Dark Debts (42 page)

“Okay,” Michael said. “Let me tell you a little about my family.”

Randa broke in. “Do we really have time for this?”

“We have to have time,” Michael said, and went on. “My parents died when I was a year old. I was raised by my grandfather. His name was Vincent Kinney.”

“The architect?” Jack asked. It was Michael's turn to be surprised.

“I read,” Jack explained.

“All right. But what you don't know is that Vincent is . . . was . . . the father of Will Landry.”

Jack was clearly stunned. He stared at Michael in disbelief.

“You mean . . . your grandfather . . .” Randa looked at Jack, then back at Michael. “Your grandfather was also Jack's grandfather?”

Michael nodded.

“There's more,” Michael said, “and it's not good. And it's going to sound insane.” He thought for a second. There was no easy way to say it. “My great-grandfather—Vincent's father—was a Satanist. Apparently a pretty heavy-duty one, as these things go.”

“Wait a minute,” Randa said. “A
what
?”

“Believe me,” Michael said, “I know how crazy it sounds. I could not say ‘my great-grandfather was a Satanic high priest' with a straight face were it not true. My grandfather was raised in the cult . . . was a member of the cult until he was seventeen. They—” He took a breath, preparing himself. “The cult kidnapped a thirteen-year-old girl and . . . Vincent . . .” He stopped. He couldn't bring himself to say it. “Your father was conceived during a Black Mass. Ultimately, that's what is wrong with you, and that's what was wrong with your family.”

“Let me see if I have this straight,” Jack said. “You're saying this cult kidnapped my grandmother, and your grandfather impregnated her during some kind of a devil-worship ceremony, and that's how the world was graced with my father's presence?”

Michael winced at the harsh sound of the truth. “Yes,” he said. “That's exactly what I'm saying. The cult planned to use the baby—your father—as a sacrifice to Satan. My . . . our . . . grandfather helped them escape.”

“I hope you don't want me to thank you for that.”

“I'm just trying to tell you what happened. I don't care what you thank or blame me or my grandfather for. None of that is important. You need to know this: that your father was a by-product of very dark circumstances, and you are now a victim of that.”

“Jack's mother always thought there was a curse on the family,” Randa said.

Michael nodded. “Jack's mother was right.” He looked back at Jack. “The thing that is hounding you and taking you over and making you black out is an evil spirit. Summoned intentionally by my great-grandfather and ordered to destroy our bloodline.”

He saw Jack roll his eyes.

“You know what? I think it's stupid, too!” It came out loud, and half an octave higher than his normal voice, but Michael couldn't help it. “I do this for a living and I can barely say the word ‘demon' with a straight face. You know what else? This thing doesn't give a damn whether we believe in it or not. So much the better if we don't. No one will get in its way.”

Randa shook her head. “It sounds so . . . I mean, I believe in Evil, but . . . demons?”

Michael nodded again. “I know.” He could see a trace of belief in her eyes; he followed it. “Whether we're comfortable with it or not—whether we
believe
it or not—there really is a Devil. There really are demons. There really is some sort of war going on between forces of Good and Evil. All around us. All the time. Infecting our lives in ways we don't even dream of.”

“I wish I
could
believe it,” Jack said. “I'd love to blame everything I've ever done on the Devil.”

“Well, you couldn't do that,” Michael said.

“Why not? Isn't that what you're saying?”

“No. These things can't get in by themselves.”

“What does that mean?” Randa asked.

“It means that somewhere along the way, Jack did something to accept its offer. He took some action, willingly, that unlocked the door.”

Jack was staring at the table. Michael thought he saw Jack react, very subtly, to what Michael was saying. He had a feeling that whatever Jack had done, Jack knew what it was. There was no point in exploring it, though. It didn't matter anymore.

“Look, Jack, you don't have to believe it,” Michael said. “You don't have to believe anything. Just let me do what needs to be done.”

“What's that?” Randa asked.

“He needs an exorcism,” Michael said.

Jack laughed sardonically. “Well, I saw the movie and it looked like a lot of fun, but I'm kind of tied up at the moment.”

“What have you told the police?” Michael asked.

“The truth. I fixed Cathy's gutters, I woke up in the woods next to a mostly empty bottle of Jack Daniel's. I don't remember anything in between.”

“Do they have anything? Witnesses? Evidence?”

Jack shook his head. “They haven't charged me yet, so probably not.”

“I don't see what they could have,” Randa said. “He admits to being in her trailer, so forensics won't prove anything.”

“Okay,” Michael said. “We have to get you out of here.”

“And how are we supposed to do that?” Randa asked.

Michael had already been thinking about it. He remembered something Bob had said to him the day after Danny slashed his father's face.

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

“Offer to take a polygraph,” Michael said.

“He can't do that!” Randa said. “What if he actually did it?”

“I'm telling you,
Jack
didn't do it. He wasn't even there at the time.”

Jack looked anything but convinced.

“Did you know this woman?” Michael asked. Jack winced and shut his eyes tight.

“Yeah,” Jack finally said, in a barely audible voice.

“Were you angry with her about anything?”

“No,” Jack said quickly. “Cathy was my . . .” He stopped. Took a breath. Tried again. “Cathy's the last person I'd ever want to hurt,” he said, his voice trembling.

Randa put her arm around him. She had tears in her eyes.

“Jack,” Michael said, “you have a right to save yourself.”

“Yeah? And what will I have saved?”

“Your life.”

“You've gotta do better than that,” Jack said, and looked away.

Michael gave it a moment, then said, “This thing has already killed a lot of people whom I presume you loved. You're just spitting on their graves if you let it kill you, too.” Michael left that hanging and tried another approach. “You know, you could have a life. You and Randa could have a life together. I know I just met her, but I'd be willing to bet it would never get boring.” Randa smiled and looked embarrassed. “It's not too late. Get married. Get a house. Get a lawn mower. Have kids. Name them after your brothers.” He saw Jack flinch at that. “Look, I don't care if you run away and join the circus. Just don't let this thing win.”

“From where I'm sitting, it's already won,” Jack said.

“I don't notice a noose around your neck.”

“Stick around.”

“Jack, take the polygraph,” Michael said. “Don't tell them you don't remember. Tell them you didn't do it. And if you pass, then you'll know that I'm telling the truth.”

“Don't you mean
when
I pass?”

“Yes. I do.”

Jack looked at Randa. He reached up and brushed a tear off her cheek with his thumb.

“Jack, what could it hurt?” Randa asked. “If you flunk, they can't use it against you.”

“I'm not sure it's flunking that he's afraid of,” Michael said. He looked at Jack. “The real question is, do you have the guts to live, if you pass?” Jack didn't speak or look at Michael. Michael stood.

“I'll leave you guys alone,” he said. Then, to Jack: “I don't know anything about this woman who died, but if she was your friend, I doubt she would want to be what made you finally give up your life.”

Michael's footsteps on the tiled floor punctuated his exit. He reached the door and opened it.

“Michael?”

He stopped. Waited.

“Would you ask Barney Fife to have them send a polygraph examiner?”

Michael nodded. He left to find the sheriff, his feeling of relief completely eclipsed by a stronger feeling of dread.

J
ack passed the polygraph. Apparently he passed it convincingly. Randa overheard the examiner tell the sheriff, “I'd be looking elsewhere.” The sheriff was clearly unhappy—both that he hadn't solved his big murder case, and that he wasn't going to become the town hero for getting rid of the last Landry.

Even with the polygraph results, the sheriff kept them there for as long as he could, but time was running out and he had to let Jack go or charge him with something. Finally Michael got testy and asked if they were planning to charge Jack with felony gutter repair. Said he had a friend at the ACLU who'd be very interested to hear about it. At which point the sheriff got some religion; he grunted warnings about Jack staying close to home, and then he let them go.

Once they were outside, Michael wasted no time.

“We need someplace to do this. We can't do it at the boardinghouse or the rectory. We have to go someplace where the noise won't attract attention.”

“What kind of noise?” Randa asked.

“Trust me,” Michael said.

She supposed the answer was obvious. Demonic noise, whatever that meant. She told Michael about the farm. He nixed it.

“Too much evil in that place. It would have a home court advantage.”

“Let me get this straight,” Jack said, looking at Michael. “You're saying there's something in me . . . that my body is just a shell and I'm actually this invisible . . . thing . . . that lives in it? And I can be displaced by another invisible thing, which happens to be an evil thing . . . that wants to destroy me . . . and after it's done with me, it will go after you?”

Michael nodded. “Basically.”

Jack shook his head. “Why?” he asked. “What's the point?”

“Nothing that I can explain to you quickly,” Michael said.

“You want me to go along with this without understanding it?”

“Jack, if I came home and my house was on fire, I wouldn't stand on the lawn explaining to the firemen how I have all new wiring and batteries in the smoke detectors. I would help them put the fire out.”

“How?” Jack asked. “By magic?”

Michael was getting impatient. “I guess so, from your point of view,” he said. “Look, you just explained it yourself. It's a metaphysical problem. We have to fight it where it lives. If this doesn't work, you're welcome to come up with your own solution.”

“He's right, Jack,” Randa said. “Let's just do it.”

Michael appeared to be deep in thought. “I have to figure out who can help me . . .”

She waited as he continued to think. For a moment he looked like he'd just smelled a bad odor. Then his face changed to something that looked like resignation.

“Okay,” he said out loud.

“What?” Randa asked.

“Get in your car and follow me.”

Michael took Jack in his car and headed north on I-75. Randa followed. They drove for almost an hour. Michael exited the interstate just north of Acworth and she followed him through winding country roads. It was just getting dark when he turned down a long driveway lined with huge live oak trees on either side. At the end of the drive, they came upon a large white antebellum house with a columned porch.

Okay. I'm going to an exorcism at Tara.

Michael waited for her by his car.

“You stay with Jack,” he said. “He's been sleeping since we left Barton. I'll be as quick as I can be.”

“Will I be safe?”

Michael thought about it.

“Okay. We'll all go.”

As Randa went to wake Jack, she glanced back at Michael. He was staring at the house with a look of dread.

A
fter half an hour of being grilled, Michael managed to convince Gabe to put Randa and Jack in adjoining rooms at the end of the hall so they could get some rest. Now the two priests sat in the dimly lit library, going over it all again.

“What makes you so sure it's demonic?” Gabe asked.

“Because of what I learned about Vincent's past. The family curse. Jack and I are the only ones left and we're the ones who are going through this insanity.”

“That's not definitive.”

“And because I feel it.”

Gabe smiled. “Have you explained your ‘feelings' to a psychiatrist?”

Michael looked down at his hands. How could he cut through this crap? He felt sure there was no time to waste.

“No,” he admitted.

“I strongly suggest you start there,” Gabe said. “And the diocese is going to require it anyway.”

Michael shook his head. “Look, I don't expect you to understand feelings, since you don't have any, but I'm right about this.”

“Maybe you are. But you need to go through the proper channels to find out.”

Michael leaned down to look Gabe squarely in the eyes.

“I know there's a human being in there somewhere,” Michael said, “and I really need to talk to him.”

Gabe shrugged. “I'm listening.”

“I tried the ‘proper channels' last time. It took months, and in the end, we were denied permission anyway. And three people ended up dead because we wasted all that time. This . . . thing . . . that is attached to my bloodline, it doesn't just destroy the people it possesses. It takes out as many innocent bystanders as it can along the way. The body count is already high. If you don't help me, you
will
have blood on your hands, I promise you.”