Dark Debts (27 page)

“Frank, even if I agreed, they would subpoena me. What am I supposed to do, lie?”

“You're supposed to maintain confidentiality. How you do that is up to you.”

“This is insane!”

“Whether it is or it isn't, Michael, I'm just the messenger. This is coming from higher up.”

“Higher up than what? God?”

“All I can tell you is, it's coming from higher up.”

“How high?”

“You'd need a passport to go there,” Frank said.

Michael was astonished. “What, they don't have enough to worry about?”

“Look at it, Michael. You were denied permission to perform an exorcism on a kid you claim was genuinely possessed. What do you think the press is going to do with that?”

“The press? Frank, three people are dead and a
child
is on trial for something he doesn't even remember, and they're worried about being
embarrassed 
?”

“Michael, the credibility of the magazine is at stake. You leave me no choice but to order you, under virtue of obedience—”

“I will testify and then appeal your order.”

“There will be severe consequences if you do that.”

“Fine.”

Michael had taken the witness stand and told the truth, every crumb of it he could remember. Danny got a twenty-five-year sentence, with a chance for parole after fifteen. His attorneys assured Michael that his testimony had a lot to do with keeping Danny from getting a life sentence. Michael was grateful for that much.

The press had the predicted field day. Michael's picture was everywhere, from
Newsweek
to
Christianity Today
, along with sidebar stories on other Satan-related murder cases and surveys on people's beliefs about the Devil. All of which was met by a deafening silence from on high. Michael knew they were waiting for everything to die down, so as not to invite further criticism or more bad publicity.

It was the
New Yorker
article that had sealed Michael's fate. Two days after the article hit the newsstands, Frank Worland received an irate phone call from the bishop. Michael had “disregarded authority, created a scandal, and publicly humiliated him, the cardinal, and, in fact, the entire diocese.” Frank was ordered to do something about it immediately. The next thing Michael knew, he was on his way to Butcher Holler.

Before leaving New York, Michael had gone to the prison to visit Danny. The kid in the visitation room was the same lost kid who had asked Michael for help the first day they'd met. Danny could barely talk about his family for crying, but he managed to reconfirm everything he'd said at the trial—that he didn't remember a thing about the night of the crime, and that there were large holes in his memory in the six months before it. He did remember hearing voices in his head. The voices had told him to hurt people, that they deserved it, that it was what God wanted him to do. The voices had become louder and more insistent as time went on. They'd driven him crazy, and he hadn't been able to get them to shut up. He also said he didn't hear the voices anymore. He hadn't heard them since the night of the crime.

Danny Ingram's face haunted Michael's dreams. So did the faces of Kevin, Maureen, and Chris, who had once confided to Michael that he was afraid Danny was going to kill them all in their sleep. Michael had told Chris not to worry.
“No one is going to let it go that far.”
At least once a week, Michael woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, with those words pounding in his brain, those faces tearing at his heart.

T
he Varsity was beginning to fill up with the early dinner crowd, and the noise brought Michael back to the present. Someone behind him dropped a tray and he jumped. He looked up to see the smarmy guy chuckle at him, which sent him spiraling into even more shame. He told himself to knock it off. The next couple of days were going to be difficult enough. He collected his trash and dumped it, then headed outside.

As he walked through the parking lot, Michael had a mental image of the creepy guy pulling a nine-caliber semiautomatic out from behind the leather jacket and blowing him away through the window of The Varsity. He could see it across the front page of the
Atlanta Constitution
:
PRIEST GUNNED DOWN IN VARSITY PARKING LOT.

Michael realized how exposed and vulnerable he felt, and he knew it had to do with Vincent's death. Even though they hadn't been able to spend a lot of time together the last few years, just knowing Vincent was alive in the world had made Michael feel somehow protected. He realized, already, how much of a shield Vincent had been for him. Vincent and the Church. One gone, the other teetering on the brink.

And something vile lurking in the wings.

You're imagining it. You're turning into a theological hypochondriac.

He heard the vague sound of thunder in the distance, even though none of the clouds he could see looked threatening.

Look at the bright side. Maybe you'll be struck by lightning.

As he drove out of the parking lot, the thought came to him that he should go to Emory and pick up a grad school catalogue. Maybe he could talk the Royals into letting him go back to school for a year or two.

The standard Jesuit answer to an emotional crisis: get another doctorate. Learn one more language, everything will fall into place.

What else am I supposed to do?

How about the radical concept of dealing with the actual problem?

I
will
deal with the problem. As soon as I can figure out what the hell the problem is!

You know what the problem is.

No. He knew the symptoms. He had no idea what was really at the bottom of it all. Maybe nothing more than your basic midlife crisis. Maybe he'd become a living cliché. If he were a doctor, he'd be pricing red convertibles.

It was an appealing thought. If this was a midlife crisis, at least it would eventually pass. In his heart, though, he feared that whatever was happening to him was nothing so harmless. And nothing so temporary.

He drove aimlessly around the city for almost an hour. He didn't know what to do with himself. He didn't want to go home until he was sure Barbara was gone. For some reason, he felt compelled to make her believe he was all right, and he didn't have the energy for any more of that today.

Something Danny had said to him that day at the prison was ringing in Michael's head.

“I'm so tired, Father Kinney . . . and there's no rest.”

Every time he tried to take his mind off Danny Ingram, it headed for another danger zone. Tess. He kept thinking about the safety he'd felt in her arms. Even if it was an illusion, it was a desperately comforting illusion.

He'd packed a bag to stay with Vincent for a few days after the operation. It was still in the trunk of the car. Delta had a seven o'clock flight to LaGuardia. He could catch it easily. With a little luck, he could be at Tess's door by ten. Ten thirty, the latest.

He told himself he should be ashamed for even thinking such a thing at a time like this.

He told himself that all the way to the airport.

T
ess looked through the peephole, then unlocked the door and jerked it open.

“I don't believe this,” she said.

“I should have called, but I didn't want to give you a chance to say no.”

She moved aside to let him in. He closed the door behind him and locked it, as Tess was still too stunned to move. He tossed his bag to the floor.

“I really can't believe this,” she said again. “I mean . . .” She didn't try to go on. She was wearing a soft pink bathrobe and had her hair tied loosely back with a strip of white chiffon. She looked more relaxed than he'd ever seen her. Tess usually looked as if she were in charge of a state dinner and no one could find the president.

“Can I hug you,” she asked, “or am I supposed to keep a safe distance?”

Michael reached for her and pulled her into his arms. “I didn't fly all the way up here and risk my life in a cab for you to keep a safe distance,” he said. He held her tightly, for a long time. The familiar smell of her hair was a welcome comfort.

“Vincent died,” he finally whispered.

“Oh, Michael.” She held him tighter. “I'm so sorry.”

“I knew he was going to die. I just thought he had a little more time,” Michael said, trying to explain his emotional state.

“I'm so sorry.” She stepped back and looked at him. “I know how much you're going to miss him.”

“I already do.”

“I know,” Tess said, rubbing his arm.

The empathy in her eyes was making it hard for him to keep from crying, and he didn't want to cry.

“I had to tell someone,” he explained. “And you were the person I wanted to tell.”

“I wish I could do something to make it hurt less.”

“You just did,” he said, and pulled her to him again.

“And—were you going to stay here?” Her voice had the tentative tone the situation merited, and she pulled away from him.

“If it's okay.”

“Of course it's okay,” Tess said immediately, but she still sounded hesitant. “It's just . . .”

“What?”

“Well, you know. I mean—am I supposed to make up the sofa bed?”

When he tried to answer, he felt himself start to cry. He pulled Tess back to him and felt the soothing warmth of her skin, the heat of her lips on his neck. He lifted her face and kissed her. It took him no time to lose himself. The guilt vanished as quickly as it would return.

H
e awoke to the smell of coffee brewing. The room was light and he was alone. He'd left his glasses on the dresser across the room, and the numbers on the digital clock were a red blur, but there was a strong chance the first one was an eight. He forced himself out of bed and staggered to the bathroom.

He showered, shaved, and dressed, donning his standard jeans and a concession-to-New-York-City oxford cloth shirt, white with blue pinstripes. With his glasses on, he probably looked like a Columbia law professor. He studied himself in the mirror and wondered why, if he really loved being a priest as much as he thought he did, he hated looking like one.

He ventured out and found Tess in the kitchen, cooking breakfast. She was stirring eggs with one hand and pouring orange juice with the other. He watched her, thinking of all the people in the world who took such a scene for granted. For him, it was a forbidden form of poetry.

He pulled a chair back from the small table in the breakfast nook and sat down. “I don't have a lot of time,” he said.

“You're eating breakfast anyway. You've lost too much weight.” She brought a plate over and put it down in front of him. “Don't they feed you down there?”

“I've become a vegetarian. It's the only thing they don't deep-fry.”

Tess sat down across from him with nothing but a cup of coffee. She had no business criticizing
his
eating habits. He didn't know how she stayed alive, as little as she ate. But he wasn't going to get into that one this morning. The air was already thick with undercurrents.

He crossed himself and started to bless the food. Tess frowned.

“Can't you do that in your head?”

He looked at her, surprised by the hostility in her voice.

Tess asked. “You know I was a heathen.”

“I knew you were a lapsed Catholic.”

“But what? You thought I was a closet Christian?”

Michael couldn't speak. As surprised as he was at the discovery, he was even more surprised at his reaction. Why did he feel like someone had just kicked him in the gut?

Tess smiled. “What, Michael? Is your superior going to be even more disappointed when he finds out you're sleeping with an atheist?”

“You're not even an agnostic?”

He felt like he was ten years old. What the hell difference did it make what Tess believed? Didn't she have a right to believe anything she wanted? Why should it affect his life at all?

“So . . .” He couldn't leave it alone.

“What?”

“So you're one of those people who thinks Jesus was just a better-than-average rabbi?”

“No. I'm one of those people who thinks He probably didn't exist.”

He put his fork down and stopped trying to be open-minded.

“Are you serious?” he asked.

“I read a book; this guy made a very intelligent case of Jesus being a composite character.”

“What
guy
?”

“A Harvard professor.”

“Well, that settles it then. Great. Think how much money we'll save next December.”

“Why do you care so much what I believe?”

“I don't understand how you can be in love with me when you hate everything I stand for.”

“How can you claim to be in love with me when you work for people who go against everything I believe in?”

“I thought you didn't believe in anything.”

“You know what I'm talking about. You are addicted to a Stone Age, misogynistic institution whose rules you don't even believe in! Which, in my book, makes you a hypocrite with no right to look down on me!”

She left the room. He gave her a few minutes to calm down before following her.

He found her sitting on the bed, crying. He leaned in the doorway and waited.

“This is insane,” she said. “This isn't about Jesus.”

“I know,” he said.

She took a breath and dried her eyes with the tissue he'd handed her. Finally she spoke.

“I know you just lost Vincent and I shouldn't be thinking about myself, but I think I've done this limbo thing for about as long as I can stand it.”

“I know.” He sat beside her and held her until she stopped crying.