Dark Debts (25 page)

“Now the demon has full access to the victim's body and will. The victim will suffer blackouts, because the demon can move in and go into business for himself. That's what happened to Danny last night, when he attacked his father.”

“He said he didn't remember it,” Michael said, putting it together.

“He
didn't
remember it,” Bob said. “He could have passed a polygraph saying he didn't do it, because
he
didn't do it.”

Michael sat back in his seat. This was starting to make sense, which didn't make him feel better.

“This little sliver”—Bob tapped a crescent-shaped area of the “will” that remained free of the “demon” circle—“we'll come back to that.” He began to draw again. “Last diagram,” he said.

“
Perfect possession.
What we're trying to save Danny from. The demon, having invaded the victim's body and will, takes complete control. Once that happens—” He shook his head. “There's nothing you can do but hope someone locks them up before too many people die. Because that's all the demon wants—to destroy everything in its path. Death for the sake of death. Evil for the sake of Evil. What is it you Jebbies say? ‘For the greater glory of God?' Whatever is the exact opposite, that's what the demon wants. To spit in God's face. To destroy humanity, God's creation. To destroy life.”

Bob walked back over to Danny's diagram.

“Here's what's vital,” he said. He pointed to the “free” sliver of “will.” He shaded it in with the chalk, drew an arrow to it, wrote
will
on the board, and underlined it three times.

Bob tapped the shaded crescent with his chalk.

“Will,” he said. “Will is the heartbeat of the soul. Through will, we can choose to align our souls with Good or with Evil. Danny's will is still alive in there, but it's weak. An exorcism is like a quadruple bypass of the will. We're the surgeons. We have to get in there and make the will strong enough to fight back. Ultimately, there is nothing we can do but strengthen the will. The choice is Danny's. Danny, with his own will, must choose to deny Evil and realign himself with Good. The important thing is, it's through the will that we can save Danny.”

He shook his head, disagreeing with himself. “No.
God
can save Danny. We're just there to do a job.”

Bob put the chalk down and dusted off his hands. The room was agonizingly quiet. After a moment, Michael spoke.

“I'm still a long way from believing any of this,” he said.

Bob nodded, apparently unfazed. “You know the thing the recovery groups say, about taking the action and letting the feelings follow? ‘Act as if,' they say.”

“Yeah . . .” Michael replied hesitantly, not sure how it applied.

“Just promise me you'll ‘act as if' you believe it between now and tomorrow morning. By the time you find out you
do
believe it, it'll be too late for shoring up.”

“You sound pretty confident that I'm
going
to find out.”

Bob nodded, with a self-satisfied chuckle. “That's the easy part,” he said.

Michael let it go. He could tell there was no point in offering an alternative hypothesis.

“We're going to hear each other's confessions,” Bob said. “Then I want you to go home.” His tone was different; solemn. “Go home and pray. Say Mass. Do whatever you do—just make sure you're as strong as you've ever been when you walk into that room tomorrow morning. Give yourself enough time to sleep, too. Get as much sleep as you need to feel good. In fact, sleep like a baby.” He smiled, a sad smile. “It's the last chance you'll ever have.”

Michael kept a straight face and nodded, “acting as if” he didn't think Bob was a certified fruitloop. He went home, put himself through the motions of “shoring up” ritual, as promised, and went to sleep. Though he tossed and turned and woke up frequently, he slept more peacefully than he knew. In fact, he slept just as Bob had ordered. Like a baby, he slept unaware of the full extent of lurking danger. Like a baby, he did not suspect any vulnerability in the forces protecting him.

“
G
od, Father of our Lord, Jesus Christ . . .”

Michael stood over Danny's bed, dressed in his official exorcism attire (though why the demon should care what color stole he had on, Michael couldn't fathom). He had the
Roman Ritual
open in front of him; he listened to Bob's voice and waited for his cue to respond.

Bob was on the other side of the bed, tirelessly reading the text, as he had been for hours now. Danny was lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, showing no sign of reacting; he seemed to be in some trancelike state. Early on, he'd yawned a few times, but he hadn't moved at all in the past hour. It made the straps restraining his arms seem even more ridiculous than they already had.

“ . . . give me strength against this and every unclean spirit tormenting this creature of yours . . .”

Maureen, Kevin, and Danny's younger brother, Chris, were waiting in another part of the house. Michael wondered what Bob was going to tell them once he finally admitted the futility of the alleged exorcism.

“ . . . through the same Lord Jesus . . .”

“Amen,” Michael answered, hoping Bob wouldn't hear the lack of conviction in his voice. It was obvious to him now that there was nothing tormenting Danny except Danny. Possibly a controlled substance or two. At any rate, if the hocus-pocus placebo were going to work, they'd have seen some sign of it by now.

“I exorcise you, most unclean spirit!” Bob went on. “Invading enemy . . .”

“Oh, give it a rest,” Danny said suddenly. Bob looked up. Michael looked up. The voice had come from Danny, but it was not Danny's. “It's too late for this one, Padre,” the guttural voice said. “You waited too long.”

Something in Danny's eyes made Michael shiver.

“Here you are wasting time, when you could be downtown feeding the schizos. Noble work, isn't it? Keeping wretched people alive so they can live to see another miserable day. I wholeheartedly approve, for what it's worth.”

The thing on the bed had a contorted grin on its face that was somehow obscene.

Would you stop! There's no such thing as a demon!

Danny had a grin on his face that was somehow obscene. He didn't even look like himself.

Would you stop! There's no such thing as a demon!

Danny turned his head to look at Michael, as if noticing him for the first time.

“Well, if it isn't Father Rock-and-Roll.” He smiled. “Enjoying the show? Don't worry, we'll be done in time for you to get back to Manhattan for the cocktail party.”

Michael felt himself stop breathing.

Bob returned to the text. “I exorcise all evil spirits! Every one of you!”

Danny was still staring at Michael, in a way that made Michael feel slimy. He felt a strange pressure weighing down on him. He glanced around. Bob was still reading. There was no one else in the room. There was nothing to explain the feeling.

But how . . . ?

“Too bad you couldn't be at your office today,” Danny said to Michael. “Linda, your secretary? No, I'm sorry, your
personal assistant
—wore that red dress. You know. The one with the scoop neck. If she leans over just right—”

Michael looked at Danny, stunned. Danny smiled at what must have been a puzzled look on Michael's face.

He heard his parents talking to Linda on the phone, that's how he knows her name. And every woman in America has a red dress. There's no such thing as a demon . . .

“ . . . in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ,” Bob said, making the sign of the cross over Danny, “be uprooted and expelled from this creature of God.”

Danny didn't react, or take his eyes off Michael.

“She just wears it for spite, you know. She gets off on being leered at by eunuchs. She likes proving what hypocrites you all are.”

“He who commands you is He who ordered you thrown down from highest Heaven . . .”

“Last time she wore it, you went home and dreamed about her all night, didn't you?” Danny said, still smiling.

“ . . . He who commands you dominated the sea, the winds, and the storms . . .”

“But I know what's under that bullshit altar boy act, and so do you. The liar, the charlatan, the coward—the weak, spoiled twit who wakes up hard in the middle of the night from dreaming about banging his secretary . . .”

“Stop it!” Michael yelled.

“Michael!” Bob's tone left no room for argument. Michael turned his attention back to the text.

“ . . . Hear, therefore, and fear, Satan!” Bob's voice was growing louder. “Enemy of the faith!”

Danny raised his voice over Bob's. “But that's just a
dream
, right, Father? You can't help what you
dream
, right? That's out of your hands.”

“ . . . Source of death! Robber of life!”

“What about after you wake up?” Danny asked. “At first light, in the dark, when you think you're all alone? It's not out of your hands then, is it? Quite the contrary!”

“ . . . Twister of justice!” Bob snarled. “Root of evil!”

“With full knowledge and free consent of will . . .” Followed by a chilling cackle as Danny threw his head back and laughed.

MAKE HIM STOP!

“You never quite mention that in confession, do you? You confess your temper and your ego and all your noble sins, but you don't confess the mornings when you take your sheets downstairs and wash them yourself, now do you?”

Michael couldn't breathe. The invisible pressure had intensified until he felt he might suffocate.

“Michael?”

Bob was waiting for a response. Michael stared at the swimming text in front of him. He couldn't force himself to function. His body was paralyzed and his thoughts were scurrying like terrified ants, fleeing in circles. Colliding.

How can he know that? He can't know. But he does. Danny doesn't know. He does. (What does that mean?) I can't breathe. Why did You let him do that?

“Michael!” Bob was firm, trying to bring him back.

Michael squinted, trying to make the words come into focus. After a moment, he shook his head. “I can't,” he whispered. He put the book down on the nightstand and left the room. Behind him, he could hear Danny howl with laughter.

By the time Michael had recovered enough to continue, Danny had reverted to his catatonic trance. Eventually he fell into what seemed to be a normal sleep, at which point Bob declared it a day. He told Maureen, Kevin, and Chris not to feel discouraged. (
“The shortest exorcism I've ever heard of lasted three days. It's not as easy as it looks in the movies.”
) He promised he and Michael would return first thing in the morning, and left them his beeper number in case anything drastic happened in the night.

On the train back to the city, Michael couldn't stop shaking. He was nauseated, his body ached, and he went back and forth from chills to feeling feverish. He told Bob he was coming down with the flu. Bob shook his head.

“It happens,” he said.

“Do you feel like this?”

“Not as bad as times before. Try not to think about it.”

“Fine,” Michael said. “If I throw up on your feet, try not to think about that.”

“Wouldn't be anything new,” Bob answered with a familiar smirk.

“Jesus,” Michael muttered to himself. Or maybe to Jesus.

“You did fine,”

Michael opened his eyes. “I wasn't having performance anxiety,” he said, instantly regretting his choice of words. Bob didn't show any sign of making the connection. For all his purported calmness, he looked ashen, and about ten years older than he had that morning.