Dark Debts (41 page)

“No, I don't know her. But—”

“She thinks I'm tryin' to move in with them, but I wouldn't ask them for a biscuit if I was at death's door starving—”

“Mrs. Hardie, I'm a friend of Cathy's and I need to know—”

“Poor Cathy, I told her last week to be careful because we haven't had nothing but problems since they built that apartment complex behind us, it's just full of lowlifes and I knew it was just a matter of time before something like this happened.”

“Mrs. Hardie, is Cathy dead?”

Maybe the direct approach would work.

“Yes, she's dead. I thought you knew that.”

Randa tried to keep it from registering on her face so Jack wouldn't know until she could tell him. Martha was still going.

“I know it's true because the policeman was Billy Thomas and I asked him and he said she'd been dead for a couple of hours when they found her. And I was sitting right here by myself, it could just as easily have been me . . .”

“Thank you. I have to go lock my doors now.” Randa hung up, looked at Jack. She'd rather die than tell him, but no one was going to offer her the option.

“Cathy's dead?” he asked.

Randa nodded. “I'm sorry,” she said.

Jack was quiet for a moment. Randa was about to go over and put her arms around him when he stood up. He walked to the door. He walked back to the sofa. He picked up a glass from the coffee table and hurled it against the wall.

“Goddammit!” he yelled.

“Jack, be quiet!” Randa grabbed his arm before he could throw anything else. “Jack! The last thing you need is the neighbors calling the cops.”

He jerked his arm away. He sat on the sofa again, buried his face in his hands, and sobbed.

Randa went to sit beside him. She hugged him. He didn't respond, but he didn't knock her away, either.

“Jack?” She shook his shoulder gently. “Jack?”

He didn't answer. But then, she had no idea what she'd say if he did.

“It's okay.” (It's not okay.)

“Don't take it so hard.” (He killed a woman. He should take it hard.) “You weren't conscious, it isn't your fault.” (So what? The fact that he wasn't conscious doesn't make Cathy any less dead.)

“Jack, you have to pull yourself together. We have to figure out what to do.”

“There's nothing to do,” he said.

“If the cops come—”

“I'll turn myself in.”

“No, you will not! You don't even know if you did it.”

Jack put his face in his hands again.

“Oh, God . . . How can this be happening?” His tone was plaintive, as if she might have an answer.

“What is the last thing you remember? Were you—”

Randa was interrupted abruptly by the sound of pounding on the door. She gasped.

Jack pulled the curtain back, just enough to see out. “Cops,” he said.

“What do we do?” Randa asked.

“Let 'em in. What else are we gonna do?”

He reached to unlock the door. Randa took a deep breath and started to work on her lie.

M
ichael woke up. The nausea was gone. The dizziness was gone. The headache was gone. But the worst of it remained. The feeling of evil that seemed to taint everything around him, as if it were something he was causing instead of something he was caught up in against his will.

Tess was standing in the doorway, dressed for work, looking at him. He reached for his glasses so he could see her.

“Do you feel better?”

He nodded. “Physically,” he said.

“What's wrong?”

He sat up. Waited a moment to make sure he wasn't dizzy. Most of his current fog was left over from the dream.

“What, Michael?”

“I don't know.” He wanted to tell her. But he wasn't even sure how he'd describe it to himself. “I've been having these dreams that make me feel bad.” It sounded sophomoric, but he couldn't think of a more sophisticated way to put it.

“What kind of dreams?” She came over and sat on the bed, appearing genuinely interested.

“I keep dreaming about this guy you think never existed.” She didn't laugh, to his great relief.

“What about Him?”

Michael shook his head. “I don't know, exactly. It's not like I thought it would be.
He's
not who I thought He would be. But it's just a dream, right? No big deal.”

“What's He like in the dream?”

He didn't know why she cared, but he welcomed the chance to talk about it. “Kind of . . . I don't know . . . it's not that He isn't warm, but there's . . . something else. No. I don't know. There's no word for it. It's like he wants something, and I don't know what it is.”

She smiled. “Did you expect Him to have a sappy smile on His face and a robin on His finger? Because that's Saint Francis. People tend to get the two of them confused.”

He knew she was trying to cheer him up. Somehow that annoyed him.

“Never mind. I shouldn't have mentioned it.”

“I'm sorry. I can't joke about Jesus?”

He stood, looked at himself in the mirror, and instantly wished he hadn't. He took his glasses back off and laid them on the nightstand.

“You still haven't told me why you're here.”

“I'm working on something.”

“I mean why you're
here
, in my apartment.”

“I wanted to see you.”

“Why?”

He looked at her, puzzled.

“You said we were taking a break. Have you changed the rules?”

“I'm leaving. I just came for the meeting, now I'm going back to Atlanta.”

“That isn't an answer.”

“I don't know,” he said. It was the only honest answer. “I'm in the middle of something and I can't think about us until it's over.”

“What are you in the middle of ?”

He wanted to tell her, but there was no point in it. They lived on separate planets, and on hers, everyone crawled out of the primordial ooze and evil meant refusing to recycle.

“I can't talk to you about it.”

He saw her bristle at that.

“Why not?”

“Because it involves things you don't believe in.” He was afraid that sounded harsh, so he added, “I'll tell you about it when it's over.”

She nodded, letting it go, for now. She sat on the bed next to him and crossed a leg over his. Started to kiss his face.

“I didn't know how long you were going to sleep,” she said. “I can undress and be late for work.”

He wanted that. Badly. But he moved away from her, leaving her perplexed and frowning.

“I can't,” he said.

“Why not? What time is your plane?”

“It's not the plane,” he said. He went into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

H
is plane was half an hour late getting into Atlanta, and Annie was leaving for her lunch break by the time he drove down to the rectory. She came to meet him as he was getting out of the car.

“I left your messages on your desk, Father,” she said.

“Thanks.” She was probably dying to know where he'd been, but she would just have to die.

“I guess you heard what happened to your friend,” she said.

“What friend?”

“That Landry.” She had a look on her face like she'd just gotten a call from Ed McMahon. “They arrested him for killing a woman out at that trailer court.”

Michael felt himself go weak.

Oh, God . . .

“Are they sure he did it?”

She nodded. Lowered her voice. “They say he strangled her with a lamp cord.”

Oh, Jesus . . . It's my fault, . . .

“Didn't I tell you?” Annie went on. “I knew it would happen sooner or later. At least this oughta get rid of him, and we'll be rid of the last of them . . .”

In his head, Michael could hear the sound of the demon's cackle. Sneering. Triumphant.

“Anyway, that's the news,” Annie said. “Oh, and that plumber—”

Michael snapped. “Annie, tell him to get over here and do whatever the hell he wants to do and send me the bill. In the meantime, I don't want to hear another word about the piddlyshit plumbing problems!”

Annie had turned pale and could barely nod. He could still feel her wide-eyed stare as he turned away, and he was sure she was already planning her letter to the archbishop. He kept walking. Hell if he cared.

T
he police station was filled with stern faces, hushed tones, and self-satisfied looks. The Barton police department finally had a case worthy of its talent, and they were about to get rid of the final Landry, to boot. No one looked surprised to see Michael. They probably assumed the church had been vandalized again.

“Hi.” A sheriff's deputy greeted him awkwardly. The Protestants knew they weren't supposed to call him Reverend and couldn't bring themselves to call him Father, so he was used to clumsy greetings.

“Is the sheriff here?” Michael asked.

“Yeah, but he's gonna be tied up for a while. Can I help you?”

“I want to talk to him about Jack Landry.”

“Is that so?” the deputy asked, with no discernible attitude. “And why's that?”

“I think I might be able to help you guys out.” Michael delivered it with subtext and a meaningful look, as if the implications were obvious.

Come on, Deputy, do the math. Every cop show in the history of television and a trillion B movies . . . Bad guy kills somebody, confesses to the priest . . . Priest has moral dilemma, finally goes to the cops, finds some ingenious way to divulge what he knows . . .

The deputy's face was blank for a second, then slowly brightened.

“Wait right here, Father,” the deputy said. Evidently it was okay to address him as Father if he was going to be on their side. The deputy disappeared quickly down the hall.

The receptionist looked up from her desk and smiled at Michael, apparently thrilled and grateful that he'd brought a new dimension to the drama.

“Father?” The deputy was back, motioning for Michael to follow him. Michael was halfway down the hall when a door opened and the sheriff appeared, looking appropriately grim.

“Father, you wanted to see me?” Translated: “This better be damned good.”

“Actually, Sheriff, I'd like to see Jack Landry.”

“And why's that?”

“It's personal.”

“Well, unless you're an alibi witness, personal's gonna have to wait.”

“You aren't getting anything out of him. If you were, you'd be in a better mood.” Michael moved on before the sheriff could decide on his level of anger. “I might be able to help you,” he said.

“I doubt that. Even if he tells you he did it, you can't tell me.”

“No, but I might be able to get him to talk to you.”

“How are you gonna do that?”

“He trusts me,” Michael lied.

The sheriff weighed it. He stared at the floor for a long moment. Michael got the feeling he was just waiting until enough time had passed that everyone would assume he'd reasoned it out in his head and decided that Michael had stumbled on a good idea.

“All right,” he said. “I could use a break anyway.” He led Michael back down the hall, to the door he'd come from.

“When was he arrested?” Michael asked.

“He's not under arrest,” the sheriff said. “He's being held for questioning.”

Michael nodded. Somehow he didn't think the Barton SWAT team was out combing the countryside for the real killer.

The woman who'd been with Jack at the coffee shop was sitting on a bench in the hallway. She looked exhausted and her eyes were swollen and red. She was justifiably puzzled to see Michael. He searched his mind for her name.

“What's going on?” she asked.

Before Michael could answer, she saw the sheriff reach for the doorknob.

“Hey, wait one minute. I've been asking you all night to let me go in there.”

“Are you a priest?” the sheriff asked with a patronizing glare.

“No. I'm not male, either. What's the third strike against me? My California driver's license?”

“Look, ma'am,” the sheriff said. “I don't—”

“Actually, I think it would be a good idea if—is it Randa?” She nodded; Michael went on: “—if Randa came in with me.”

“All right, Father. You can have her. Just take her with you when you leave.” The sheriff opened the door. “Y'all got fifteen minutes.”

Michael wondered where that law was written, but didn't want to push his luck.

“Thank you.”

Jack looked up as they came into the room. He didn't seem to have the energy to be surprised. He looked worn out and distraught. Randa hurried over and hugged him. Jack returned the hug, barely. His eyes were on Michael.

“Okay,” Michael said, “you have three choices. You can hope they don't have enough to convict you, and if you're right, you can go free and then
kill
the next person who is standing there when you have an episode. Or you can let them lock you up and/or execute you for something you have no memory of doing. Or you can listen to me and do what I tell you to do.”

“How do you know I don't remember it?” Jack asked, instantly defensive.

“Because, unlike you, I know what's happening to you.”

“All right,” Jack answered, annoyed. “What's happening to me?”

Michael thought for a second. He had to make it something Jack wouldn't immediately reject. Details.

“Your father was illegitimate, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“His mother was from a poor family. Itinerant workers. She left home when she was very young.”

Jack nodded. “I don't know much about her, but that sounds right.”