Dark Debts (39 page)

His throat constricted immediately when he thought of Vincent. He was simultaneously angry with his grandfather and sick with grief from the loss. He couldn't think of a thing he wouldn't trade to be able to talk to Vincent right now. To get the truth, if nothing else.

The truth. Even if he could get near it, he wasn't sure what that would accomplish. It would take more than knowledge to free him at this point.

Maybe Tom Graham was right. Maybe he
did
need four weeks in the woods with St. Ignatius. Time to recharge. Time to focus on something besides the darkness.

No. It's bigger than that.

That was what scared him the most. The fact that everything he was going through was bringing to the surface serious questions about his faith. The demon, whatever he was, was forcing him into a corner, where he had to look at things he'd shoved aside for too long.

Something about Evil. Something about all of it. The math had never added up for him. The Bible was lovely poetry, but the picture it painted was one of total chaos. A vengeful God, exasperated with His fallen children (who had fallen either by design or by design flaw, neither a comforting thought), patiently pleading with them while sending chastisements at regular intervals. Finally deciding the only way to redeem them was to send His son for them to torture and kill. Then He'd call it even. And for the rest of history, all anyone had to do was believe the fairy tale, and they'd be “saved.”

It had never made any sense to Michael. He'd only been able to believe it by declaring it misinterpreted and incomplete. Basically, by believing the stuff he liked and concocting his own theories to fill in the gaps.

He poured himself a glass of bourbon, at the same time scolding himself for drinking so much lately. But what the hell else was he supposed to do? Sit calmly and wait for the next demonic attack?

Bob Curso suddenly came into his thoughts. Bob and his simple, black-and-white universe, where the Devil was bad and God was good and everyone got to decide whose team they wanted to play on.

To what end? What would the winner get? And why did the Devil waste his time in a battle that he surely knew he couldn't win? And why . . . and why . . . and why . . .

Michael found the number and dialed Bob's soup kitchen. He was amazed when the phone was answered on the third ring, and by a person with more than a passing knowledge of the English language. Michael asked for Bob.

“He's not here anymore.”

“Excuse me?”

“He moved into a retirement home.”

“Bob retired?”

“It was sudden. Health problems, I heard.”

Michael took the number of the retirement home. When he tried it, he got the same static and disconnected lines as before. Exasperated, he sat down at the computer. He didn't have Bob's e-mail address, assuming Bob had one. But he could write a note and FedEx it, and maybe Bob would call him over the weekend and help him figure out what to do about Jack Landry.

Dear Bob,

I am so sorry to learn of your health problems. I can't imagine you in a retirement home; hopefully this is just a “time out” until you feel better.

Do you have a better phone at the new place? I really need your help on a case. Please call me.

Warm regards,

Michael

He proofed the note and printed it, then searched for a FedEx envelope while he was waiting. He realized how tightly he was wound when the sound of the printer made him jump. That was the main reason he wanted to talk to Bob, he knew. He was really getting sick of being in this thing by himself.

He filled out the address form, stuck it into the clear plastic pocket, and went to get the letter. He sat down at his desk to sign it. Something looked wrong. He squinted, then took his glasses off. It took him a moment to realize what the printed letter looked like; when he got it, it took his breath.

Dear Michael,

Sal si puedes. Sal si puedes. Sal si puedes. Sal si puedes. Sal si puedes. Sal si puedes. Sal si puedes. Sal si puedes. Sal si puedes. Sal si puedes. Sal si puedes. Sal si puedes. Sal si puedes. Sal si puedes. Sal si puedes. Sal si puedes. Sal si puedes. Sal si puedes.

The heavy presence had returned, along with the smell. Michael balled the letter up and threw it at the trash can. More angry now than frightened, he grabbed his jacket and wallet and stormed out of the room. He got into his car and took off. He headed north. He'd like to see how the damned thing planned to stop him from getting on a plane.

H
e landed at Newark just in time for the worst traffic; he called Bob's retirement home, managed to get through to the office and get directions. He rented a car and joined the gridlock.

Two hours later he arrived at the retirement home, which seemed a nice enough place. A two-story brick building, set off from the road in a small grove of trees. He got the usual “Yeah, sure you're a priest” looks from the staff until he flashed several IDs that began with “Archdiocese of . . .” He was led to Bob's room by a young priest who called Michael “Father” and treated him as if he'd be a resident there in less than five years. Seeing Bob's door ajar, Michael thanked the young twerp and sent him back whence he'd come.

Bob was sitting in his room with the drapes drawn. The only light came from a small lamp by the bed. Bob stared at the curtains blankly, as if they were open and he were gazing out the window. He didn't respond to Michael's slight rap on the door, so Michael stepped into the room.

“Are you growing mushrooms in here?”

Bob turned slowly toward the voice. Michael hoped his surprise didn't show. Bob looked years older than he had six months ago. He also looked as if he'd lost twenty pounds. His formerly round face was thin and hollow, and his formerly soulful eyes were lifeless. He stared blankly at Michael for a few seconds, then recognition set in and he offered a frail smile.

“Michael,” he said, in an unsteady voice that should have belonged to an old man, “what are you doing here?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“Sit down.” Bob motioned to the bed and Michael sat. He hadn't expected a bear hug, but he was disappointed in Bob's detached reaction to his appearance. Then again, Bob seemed to be detached from the planet.

“How did you find me?” he asked.

“I called the mission and they told me. I hope you weren't hiding from me.”

“No,” Bob answered, as if it had been a serious question. “Not from you.”

“How are you feeling?” Bob just shook his head. “The guy on the phone said you had a health problem.”

“No,” he said, quietly.

Michael waited. When it became clear Bob wasn't going to speak again, he pressed it.

“What, then?”

Bob looked at Michael. For a long time he didn't say anything. Then, softly: “I got into something that was over my head.”

“A case?” Michael asked.

Bob nodded. “I told you to never try it alone. I should have taken my own advice.”

“But you're okay?”

Bob smiled, a sad smile. “So they tell me. What about you? What have you gotten yourself into?”

Michael told him the entire story. Bob listened intently, with no verbal response, although his eyes widened at the part about Vincent's past, and again at
“sal si puedes.”
When Michael was done, Bob spoke immediately.

“Leave it alone,” he said. Michael looked at him, confused. “Michael, the thing I got into was just a more powerful demon than I could handle, and look at me. You're in deeper than I was. It's not after whoever happens to take it on. It's after
you.
And it's been waiting a long time.”

Bob stopped, winded. He took a couple of breaths, wheezing as if he'd just climbed a long flight of stairs.

“That's why I was trying to call you,” Michael said. “I wanted your help, but I'd settle for advice.”

“I just gave you my advice.”

“To run from it?”

Bob leaned forward. “Michael, this is probably the same demon that was in Danny.”

Michael nodded. “That's what the demonologist said.”

“Every time they win one, they get that much stronger. And you were no match for this one before.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do? Vincent's family started all this. Now it's my debt.”

“To hell with your debt. You're going to end up with a worse debt than you can imagine.”

“Bob, it's not that easy. I'm not sure anyone else can get rid of this one.”

“Then you have a big problem.”

“How can I solve it?”

Bob thought about it for a second, then said, “Resign from the Jesuits and convert yourself back to Catholicism.”

“That is not helpful,” Michael said, bristling.

“Maybe not, but it's the truth.”

Bob nodded, then closed his eyes and nodded off.

M
ichael could barely remember the way back to the city. Bob's appearance haunted him. His entire demeanor. It was so far from the Bob he'd last seen. How? And how had gentle ribbing about the Jesuits turned into a nasty dismissal of Michael's faith in its entirety?

What happened to him during that last exorcism?

Before the thought was fully formed, the first wave of nausea hit him. By the time he was halfway through the Lincoln Tunnel, it was all he could do to drive. He willed his way into Manhattan, half doubled over from the cramping in his stomach. The closest garage was five blocks from Tess's apartment, and he had to take a cab from there. He was in too much pain to walk.

The doorman, Deneb, recognized Michael and quickly opened the door for him. Michael walked past him and headed for the elevator.

“Hurry,” Michael said.

Deneb followed without question. Closed the old elevator gate behind them and headed for the sixth floor.

“I'm not well,” Michael managed to say.

“I can see that,” Deneb answered in his thick Ukrainian accent. He opened the door again to let Michael out. “I should wait?”

Michael shook his head no. He knocked loudly on Tess's door, at the same time searching for his key. The door opened and he brushed by Tess.

“Michael?” she said, stunned to see him.

He was able to mumble “Bathroom” and headed for it, slamming the door behind him.

He made it without a second to spare, and was convinced he was going to throw up internal organs before it was over. It didn't make any sense, as he hadn't eaten anything all day, except for a bag of peanuts on the airplane.

He heard Tess outside the door.

“Michael? Are you okay?”

He leaned back against the wall. He knew he didn't have the strength to stand. “Yes,” he called to her. He doubted it sounded convincing. “I'll be okay in a minute.”

“All right,” Tess said, obviously unconvinced. “What are you doing here?”

He didn't answer. As soon as he could stand, he turned on the shower, ditched his clothes, and got under the spray. The water felt cool against his skin and he realized he must have a fever.

In his head, the babel started again. First the demon's cackle, followed by what sounded like the soundtrack from the bar scene in
Star Wars
—garbled, unearthly voices with cocktail-party inflections. Over it, he could hear a voice similar to the demon's, only more effeminate, singing
“sal si puedes”
to the tune of some annoying kid's song. All of it was way more than his pounding head could stand.

Shut up. Just shut up!

Instead, it became louder. Michael thought he was going to have to scream.

Please. God . . . help . . . me . . .

A tune came to him; he didn't recognize it, but it was clear and lovely and he could hum it. He hummed with what little strength he had, and slowly the babel began to fade. So did the heaviness in the air.

He breathed a sigh of relief. He made the water cooler and let it fall over him until finally he felt some of his life returning.

By the time he got out and dried off, he felt light-years better. A bit dizzy, and certainly not strong, but he didn't feel sick anymore. He dried his hair with the towel, threw his shirt into Tess's hamper, and put his jeans back on. He found his toothbrush in the medicine cabinet and brushed his teeth until he couldn't taste anything but Crest. He looked at himself in the mirror. He was several shades paler than normal, and there were purple caverns under his eyes.

Dear God. This thing can do anything it wants to me, whenever it wants to. Wherever it wants to. How am I supposed to fight that?

Tess knocked again. “Michael?”

He opened the door.

“I guess it was something I ate,” he lied. There was no reason to get her involved and worried. “Do I still have any shirts here?”

“I'll get you one,” she said.

He followed her into the bedroom. She rummaged in the back of her closet and came out with a Fordham sweatshirt.

“So how's that for a romantic entrance?” he asked, pulling the sweatshirt on.

“The throwing up didn't bother me, but I can't deal with the fact that you sing the ‘Kyrie' in the shower.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I wasn't singing.”

“Yes, you were. Maybe you do it unconsciously. In which case I might be able to live with it.”

“You heard me singing?”

“Yes. You were singing the ‘Kyrie,' to some tune I've never heard before.”

“You heard actual words coming from me? Not humming, but actual words?”

“Yes, Michael. How else would I have known what you were singing?”

God. Was I singing without realizing it? Or was I humming with someone else who was singing, a voice I didn't even know I heard?