Chapter Five

“Open wide.”

Father Peter flashed a light down Quentin’s throat. “Mhm. Mhmmmm.”

He pulled down Quentin’s lower eyelids and stared at his eyes with a magnifying glass.

“I see,” said Father Peter. He tapped each of Quentin’s knees with the magnifying glass, causing his leg to straighten up. “Reflexes look good,” he said. Quentin couldn’t help but question the priest’s methods.

Edward, Stanley, and Isidora stood back, watching the examination, keeping an eye out for the old man. Isidora, smoking her seventh cigarette since entering the apartment, passed it to Edward, who then passed it to Stanley.

“It helps with me nerves,” Stanley explained before Isidora could question him on the habit.

“I wasn’t going to say anything.”

Father Peter pulled out a syringe and plunged it into Quentin’s neck. Quentin shut his eyes and pursed his lips as Father Peter drained a dark fluid out of the handprint the old man had left. The mark on Quentin’s neck faded away.

“Ahh, much better,” said Father Peter.

The priest reached into his bag and pulled out what looked like a cocktail shaker. He poured the liquid from the syringe into the shaker and shook it over one shoulder, flipped it behind his back with one hand and caught it with the other. He took a glass out of his toolbox and poured the liquid content of the shaker, which had turned pink, into it, filtering the ice out with two strainers.

“Drink this,” said Father Peter. “The demon’s evil fluid has been mixed in with one ounce of holy water, one ounce of lemon juice, one ounce of simple syrup, and two ounces of gin. It’s a bit like a vaccine; it will strengthen your immune system against future hauntings.”

Quentin looked at Edward, who shrugged and nodded. Stanley gave him two thumbs up. He chugged the drink in a few seconds and high fived Father Peter upon emptying the glass.

“That might be a new record,” said Father Peter.

“So that’s it, then? No more old man?” asked Quentin.

“Oh, no, we’re just getting started. That probably just made him violently angry. But the good news is, you’re not exactly possessed. He just sort of latched himself onto you, so this should be relatively painless.” Father Peter stood up and looked around the flat. “The problem is, we have to find him. What normally brings him out?”

Stanley raced over to Father Peter and kicked him in the shin. “That should do it,” said Stanley.

“Atta boy!” said Edward.

Rachmaninoff’s prelude in C# minor began to resonate from the walls of the flat. The lights flickered, until they all went out.

“That’s way too spooky,” said Father Peter. “We can’t let him set the scene. Can someone put some music on?”

Quentin took out his phone, which was connected to the sound system, and hit shuffle. Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” came on.

“Funny coincidence,” Quentin said.

“My friend,” said Father Peter, taking a copy of the Bible out of his toolbox. “There are no such things as coincidences. That—” the priest pulled out a thurible and waved it around, and burning incense filled the room with smoke, “—was fate.”

Father Peter tossed his jacket on the ground and rolled up his black sleeves.

“Naughty children must be punished!”

The old man appeared behind Stanley, snatched the cigarette out of the boy’s mouth and pressed the burning end to the flesh of the boy’s inner forearm.

“Bad child! Nasty child!” said the old man, as Stanley bit his lip and blinked back tears.

Isidora slapped the cigarette away from Stanley’s arm like she was swatting a bee. It fell to the ground, still burning.

The old man shook his fist in her face. “Know your place, woman,” he growled.

“A demon and a sexist,” she observed. “Lovely.”

The old man leaned close to Isidora and licked her behind the ear with a tongue as cold as an icicle. She shuddered from the misty, freezing sensation of his tongue touching her skin and gagged as she caught a whiff of his foul breath.

Father Peter cleared his throat. “If I could have just a minute of your time, I’d like to tell you about our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ.”

The old man screeched. He dove through the air towards Father Peter, his dark mouth wide open. Father Peter held up a cross.

“You think a stick can stop me, useless servant of God?” hissed the old man.

“Well, I’ve sharpened the bottom of it.” He stabbed the old man in the back of the throat with the cross.

“Did you learn to do that in prison?” asked Quentin.

“Yes,” said Father Peter.

The old man cowered briefly, then sank his rotten teeth into the priest’s arm. Father Peter smacked him on the head with the Bible and freed himself.

“All right, you might want to take a few steps back, I’m going to open the gates of Hell soon,” said Father Peter.

Isidora pulled Stanley back. Edward stayed put, so she yanked him back, too.

“Oh, hold up!” Father Peter took out some sheets of paper from his toolbox and handed them out to everyone. “We can all say the prayer together.”

The four moaned.

“Oh, come on, guys, is church that boring?” asked Father Peter.

They nodded.

“Well, it isn’t when I’m celebrating Mass,” he said as he stabbed the old man in each of his eyes a couple times.

“All together now!” said Father Peter, starting the exorcism prayer. “In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen.”

“Boring,” said Stanley.

The old man giggled evilly. “You see, Father? He’s a naughty child, very disrespectful. He should be punished.”

Father Peter stabbed the old man in the ear with the cross. “We drive you from us, whoever you may be, unclean old man.”

“He seemed clean at first,” said Isidora, embarrassed by her initial assessment.

“It’s time for you to fuck off back to Hell now.” Father Peter reached into his toolbox and pulled out a paintball rifle loaded with capsules full of holy water.

“God the Father commands you!”

Holding the gun with one hand, Father Peter shot the old man in the stomach. The old man hissed an old Aramaic curse word and clutched his abdomen.

“God the son commands you!”

Father Peter shot him in the hip, and the old man dropped to his knees.

“God the Holy Ghost commands you!”

Father Peter shot him in the chest, and the old man collapsed to the ground like a fall-down drunk. The priest walked over to the wheezing old man, who held up his hand defensively.

“Is this the part where you expect me to beg for mercy?” he growled, an acidic green substance oozing out of his wounds. The smell of sulphur in the apartment grew even stronger.

Father Peter pointed the gun between the old man’s eyes. “Begone, old man!”

Father Peter shot him down. Holy Water drenched the demon and his facial muscles began to contort. A tremor followed that shook the floor beneath their feet and the sound of thunder boomed throughout the apartment. The floorboards directly under the old man began to smoulder and break apart. A dark, seemingly bottomless pit below the old man opened up. He levitated, grasped at the air and kicked around as if he were trying to keep from falling into the abyss. The sweltering heat of a thousand furnaces filled the room. A musky, sweet aroma combined with a coppery, metallic smell overwhelmed the sulphurous odour. Cries of terror and agony echoed from the void.

“Smells like burning bodies,” Quentin remarked.

“How do you know what a burning body smells like?” asked Isidora. He looked at her, winked, and did not provide an answer.

From the shadowy void sprang black tentacles oozing with green acid. They slowly wrapped around the old man’s body, like a snake with its prey, and dragged him down to Hell. The hole shut tight and the lights came on.

“That was brilliant!” said Stanley. “The old man got eaten by an alien. And the priest was like a cowboy in an American Western.”

Who could ever want to punish this kid? thought Father Peter, as Stanley limped over to the fridge and cracked open another can of beer for himself.

* * *

Darcy invited Dalton over for dinner nearly every day, but he typically refused, claiming he had to focus on his work. However, after another day went by without finding the right candidates for his experiment, and with mounting pressure from stakeholders and lobbyists demanding that the government pass a bill to render his experiment illegal, he was ready to take a moment to get his mind off the afterlife.

He sat at the kitchen table with his twin sister and his ex-boyfriend. Karl looked disgusted by the steak and kidney pie at the table. Typical Karl, nothing is ever good enough for him, Dalton thought. He reached for a bottle of cider and Darcy snatched it out of his hand.

“The doctor said you aren’t supposed to drink with your medication,” she said.

Dalton hadn’t taken any of the medication he’d been prescribed and didn’t intend to take anything that could alter his perfect mind. But, he figured it was best his sister didn’t know, or she would never leave him alone. Unlike her, Dalton didn’t intend on sitting around all day doing nothing but collecting paycheques from the government on the basis of a so-called disability. The world needed him.

“Of course. I’d forgotten.” Dalton bitterly contented himself with a glass of water.

“Since when do you forget anything?” Karl asked.

“It must be your daily presence, slowly killing my hippocampus cells.”

Karl’s phone rang. He excused himself and left the kitchen.

“You don’t have to talk to him like that. He came back to help you,” said Darcy.

“I never asked him to come back.”

“Yes, you did, love,” said Darcy, thinking of his suicide attempt. “You just have a funny way of asking people for things.”

Dalton got up from his chair and left the room. Darcy was too invasive; he couldn’t stand being alone with her. She would always get far too personal, wanting to talk about his problems, when she should have been marvelling at his successes of late. He didn’t have problems; he had solutions. He approached Karl, who was talking on the phone, standing in Darcy’s room with his back turned to the doorway.

“Stop calling me Hitler and stop calling me altogether. Goodbye.”

Karl hung up on the caller and turned. Dalton stood in the doorway. Startled, he dropped his phone on the floor. It bounced a couple of times and landed at Dalton’s feet. Dalton started to bend down to pick it up for him, but Karl lurched forward, grabbed it and shoved it in his pocket.

“Who was that?” asked Dalton.

“Just some children. Some kind of practical joke, I imagine.”

Dalton frowned. “Was it necessary to leave the dinner table to take that call? You can’t leave me alone with her; it’s terribly awkward.”

“And it makes it less awkward to have me at the table with you?” Karl smiled.

“Yes, because the two of you can talk to each other instead of bothering me with questions about my problems.”

Karl stepped out of the room and stood in the doorway with Dalton.

“We just want to help, you know.”

Dalton crossed his arms. “I get what’s going on with the two of you. You both live pathetic, meaningless lives, and caring for me gives you a sense of purpose. You want to be part of my greatness; you latch onto me and give yourselves credit for my accomplishments. Like I wouldn’t have managed without you two. Though, it’s more insidious than that. It’s also a way of putting me down and feeling superior to me. Poor fragile Dalton can’t take care of himself; good thing he’s surrounded by such loving people who help him heal and improve himself! I’m not your bloody pet. Quit expecting me to wag my tail and be eternally grateful for your generosity and care. Both of you, just leave me alone.”

Dalton stormed out of Darcy’s flat and slammed the door behind him. He flagged down a cab, took a seat in the back and checked his emails on his phone. He’d received multiple adoring messages from his students at the university, asking to meet with him during his office hours to learn more about his work. He smiled at his phone.

Meanwhile, Darcy and Karl cleared the table. Using his fork, Karl had broken his slice of pie into several pieces, hoping it looked like he’d eaten something. Darcy pretended she fell for his ruse, took the plate, and put it on the ground. Darcy’s bulldog, Alfred, buried his wrinkled face into the dish. She began washing the remainder of the dishes.

“He’s not well at all,” said Karl, drying off the clean dishes.

“Oh, don’t worry, he eats all sorts of things,” said Darcy, looking at her fat dog.

“No, I meant Dalton. Dalton is unwell.”

“I know, I can still feel the emptiness inside of him. It’s the same emptiness I’d felt from me ma, before… well, you know.” Darcy handed another plate over to Karl for drying.

“I don’t think he’ll ever get to that point. He’s far too proud to accept such a chaotic existence. He’d sooner kill himself.”

“Is right.”

Karl’s phone rang again. He answered it and walked away, leaving Darcy alone with the rest of the dishes.

* * *

The right thing to do would have been to take Stanley back home. But the natural thing to do after witnessing an exorcism was to have a drink. Father Peter was always prepared to put his mixology skills to use. An Old Fashioned for Quentin and Edward, a Whisky Sour for Isidora, a Tom Collins for Stanley and a Martini Gibson for himself. They shared drinks around an uneven wooden table designed for two people.

“I wasn’t possessed?” asked Quentin.

“No, but I’m sure that’s what he hoped to do. Demons prey on the vulnerable, the mentally ill, children… judging by the look of you, he chose a terrible host.”

Edward patted Quentin on the back forcefully, yet amicably. “He was always the hardest lad around back in school and he’s even harder today. Harder than him, you’d be made of bloody kryptonite.”

Isidora laughed and finished her drink in a few seconds. Edward frowned.

“You think I’m jokin’?” he asked.

“No, I believe he’s as hard as you say,” said Isidora. She looked at Quentin and smiled, then turned to Edward. “You, on the other hand… Despite appearances, I believe you’re the sort of man who collects comic books.”

Edward frowned and spat.

“Perhaps you even dress up as your favourite character at conventions for like-minded individuals,” she hypothesized.

Quentin laughed. “A clever one, she is,” he said and looked at Isidora. She brought her empty glass to her lips, seeking out any last traces of her cocktail. Unsuccessful, she put the glass back down.

“When I grow up, I want to be an exorcist, just like Father Peter!” said Stanley. He formed the shape of a gun with his fingers and pretended to shoot Isidora, imitating the sound of a gun. She smacked his hands down.

“There’s a secret training centre for young boys in the Vatican, if you’re really interested. The Exorcist Academy is as prestigious as it is secret,” said Father Peter.

Stanley turned to Quentin, placed his hands together as though he were praying and said “please” repeatedly.

“No, no, definitely not,” said Quentin. “Sounds like a bloody trap. We didn’t get rid of one pedophile just to send him to an academy full of ’em.”

“We aren’t pedophiles!” said Father Peter. “Since Pope Clement XV made it an unofficial rule to turn a blind eye to consenting adult relations, the priesthood has become a far less creepy career path.”

“Oh, yes, I remember that tweet,” said Isidora. She scrolled through her phone and found it. “Sex and stuff, no kids or animals or family or weird shit in animal costumes. Other than that, whatever, leave me alone, I’m sick of hearing about your sex lives,” she read aloud.

“Apparently his niece Ève-Marie is off limits, though,” mumbled Father Peter.

“So? Can I go to the Academy?” Stanley asked Quentin, who shrugged and looked at Father Peter.

“You know, he’s not your father,” said Isidora.

Stanley threw his drink on the floor and the glass shattered. “How do you know? Mum’s never told me who me dad is. Could be him.”

Isidora observed Quentin’s dark eyes, black, greying hair, strong jawline and slim, athletic build, in contrast with Stanley’s frizzy blond hair, wide blue eyes and chubby red cheeks. Unlikely, she thought.

Edward raised his eyebrows. “Is your mum as pretty a bird as your auntie here?” he asked Stanley.

“Disgustin’!” said Stanley. “Both Mum and Auntie Izzy are fat and ugly and stupid.” He turned to Quentin. “Can I please, please, please be an exorcist?”

“I don’t see why not,” said Quentin. “What do you think, Father?”

“Perhaps we could work something out,” said Father Peter. “I’ll be right back. I have to call the Pope. I’ll ask him directly.” He went downstairs.

“Since when is that your decision to make?” Isidora asked Quentin.

“Well it’s not yours either, but Stan likes me better than you.”

Stanley nodded and lit another cigarette for himself. Isidora went downstairs to interrupt Father Peter’s conversation.

“Yes, Your Holiness, I’ll go see him tomorrow. I’ve already scheduled a meeting. The team’s lawyer had an awful lot of questions… a German… mhm… He questioned my intentions, mostly… I told him the truth, that I was a priest… no, I didn’t mention the plan… yes… very well… Bonsoir.” Father Peter hung up. “I know you’re standing there behind me,” he said to Isidora, and slowly turned around to face her. She was halfway down the stairs. “You’re far less subtle than a demon.”

“I wasn’t trying to be subtle,” said Isidora, with a half-smile. “Why are you in Liverpool?”

“I suppose you wouldn’t believe me if I told you it was for the old man.”

He smiled back at her and looked her up and down as she descended the stairs. Her fragile frame contrasted with the strength of her personality. The lower level of the apartment was merely one small room where Stanley slept on a mattress. Father Peter hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights, the flame of his cigarette preventing total darkness. She felt around for a light switch, but Father Peter gently took her delicate hand, and looked into her eyes.

“You’re way more beautiful in the dark,” Father Peter said. “I can see your soul so clearly.”

“How rude,” snapped Isidora, pulling her hand away. She found the switch and flicked on the lights. “The experiment! That’s why you’re here.” Her smile grew wider.

“What gave it away?” Father Peter crossed his arms and took a step back, yet maintained an overconfident grin, while holding a cigarette between his lips.

“What other event could justify the Pope sending a priest with ridiculous abilities on an apparent mission to Liverpool? Mad scientist trying to create the afterlife.”

Father Peter laughed. “Yes, the mad scientist caught the attention of His Holiness himself. I have a theory to test.”

“I don’t really care about your theory or what your reasons are,” Isidora said. She paused and considered Father Peter’s mission. She stepped toward him, took the cigarette out of his mouth, brought it to her lips and took a puff. “I want to sign up too.”

Father Peter was getting sick of the sight of her in the light. She was so guarded, so difficult to read. He turned off the lights again and took his cigarette back. Her fear and fragility were drowned out by her screaming desperation. Another Hell-bound soul grasping at any illusion of escape, he thought. But, he did like the idea of being alone with Isidora in a virtual afterlife, however temporary it might be.

“All right,” he said, moving closer to her, taking one of her hands, and bringing his other hand gently to her cheek. His thumb softly traced her thin, elegant lips, and he ran his fingers through her blonde hair, slowly moving his hand towards the back of her head.

“Oy!” Quentin ran down the stairs and turned on the lights.

Isidora slapped Father Peter across the face. Edward and Stanley watched from above at the top of the stairs. They’d all been eavesdropping during the entirety of Isidora and Father Peter’s conversation.

“Not a bloody chance I’m going to Hell and seeing the ol’ man again. I want in too!” said Quentin.

“And I want to go to the Exorcist Academy!” said Stanley. He threw a half-empty beer can down the stairs at Father Peter, hitting him on the cheek where Isidora had slapped him. The beer from the can sprayed Isidora in the face.

“All right, all right, fine!” said Father Peter, holding his cheek. “And I suppose you also have some kind of demand?” he asked Edward.

Edward hesitated. He hadn’t thought of anything to ask for since he knew he was going to Heaven and didn’t particularly want to be an exorcist. But since Father Peter had asked… “Ten thousand pounds,” he demanded.

Father Peter groaned. “Fine. You two can come meet the team with me tomorrow. Stanley, I’ll help you apply for admission to the Academy, and Edward, I’ll give you…” Father Peter shoved a hand in his pocket, felt around for money, and pulled out what he could find, “—fifty dollars, as long as you all keep your mouths shut and stop hitting me.”

They agreed to his conditions.

* * *

Father Peter, Isidora and Quentin sat across from Karl, Dalton, and Dr. Fanny Whalen. Darcy stood near the door, accompanied by Edward and Stanley, watching the meeting in progress.

“You’re an odd group,” said Dalton, looking at the three candidates distrustfully. Karl nudged him.

“They’re heavily armed, too,” said Darcy, almost in admiration, who felt powerful vibes emanating from the priest’s tool box. With her trained soldier’s eye, she’d also detected the outline of a switchblade in Quentin’s pocket. Her remark was ignored.

“What my colleague Dr. McGovern here means is, it’s very nice to meet you,” said Karl.

“I’m sorry, would you mind if I just…” Dr. Whalen got up and placed her hands around Isidora’s head. Isidora’s eyes widened and she furrowed her eyebrows as Dr. Whalen felt around, pressing against her skull.

“Very nice!” said Dr. Whalen, and then looked toward Father Peter.

“Oh, my turn!” said the priest, smiling. He appreciated the view the head exam gave him of Dr. Whalen’s cleavage.

When Dr. Whalen turned to Quentin, the menacing look in his eyes made her hesitate before approaching him.

“Dr. Whalen, please sit down,” ordered Karl.

Dalton looked at Karl, shaking his head slightly. He then looked at Father Peter, Isidora, and Quentin and said, “Thank you for your time.” He hoped they’d leave without causing too much trouble.

“Oh, come on now, they have the right energy!” Darcy said. “I have this feeling, like a déjà vu about this group. They’re the ones!”

“Hang on,” Dalton said to Father Peter. “You said your name was Father Peter?”

The priest nodded in agreement.

“Holy shit,” said Karl. “What if he’s—”

“The naked priest!” Darcy said, recognizing him.

“Sounds about right,” said Father Peter. He winked at Darcy. She giggled, admiring his chiselled jawline.

“Well, now that we’ve established that Darcy’s sense of déjà vu has nothing to do with your ‘energies’ but rather a simple coincidence, you may go,” said Dalton, waving them away.

Karl looked at Isidora. She seemed oddly familiar.

“Are you by any chance a loss adjuster?” Karl asked.

“Used to be,” said Isidora. She recognized him from a court case she was involved in some years back. “You’re an insurance lawyer, aren’t you?”

“Used to be,” said Karl.

Edward looked closely at Karl, and his eyes lit up. “That’s no insurance lawyer. That’s Hitler!” he exclaimed, smiling and waving at Karl. “It’s me, Eddie!” he said, as he shoved his way into the office. Edward bear-hugged Karl and rubbed his grubby hand through his hair. Karl winced. “You’ve grown out your hair! You looked harder with your head shaved. Can’t see your skull tattoo anymore,” Edward said, still rubbing Karl’s head.

“Do you know this man?” Dalton asked.

“Not the slightest clue,” said Karl, his voice cracking, partially from anxiety, partially because Edward’s grasp was restricting his breathing.

“Ah, he’s just messin’ with you,” Edward told Dalton.

Karl shook his head.

“Hitler’s the best arms bloke in the civilized world!”

“I never asked to be called Hitler,” Karl said to Dalton.

“So, you’re Hitler the arms dealer,” Quentin said to Karl. “It would be a shame if word got out to the police, or worse, to the associates you abandoned, who think you’re dead.”

“Surely there’s some mistake,” said Dalton. “Right?” He looked at Karl, who stared down at the floor.

“No, it’s true,” said Isidora, looking at Karl. “Just look at him. The shame is obvious.”

“I know exactly what you mean!” said Darcy. “Are you psychic too?”

“She’s not psychic. She’s just a bitch who says mean things to everyone. Me auntie doesn’t realize some people have feelin’s,” Stanley complained to Darcy. Isidora felt her cheeks burn a little.

“My sister isn’t psychic either,” said Dalton. “She hadn’t the slightest idea what Karl had been up to, or they wouldn’t be living together,” he said with assurance.

“I’ve always said I was a little bit psychic, not a lot psychic,” Darcy argued. “It comes in flashes. Here I see a colour; there I see a light. But I don’t see the whole picture, not yet anyway. I do feel I’m a bit more psychic than I used to be, especially since your…” Her voice trailed off as she looked at Dalton’s face. He was biting his bottom lip, and Darcy knew it was a sign he was raging with suppressed anger.

“Suicide attempt,” blurted Isidora, noticing Dalton’s scars. His eyes widened and the room fell silent. Isidora’s cheeks burned hotter.

Quentin stood up, pulled out his switchblade and flicked it open. “Here’s what’s gonna ’appen,” he told Dalton, in a voice so low it was almost a growl. “You take us three for your little experiment, or Hitler’s done pretendin’ to live a lovely, normal little life, actin’ all proper, workin’ as a lawyer, shaggin’ your sister.”

“Oh, no, it’s not like that,” said Darcy.

Quentin ignored her protest. “Either we die, and go to your afterlife, or Hitler dies, an’ goes to his.” Quentin pointed his knife at Karl. His eyes were empty of any emotion or expression. “An’ somethin’ tells me he shouldn’t be lookin’ forward to it.”

Father Peter nodded. “Hell-bound, sorry.”

Dalton looked at Karl. He was breathing audible, short, sharp breaths. His hands were trembling slightly and his brow was covered in beads of sweat. While seeing Karl in terror was somewhat satisfying, Dalton didn’t want him to die. He turned to Quentin and said with hostility, “Very well then, welcome to the team. You can make your appointments for surgery with Dr. Whalen.”

The neurosurgeon clapped her hands and smiled brightly. Cut, cut. 

“What an incredible series of coincidences,” said Isidora. She looked at Darcy. “You had seen him before?” she asked, pointing to Father Peter.

“Did I ever,” said Darcy with a wide grin, looking at Father Peter. He flashed her a smile.

“And the rest of us too, all seem to be connected in some way. Such an incredible series of coincidences.”

“There are no coincidences,” said Stanley, looking from Isidora to Father Peter. “Only fate.”

Father Peter smiled and nodded to the boy approvingly. “You’ll make a great recruit for the Academy.” Stanley beamed.

Father Peter, Isidora and Quentin left with Dr. Whalen, followed by Edward and Stanley. Darcy, Karl and Dalton remained alone together in the office. Darcy took Dr. Whalen’s seat.

“I think the boy is right,” said Darcy. “It was meant to be.”

“There’s no such thing as meant to be,” said Dalton. “We were coerced into taking them on as subjects because of Karl’s recklessness,” he said while glaring at his ex. “Seriously, Karl. You joined this team to protect us from potential liabilities when you were the biggest one of all. What are we supposed to do now? Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t just turn you in to the police.”

“Because you need me,” said Karl.

Dalton frowned. “I don’t need anyone. Now if you don’t mind, I have a class to teach in fifteen minutes. Both of you, please, get out of my office.”