do this.”

Ken Webb leaped up as the back door of the van flew open and a wild-eyed Curt Rawlings jumped inside. “We have to get the priest!”

“Jesus Christ!” Ken grabbed his pants and held them in front of his crotch. Del crossed his legs and pulled a shirt over himself. “What the hell, man?”

“Abby. That thing. It spoke to me. We have to go.”

“What?” Del tapped at the keyboard while Ken got dressed. The monitor showed her on her bed, masturbating inside her pajama bottoms while an invisible hand slapped her head back and forth. Del rewound the file to when Curt entered her room. When Abby/the demon shouted for Curt to go, Del hit the stop button and turned around.

“We don’t know where Lockhart is.”

“Then find him!” Curt said. “Before it kills my daughter.”

—Claudia. You have to wake up.—

Shari’s voice in the darkness. A sob rose up in Claudia’s nonexistent throat. She couldn’t see her sister. Would never see her again.

—No. There’s nothing left for me.—

—They need you, sister.—

—I don’t care.— Claudia shook her head. All she wanted to do was die. Then she’d be together with Shari again.

—Please. You can help them. We can help them.—

—No.—

—Claudia—

—NO!—

In her hospital bed, Claudia thrashed and moaned. Her EKG sounded an alarm. One of the floor nurses rushed in and checked the numbers.

“Call Dr. Ronsen!”