Dark Debts (46 page)

He tightened his grip on the holy water, all the while thinking how stupid he was to consider it a defense.

Can't kill me. I've got holy water.

The hall was littered with food wrappers, old blankets, and other signs of the street people who called this hellhole home. The smell of urine was even stronger. Michael ignored it and made his way down the hall.

There were three rooms to the suite, and three doors. They were all closed. Michael chose the middle one, which led to the room that had been the parlor; it accessed both bedrooms. The bedroom doors were closed, too. Michael knew which room Jack was in: the one where his family had stayed that night. He took a moment to center himself.

The light from the hot stretch of Peachtree cast a blue glow into the room. The paint on the walls was peeling, not just in places, but everywhere. Michael looked out the window. What must it have been like? To sit here staring out at safety, at the world going about its business, while death moved rapidly closer?

Must have felt a lot like I feel right now.

He reached for the knob on the door to the corner room. Turned it. Pushed the door open slowly.

He saw Jack—or rather, the wretched thing that now controlled Jack—glaring at him with a repulsive smile on his miserable face.

“Well, look who's finally here. Did you have to run to New York first and screw your girlfriend?”

Michael felt himself cringe at the accusation, but forced himself to ignore it. He couldn't afford the distraction. Had to get his bearings. The room was small and hellish. Same peeling paint; same blue light from the street; same strange shadows. There was an odd metallic smell in the room that Michael recognized but couldn't place. Jack was standing in the corner, grinning mockingly at him.

Jesus, what now? Everything that hasn't fazed him before?

There was nothing else to do. Michael crossed himself.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son . . .”

“Oh, no,” the demon said. “No. We're not going to do the mumbo-jumbo again. And we need to clear up a few things about who's running the show.”

Before Michael could wonder what he meant, it started again. His psyche was invaded by a sense of futility. Hopelessness. Pointlessness. The overwhelming impression that everything good and beautiful and holy was just a façade. Michael tried to fight it by conjuring up an image the demon couldn't defile.

A rose. It withers and dies and rots and stinks . . . A child. Who grows into an adult who lives a miserable, useless life full of pain and heartache, until gradually the body begins to break down at the same rate as the hope, and the dreams die and rot just like the body.

“Stop!” Michael yelled. The demon just laughed.

Michael could sense something changing. He began to feel dizzy. The air grew heavy and hot. The smell came back. The room started to spin. He felt the same pressure as before. The same pain shot through his head. He closed his eyes; it was all he could do not to scream. He could feel himself shaking, straining against the pain. It lasted for a full two minutes, and then it was gone, as suddenly as it had appeared.

The smell had changed. The rotten garbage smell was gone, replaced by a strong smell that Michael instantly recognized, from a lifelong fear.

Smoke.

He opened his eyes. The room was much darker, and full of smoke. The air was hot and thick. He dropped down and tried to crawl toward the window. He couldn't see anything through the smoke; didn't know where the window was. He moved in what he thought was the right direction.

He heard a sound he didn't recognize immediately. It seemed to fade into the room. As it got louder, he recognized it as a child crying.

A child? What child?

The smoke grew thinner and he could see the window. But there was something else. He squinted, tried to focus his smoke-filled eyes.

No. It can't be.

There were people by the window. Two women, one holding a toddler. Two men. All coughing, struggling to breathe. The women were crying. The child was crying.

No. He can't do this.

But obviously he could. Michael was back there. Or maybe the demon had just made it all materialize. It didn't matter.

A reenactment. Aren't they all the rage now?

Vincent. Michael's parents. His grandmother. Himself. He glanced out the window. There was no Ritz-Carlton. Somehow, he was back there. Being forced to live through it. Feel it. Smell it.

Michael tried closing his eyes, but the scene didn't disappear. If anything, it got clearer. There was nothing he could do but watch.

His father and Vincent were throwing a rope made of wet bedsheets out the window. The other end was tied to the bed frame. They tugged on it to make sure it was tight, then Vincent started down it.

“Send Claire down when I get to the ladder,” Vincent said to Michael's father. Matthew nodded. The women were holding on to each other, crying. Laura was rocking Michael in her arms, trying to calm him. They all had to put their heads out the window to breathe, though the smoke-filled air outside wasn't much of an improvement.

Michael's father held the rope for extra security while Vincent climbed. The women watched out the window, their faces tense with fear.

Michael looked at his father. Matthew Kinney, standing there, alive. A man who'd never been anything but a question mark to Michael. Michael had never realized how young Matthew had been when he died. Ridiculously young. And handsome. He looked like a younger version of Vincent. He looked strong in body and spirit. Michael had never imagined his father as strong. He tried to move closer, to be closer to Matthew, but found he couldn't move at all.

“He made it,” Matthew said, watching Vincent through the window. His voice was full of amazement. “We're going to make it.”

The women were laughing through their tears. “Come on, Mother,” he said to Claire. “There's no time to spare.” He helped Claire through the window. “Don't look down,” he said. “Use your feet to feel for windowsills.” Claire nodded. Matthew kissed her on the forehead, and she started down the rope. She looked terrified, but she moved quickly. Matthew and Laura watched.

“You're doing fine,” Matthew called. “You're almost there. A few more feet.” He stopped to cough, and to take a breath.

“I can't believe it,” Laura said, laughing, crying. “We're not going to die.”

“Come on, let's get you down,” Matthew said. “Give me Michael.” Laura handed the child over to Matthew. She kissed them both.

“Don't drop him,” she said, her eyes pleading.

“Laura, I'd die before I'd drop him,” Matthew said. Michael felt a different kind of pain shoot through him. He could feel the love from this man he'd never known. The love that was about to be ripped away from him.

My God . . . don't make me live through this
 . . .

Why should He answer your prayer? He didn't answer theirs.

Laura climbed through the window and started down. Matthew watched her disappear. “You're doing great,” Matthew said. “There's a windowsill about two feet below you. Just try to—” Matthew began to look concerned. He seemed to be listening to something Michael couldn't hear.

“No. You can hold on. You
can
, Laura. You
have
to! You're not slipping. No, you're
not—”

He was cut off by the sound of a scream. “Laura!” Michael tried to yell, too, as if it could help. Nothing would come out of his mouth. And then he felt the spinning sensation again, and the pressure. The air around him changed, from searing heat to chilly, moist night air. New smells faded in. Pine trees. Candles. Smoke again, but not as strong. Some sweet smell he didn't recognize. Colors began to break through the darkness and a new scene appeared. Men in long black robes. A fire. Noises. Chants. Moans. Howls. The scene became clearer and Michael was surrounded by frenzied activity. He was in the middle of an orgy.

Opium. That smell is opium. How do I know that? Dear God, don't make me be here . . .

The men were all paired and grouped and their robes were open down the front and Michael refused to look at what was going on, but their faces were enough to tell him everything.

And then Michael saw Vincent.

Seventeen-year-old Vincent, but unmistakably Vincent just the same. On the altar in the middle of the circle. A young girl who must be Rebecca beneath him, terrified: screaming, crying, begging. Her pleas were useless, falling to the ground unheard. The look on Vincent's face dissolved any hope Michael had harbored. Vincent was enjoying the hell out of it.

The strange reality shifted and all the sounds faded except for Rebecca's screams and Vincent's heavy breathing . . . and then it all seemed to speed up and Michael felt himself caught in the frenzy . . . and then Vincent's breath became Michael's breath, and somehow Michael was suddenly seventeen again . . . not watching, he was actually back there . . . not in the woods . . . in Donna's basement on the sofa and she was under him and he could feel her mouth on his neck and their breaths rose and fell together and the frantic sounds he heard were his own and he could hear Donna calling his name and he didn't answer, didn't stop, didn't slow down and she called more insistently and she was pleading now (
“Michael, pull out! Michael!”
) and he didn't and he
could have
, but he didn't and then it was too late and he heard his own cry and then it became Vincent's and he was back in the woods and now it was Michael, not Vincent, who was on top of Rebecca and inside her as she screamed and her screams just excited him more and he could feel his body exploding with the pleasure of it as he gasped for breath and he could feel the heat of the ceremonial fire on his face and he could smell a mixture of booze and candle wax and semen and incense and somehow every smell seemed to wrap itself around him with slimy fingers and they wrenched the pleasure away and left a shell of self-loathing and then the scene changed again and he saw nothing but a flesh-colored blob . . . it started to take shape and it became a fetus, fully formed, totally human, sucking its thumb . . . and then a sound, a wailing that was coming from the baby, who was being pulled apart, limb by limb, by unseen hands . . . blood filled the screen of his mind, but not before he saw the pain and terror on the innocent face and he knew that the Satan worshipers had nothing to do with it . . . his baby, his fault, his selfishness, his crime . . . and the blood poured over him and he was covered in it and he could feel it hot and sticky and in a blinding flash he saw that he hadn't escaped the ghastly legacy at all . . . born of murderers, he was a murderer himself . . . his soul was blackened beyond repair, beyond redemption, and if there
was
a guy in a flannel shirt, He'd been finished with Michael for a long time, wouldn't hear him if he begged for mercy . . . the black hole in his soul was going to be Michael's home for the rest of eternity . . . he heard Donna's pleas again and Rebecca's screams and the baby's, and all the Landrys' and their victims' and the Ingrams' and the people's who died in the fire and all the screams reached a crescendo together . . . an ungodly sound . . . the sound of ruin and waste and destruction and hopelessness . . . He was the only person who could have made a dent in the agony and it was too late . . . He joined the scream and he screamed and screamed and finally realized he was back in the room . . . and the demon was howling with laughter.

“And you think a few words from your sanctimonious friend will save you from that?”

Michael was gasping, trying to get his breath back.

“Where's your hope now, Padre?” the demon asked. “Where's your savior?”

Not here . . . He's not here . . . It was just a dream . . . No Jesus, just an angry, vengeful God who has it in for me . . . I've been living a lie . . . My whole life is a lie . . .

Michael was crying. He forced himself to stop. Didn't want to give the demon the satisfaction of seeing it. He was standing in front of the window. He looked down at the street below.

This is what I could do. I could offer my life as a penance.

“Yes, you can,” the demon said. “It's all you can do.”

Would that repay the sacrifice stolen from Vincent's cult? Would that be the end of it?

The demon laughed. “Good, Padre. Now you're getting the hang of it.”

The window suddenly slammed open. Michael looked at it. If he really believed that this would end it all, that the demon would leave and the trail of dead bodies would end . . .

You can't trust him. With you gone, he'll kill Randa and then Jack.

Michael put the window out of his mind and instead, he doused Jack with holy water in the shape of a cross. Jack yelled and recoiled as if he'd been scalded. Michael summoned words from the
Roman Ritual
.

“I command you, unclean spirit, whoever you are, along with all your minions—”

The demon filled the room with loud, maniacal laughter. When he could catch his breath, he said, “Let's revisit the window idea, shall we?”

Before Michael could wonder what he meant, there was a loud whooshing sound, and the entire side of the room burst into a wall of flames. They covered the door and quickly began to spread toward Michael.

Is this real?

The heat was certainly real, as was the smoke that was filling the room. Not in gray clouds, as before, but thick and black and acrid. In no time, Michael could barely breathe. He moved to the open window and stuck his head out to get fresh air.

“ 
Now
you'll jump.”