Exorcist Road (2 page)

“Was she able to get Carolyn away?”

“Thank God. She pulled Carolyn out from under Casey, but not before Casey smacked Liz in the face again. Anyway, that was about the time Ron was shutting the bedroom door.”

I shot a look at Danny. “Shutting them in?”

He looked at me meaningfully. “Not according to Ron. But I’ve got my suspicions. At any rate, they all three got out and were able to keep Casey contained until we got there.”

“Then what?”

Even though the only illumination in the cruiser was the blue luminescence of the dash and the occasional sodium streetlight on Rosemary Road, I could see the blood drain from Danny’s face. “Then…” His eyes shifted to something on our right. He signaled. “Here’s Ron’s house. Maybe it’s best for you and Father Sutherland to see for yourselves.”

My heartbeat quickened. Father Peter Sutherland was the best priest I’d ever met. And my mentor. “He’s here?”

Danny nodded. “Any minute now.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

Danny glanced at me as we pulled to a stop. “The only way I could persuade Bittner not to take Casey to jail was by telling him we needed to have the boy examined by a priest first.”

“Danny,” I said. “Are you saying you believe this is a case of demonic possession?”

He shut off the cruiser and sat there a long moment without answering. When I was about to abandon it as a lost cause, he said, “I don’t know what it is. I’m no expert at that sort of thing. All I know is what I saw in that bedroom, and it was the scariest damned thing I’ve seen in my whole life. The growling and the roaring and the… My God, Father, it was like a horror movie in there. If I hadn’t been there, I’d have said Jack used excessive force. But I was there. I saw Casey going ballistic. It took everything we had just to get him restrained. Then we went to fetch you guys.”

“How did Bittner get to Father Sutherland’s house?”

“He took Ronnie’s car. The Mercedes. It’s the car Ron drives when he wants to go slumming.”

“Why did you have Jack drive your brother’s car?”

Danny smiled. “First off, I figured you for a tougher sell. Father Sutherland has experience in these matters.”

“He’ll be skeptical.”

“Secondly,” he went on as though I hadn’t spoken, “I didn’t want Jack changing his mind and radioing in to headquarters.” Danny tapped the mouthpiece dangling from the dash. “If he was in Ron’s car, he couldn’t use the radio. And Jack doesn’t carry a cell phone.”

I frowned at Danny in the gloom. “But you just said it yourself—I don’t have any experience. Why was it important for me to get here first?”

Danny shrugged, not meeting my eyes. “I wanted to make sure I was here to protect Casey when Bittner got back.”

“Why would you need to protect him from your own partner?”

“Oh that,” Danny said, and I could see he hadn’t forgotten it at all, but had rather been hoping I wouldn’t ask. “I guess I didn’t tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“Jack thinks my nephew is the Sweet Sixteen Killer.”

Chapter Two

We entered without knocking and were faced with nothing more phantasmagorical than a sprawling, stylishly decorated historical home. The foyer looked thirty feet tall, and I could see a baby grand piano to our left, its sleek black lines dominating what looked like a parlor or sitting room. To the right there was another room, though the door was shut. As we scuffed our sodden shoes on the welcome mat, Liz Hartman appeared from the second doorway on the right.

Examining her blonde hair and her careworn expression, I did my best to keep my expression neutral.

“Did you bring them both?” she asked Danny, her striking green eyes flitting to me and back to her brother-in-law again.

Danny shook his head. “Jack went to get Father Sutherland.” He gestured toward me. “Liz, meet Father Jason Crowder. Father, this is Liz Hartman, my brother’s wife. And, um…Casey’s mother.”

“We know each other from church,” she said. “Hello, Father Crowder.”

I nodded at Mrs. Hartman and ventured a smile, but I could tell right away that she scarcely noticed me. Her forehead was creased, her eyes red-rimmed and wet. She had on a snug-fitting, light-blue T-shirt and equally snug jeans. I put her at about forty, but she was a stunningly attractive woman. I’d often caught myself staring at her during Mass, and on several occasions, I’d lingered on the front steps so I could to talk to her before she and Casey left. And while our interactions were usually nothing more than polite, I’d always sensed a deeper connection between us. Or perhaps that was simply wishful—not to mention dangerous—thinking.

She nodded for us to follow her and disappeared through the doorway. I followed Danny, suddenly conscious of my bedraggled appearance, my cheap, damp clothes and my messy blond hair, which was plastered to my skull in several places from the downpour. On the way into the kitchen, I did what I could to tame it, but with no mirror and no comb, I fear I made a poor job of it. But when we reached the doorway all thoughts of my wardrobe and hair scattered.

The kitchen was the largest I’d ever seen. There were custom cabinets on all four walls, two granite islands. At a glance I thought of a gourmet restaurant in Paris, or perhaps Venice. Whatever kind of people the Hartmans were, they were rich. The pleasing aroma of freshly cut lemons permeated the room, which was meticulously clean. The appliances were stainless steel. On the fridge I saw kids’ drawings and family pictures. One of the photos showed a boy in a baseball uniform. He was smiling at the camera, his bat poised for a swing. Casey Hartman, I thought, remembering how polite the young man always was at Mass. Likeable. Sincere. Not a child capable of violence. Certainly not a serial killer.

A man I presumed to be Ron Hartman stood between the granite-topped islands, his hands planted on either side of what looked like a stiff drink. His black hair was shaggier than I would’ve guessed, and the forearms protruding from his red Blackhawks jersey were larger than I would’ve assumed, given his white-collar profession. He reminded me of a bigger Al Pacino, though there was little of the actor’s sardonic good humor in Ron’s dark eyes.

Across from the man and off to his left sat a little girl I assumed was Carolyn. She had tousled brown hair and wore a violet nightgown. Ron neither spoke to the girl nor seemed to notice her. Before her on the island lay an open coloring book, though the pages and the crayons both sat untouched. The little girl’s morose face was downturned. Her hands lay in her lap.

As we entered the kitchen, Danny made the introductions. Ron took a long drag from his glass, eyeing me steadily. I returned his appraising stare with forced civility.

In the silence, Liz said, “Thank you both for coming.” She gave Danny a grateful look and took a post behind her daughter. I could tell Liz was fighting back tears, but she began to rub her daughter’s slender shoulders anyway, perhaps for something to do.

Ron placed his drink on the speckled countertop and said, “Carolyn, it’s time for you to go to bed.”

Liz’s face stiffened, but she didn’t stop massaging her daughter’s shoulders.

“Do I have to?” Carolyn asked without looking up.

“Now,” Ron said, eyeing me again.

Liz said, “She’s scared, honey.”

Ron had lifted his drink halfway to his mouth, but at his wife’s remark he froze and stared at her. Liz didn’t seem as intimidated by her husband as I was.

Ron was about to say something to her—whatever it was going to be was clearly not affectionate—but at that moment Danny moved up next to Carolyn and said, “Hey, kiddo, let’s head to the basement, okay?”

She looked up at him with large eyes. “It’s dark down there.”

“Then we’ll light that place up like Wrigley Field,” he said, grinning.

He grasped her under the armpits and scooped her easily out of the chair. She was nine and probably about average size for her age, but Danny lifted her as though she were a newborn. I also noted how she allowed Danny to handle her, the two of them obviously having reached a level of comfort few children accord people who are not their parents. My respect for Danny rose another notch.

Once he’d carried her out of the kitchen, Liz said to me, “Father Crowder, did Danny tell you what happened?”

I folded my hands before me. “He gave me the general idea.”

“What do you make of it?”

“Mrs. Hartman, I don’t think I should speculate about Casey’s condition until I see him. And certainly not before Father Sutherland examines him.”

Ron said, “But he told you what Casey did.”

“He told me some of it, yes. Enough to know the child needs attention.”

He chuckled mirthlessly and glanced from Liz to me. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Again,” I said, in a mental frenzy to capture the tone and words I thought Father Sutherland would use, “it would be irresponsible for me to speculate. I haven’t seen the child yet. While we can’t rule out anything, we must first investigate all the likely causes. Some sort of seizure, maybe. A previously undetected psychological condition.”

“Psychological condition,” Ron repeated.

“It’s one of many possibilities,” I said.

Ron leaned forward and raised an index finger toward the second story.

“He threw me across the fucking room.”

Liz frowned. “Please be nice, Ron.”

“Mr. Hartman, I’m not discounting anything. I’m merely saying we should reserve judgment until examining your son. One of the greatest mistakes a priest can make is to attribute a medical or psychological issue to the supernatural. For centuries people have suffered unduly—have even died—because their conditions were misdiagnosed. It’s entirely possible the only thing your son needs is the proper medication.”

“Medication?”
Ron arched an eyebrow at me and began to pace. “With all due respect, Father,” he said and paused for what I was certain was dramatic effect, “you’re what, twenty-five? Twenty-six?”

I told him my age.

He nodded as if he’d expected that. “You’re still very green, Father. In fact—and I’m not trying to be unkind here—but it’s sort of hard for me to address you as Father.”

I waited, not bothering to comment or return his condescending grin.

“When you get my age,” he went on, “and have seen a bit more of the world, you begin to understand people better. Their ways, their idiosyncrasies. You know?”

Again, I didn’t bother to answer. I was sure this was part of a canned speech he gave to his interns and underlings at the Mercantile, and thus he didn’t expect or desire any questions. Ron was probably used to eager nods and bright eyes, but I’d be damned if I was going to give him either of those things. I had already decided that Danny’s brother, though obviously skilled at playing the stock market, was a first-rate jackass.

He patrolled the area between the granite islands like a practiced lecturer. “When someone is as young as you—again, no disrespect intended—and especially when he’s led a…” he glanced at Liz, who I noticed wasn’t watching her husband with any more warmth than I was, and gestured vaguely, “…well, what would you call it? A
cloistered
lifestyle?”

Trying to keep my cool, I said, “I don’t see what my profession has to do with this.”

Ron laughed again, the kind of laugh that declared I was even dumber than he thought. He took a big gulp from his glass, wiped his mouth. “Jesus Christ. I’m glad there are two of you then.”

I opened my mouth to answer—I had no idea what I was about to say, but it would have almost certainly aggravated the already unhealthy dynamic between us—when we heard the front door open and a pair of male voices echo down the hallway.

“That’ll be Bittner,” Ron said, something different penetrating his belligerent expression.

Liz offered me a drink while we listened to them tromp down the hallway, but I demurred. Frankly, I was afraid I’d be unable to keep anything down. She nodded, chewing her bottom lip. I wanted to say something soothing to her, but my eyes caught sight of the laceration along her hairline, her bruised jaw. A chill whispered through me, and I kept quiet.

I moved deeper into the room to accommodate Father Sutherland. He looked every bit as composed as I’d expected him to be, the priest wearing his sable cassock and purple stole as naturally as another layer of skin.

What I didn’t expect was Jack Bittner.

Danny had implied that Bittner had a nasty temper, but what he didn’t mention was Bittner’s sheer size. His unnervingly imposing presence. I guess I’d never really registered how enormous the man was because every time I’d seen him in the sanctuary, he’d been sitting down, and by the time I made my way to the lobby, he was already gone. But now I saw him all too well. Bittner easily dwarfed me and Ron Hartman and would have dwarfed Danny too had Danny been in the room. His shoulders as broad as a bookcase and his arms as thick as church pews, Bittner looked like an aging ex-professional football player, the kind who’d gambled his money away on women and alcohol. Bittner’s unshaven cheeks were speckled with salt-and-pepper stubble. He neither wore nor carried a hat, and though his black crew-cut hair was as wet as mine, he did not appear bothered by this, or to even notice it. His ruddy cheeks were pockmarked, his nose a bit mashed and crooked, like it’d been shattered in some violent brawl. His vast jaw reminded me of some long-ago sea captain, his burly chest and shoulders of some battle-scarred gladiator. On his saturnine face was what I first mistook for a dour courtesy, but what I soon realized was an unwholesome species of eagerness.

Neither Liz nor Ron looked at Bittner, instead focused on Father Sutherland, on whom whatever hopes they retained were clearly riding.

Sutherland nodded at me, then turned to Ron. “Is Officer Hartman here?”

Something momentarily curdled Ron’s features—Derision? Contempt for his little brother?—then he nodded. “In the basement. Have you ever performed an exorcism?”

Bittner grumbled something I couldn’t make out, but the only word discernible sounded like “bullshit”.

While Father Sutherland was not a small man—he was about six feet tall and according to some at the rectory had been quite an athlete in his youth—he looked like a child next to Bittner. Yet Sutherland spoke with an authority that awed me. “The worst error we can make is to rush to judgment. This is a child we’re talking about, and while it seems certain there is something abnormal about this situation, we must remember to respect the sanctity of his life.”

Liz favored Sutherland with a grateful, teary-eyed smile, but Bittner only glowered as if the priest had just insulted him.

Sutherland looked at Liz with that same soothing tact. “I understand Officers Hartman and Bittner restrained young Casey.”

In a small, thin voice, Liz said, “He’s handcuffed to his bedposts.”

Sutherland’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Both hands?”

Liz nodded then raised her arms, demonstrating. She looked to me like she was signaling a touchdown. “Danny bound his legs too so he wouldn’t hurt himself.”

“I see,” Sutherland said.

Danny Hartman reentered, his hat in his hands. He nodded at Sutherland and murmured to Liz with a small grin. “She’s okay. She’s watching
Tangled
.”

Liz touched Danny’s arm. “Thank you.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t do anything. She just needed to blow off steam, so I let her talk a little bit.”

“It’s nice to be listened to,” Liz said with a sour look in Ron’s direction.

Ron didn’t seem to notice.

Jack Bittner’s booming voice broke in, “Are we waiting for anything?”

Danny glanced at me. “I think we’re ready. Do you two need anything else?”

I nodded deferentially at Sutherland, who glanced at Ron Hartman. “If you don’t mind, I think we should have a word of prayer.”

Ron shrugged like he couldn’t care less what we did. Father Sutherland bowed his head. Closing my eyes, I heard Sutherland begin, “Dear Lord, we pray you help us take refuge in the truth, for it is the antithesis of evil and Satan’s greatest bane. We pray you endow us with the resilience to face whatever awaits us with pure hearts and open minds. We pray you shield us with the truth, so that whatever afflicts young Casey be removed from his mind and body. We pray most of all that you guide us through the darkness, through the forest of lies and deceit that Satan uses to ensnare his victims. In your name, Amen.”

Swallowing, I looked up and saw that the rest of the group looked unchanged:

Jack Bittner hostile.

Liz desperate and teetering on the edge of uncontrollable tears.

Ron embarrassed and dubious, the look of a man plainly inconvenienced by some vexing development beyond his control.

Danny as solemn and aggrieved by all of this as any caring family member would be.

Father Sutherland placid and benign.

Everyone was the same.

Except for me. I had changed during the prayer. Far from comforting me and imbuing me with a steely resolve, Sutherland’s words had injected a black stream of dread into my being. I realized that this was not a dream, nor was it some performance to which I would be a disinterested observer. No, far from spectating from a safe distance, I was to be involved, perhaps in some central and fundamental way.