A Name in the Dark

by G S Fortis

“It’s my fault.” The realization and nausea set in. “I took their lives.”

  “They would have taken yours,” she says. “Darcy, these were not innocent people. You heard what David said about them. They were drug dealers. They were ready to kill you, probably because they’ve killed before. Maybe they planned to again. Dudley or no Dudley, you did the right thing protecting yourself.”

  I nod. Part of me feels relief hearing Paige say this. Her words echo the thoughts I wouldn’t allow myself to believe. Self-defense is the only possible justification for what I did. I squeeze Paige’s hand in thanks.

  But even if my actions were justified this time, I am reminded about the deadly power I have in me. This is a power that once stole the life of someone who was innocent and whom I cared about very deeply. Now more than ever, I need to find Santa Muerte. I need to find my demon’s name.

  My head rests on Paige’s shoulder, and I pull her hand to my chest, not wanting to let go. I need to get rid of this demon before I hurt someone I care about again.

  Chapter 19

  ____◊____

  TODAY IS THE DAY I meet Ramon for our visit to the Fowler Museum for the Aztec exhibit. I need to talk to him about what happened in Harvard Park, and I have a favor to ask of him. The museum sits on the UCLA campus, tucked away among the grassy knolls that rise around it. Its tall redbrick walls and Italian arches lead up to the terra-cotta roof, a style that blends in seamlessly with the Romanesque architecture featured in the university’s other structures.

  Inside, Paige and I follow Father Ramon through the exhibit for Aztec artifacts. Since I no longer have my field jacket, I wear a long, thick overcoat. It’s a little too formal for a trip to the museum. Paige says it’s the nicest piece of clothing I own. She’s not wrong.

  For Father Ramon, this visit to the museum is an opportunity to search for more demon names. I’m here because I’m hoping to learn something more about Santa Muerte. From my meeting with Fiona and my wiki research, there’s a lot suggesting her origins go back to the Aztec Empire.

  The gallery is dimly lit, with spotlights directing visitors from room to room. Gold and silver jewelry dangles from wood carvings. Small statues hide under glass cases. Clay pots and other cookware show hints of everyday life in ancient Mesoamerica.

  I find it difficult to fathom time—real time, like ages and epochs. History has become a hobby of mine as I’ve conducted my research into demonology. I’ve learned so much about the history of religions, the different cultures, and the people of all eras.

  I must confess, in everything I’ve studied about religion, God, and this demon inside me, I’ve only grown more confused about the truth of heaven and hell, unsure which religion, if any, is right. Nearly every known religion recognizes the existence of demons. The Ancient Greeks, Sumerians, Egyptians, Buddhists, Hindus, and those who practice Abrahamic religions have not only confirmed the existence of demons but have identified many by name as well. They may not all agree on the definition of good and who God is, but they all believe in and fear the same evil.

  Then there’s Quetzalcoatl. In front of me is a large statue of the serpent god worshipped by the Aztecs. It’s a simple dark-gray stone carving that resembles a coiled snake with a masked man emerging from its mouth. The story of Quetzalcoatl carries a lot of similarities to the Christ story. The bringer of bread sacrificed his life for mankind. He was resurrected, destined to return to his people after death.

  “Darcy,” Paige calls, bringing my wandering thoughts back to Earth. “Check this out.” As I approach, she points at a glass case in which a giant headdress sits on a mannequin’s featureless head. From the gold crown explode hundreds of colorful feathers—blue, purple, red, and green. Paige reads the museum description. “When the conquistadors arrived, they discovered the Aztecs possessed an excess of gold and silver. Though it was often used for jewelry and decoration, what the Aztecs truly prized were colorful feathers. This was more valuable than their gold and silver, which they willingly gifted to the Spanish visitors.”

  “Gifted?” I say suspiciously. If there’s anything I remember from my world history class in the tenth grade, it’s that the Spanish took what they wanted from the Aztecs.

  I look at another stone carving nearby. This one is clearly of a woman wearing a crown of skulls. Her face is also depicted to look like a skull.

  I grab Paige and drag her close. “Look,” I say, pointing. If I didn’t know better, I would say this is Our Lady of the Holy Death—Santa Muerte herself.

  Father Ramon joins us and reads the museum label out loud. “Mictecacihuatl,” he says, perfectly pronouncing a name that looks like someone took a nap on a keyboard.

  I give it a shot. “Mic-tika-waka.”

  “Meek-tay-kah-see-wah-tl,” he repeats.

  “Meek-tay-kah…”

  “See-wah…”

  “See-wah…”

  “Tl. Meek-tay-kah-see-wah-tl.”

  “Meek-tay-kah-see-wah-tl.” I finally get it right.

  “Lady of Death,” Father Ramon reads from the label. “In Aztec mythology, Mictecacihuatl was the ruler of the underworld. Her role is to watch over the bones of the dead. She still presides over some festivals celebrating Dia de los Muertos—the Day of the Dead.” He shakes his head and walks away.

  “I don’t think he’s a fan,” Paige says.

  The Santa Muerte cult represents itself as a Christian church, despite being officially condemned by the Vatican. It’s no wonder Father Ramon is quick to dismiss anything related to Santa Muerte. This one is personal.

  “What do you think?” Paige asks, looking back at the display.

  I follow her gaze. My curiosity is piqued. “There could be something to this.”

  I’m talking not just about Santa Muerte but about my own personal situation as well. Maybe Dudley’s identity has roots in Aztec culture. Maybe that’s how and why Santa Muerte recognized the demon in me. Maybe this case is leading me down a path for a reason.

  I shudder at the thought of having to endure yet another unsuccessful exorcism. I cannot describe how painful an exorcism attempt is. It’s a searing, tearing agony that courses through every inch of my body, like I’m peeling all my skin off then taking a bath in isopropyl alcohol… that’s been lit on fire.

  As we continue our stroll through the museum, I learn more and more about the Aztecs. They did not believe their many gods were evil. They were strict and demanding gods, yes, but not evil. After the conquest by Spain, however, many priests would characterize some of those earlier gods as actual demons.

  The final relic we encounter is a replica of the Aztec sun stone, carved into a circular rock face. It’s twelve feet wide, with ornate symbols in concentric rings. In the center is an angry god holding a human heart in each of his hands. Human sacrifice was part of their culture, but the act of removing the human heart reminds me of Santa Muerte—and of Lupe. Poor Lupe.

  Ramon walks Paige and me out and offers to drive us to my car. I’m quiet, hoping he’ll pick up on the fact that there’s something I want to discuss. As we approach his white Prius, I ask Paige to give us a moment. She knows what I’m about to ask, so she goes for a short walk to give us space.

  I take a seat in the passenger side of his car. We’re alone in the concrete parking structure south of Sunset Boulevard. I can hear the din of traffic racing past in spurts.

  “What is it?” he asks.

  It’s difficult to spit out. Finally I say, “I need reconciliation.”

  Ramon is taken aback. “You want to confess? You’ve never wanted to confess before. What happened?”

  I take a deep breath, then I start talking. I tell him about the case, about Carmen and her drug empire, about Lupe’s murder, and about Santa Muerte.

  * * *

  Ramon sinks into the driver’s seat, trying to absorb everything I’ve just told him. He blesses himself, and I struggle to contain my internal revulsion at this act. Dudle
y tends to cause some minor discomfort whenever I’m near Father Ramon, which I’ve learned to endure. But when he says or does things—whether out of instinct or habit—that are innately religious, Dudley can cause serious pain.

  “I never should have involved you in this case,” he says. “I didn’t realize where it would lead. So much darkness and evil.”

  “Well,” I begin, reluctant to mention why I’m sharing this with him. “I haven’t gotten to the worst part yet.”

  His face falls. “What’s worse than that?”

  Then I tell him about the meth lab. About how I found Sebastian. What they tried to do to me. And what I did to them.

  I can tell Ramon is struggling to find the words to talk with me. He’s usually forthright, but this time he is deliberate. “You have sinned, Darcy.”

  “It wasn’t me,” I say, shaking my head. “It was the demon.”

  Ramon shakes his head. “I’m not so sure.”

  I’m taken aback. “You think I wanted to kill them?”

  “This entity inside you doesn’t merely emerge and cause destruction then retreat. This demon wants you dead so it can bring you back to hell with it. Why would it emerge to save you from getting killed?”

  I’ll be honest—I’ve asked myself this question before. I’ve never come up with an answer I liked. Maybe I’m about to find out why.

  Ramon continues. “The demon does not have power over your body whenever it wants. It only appears at times when you lose control of your inhibitions—when you let your emotions get the best of you.”

  He takes a deep breath. “This demon didn’t use your body to kill those people. You willingly harnessed the demon’s power.”

  I struggle with this notion. I don’t want to admit I committed a murder. Then again, why else would I feel such guilt?

  “How do I control this demon?” I ask.

  “You can’t. The question is, how do you control yourself?”

  I am the first person to admit I’m my own worst enemy. Self-discipline is not exactly one of my shining attributes. I think about the consequences of what I’ve done. Dudley has given me the power to commit a sin, one that could damn me to hell. Even if I exorcise him from my body, I’m now guilty of a mortal sin—murder. And the punishment for that is damnation… right?

  For now, there’s only one thing I can do. I look at Ramon. “I need to make my confession.”

  His eyes widen in shock. “Are you sure? You’re asking me to bless you. You remember what this feels like.”

  I nod. He’s done it once before. Dudley does not like to be blessed, and he lets me know in the most excruciating way possible.

  He starts his car, and we drive out to the entrance to pick up Paige. I direct Father Ramon to an old fire road in the hills where we’ll have some isolation. We make our way as far as you can get from civilization and still be within the Greater Los Angeles Area. Once we park, I can tell Paige is worried. She came all this way to protect me, and here I am, putting myself through another ordeal.

  I turn from the front seat and look at her in the back. “I need you to go for a walk.”

  She shakes her head, confused but resolved. “No. I’m staying.” There’s a reason why she wanted to come. After everything that’s happened in the past few days, she doesn’t want to leave me alone.

  Father Ramon opens his driver’s-side door then addresses Paige. “Paige, may I speak with you?”

  Reluctantly, she exits the car. In the passenger’s-side mirror, I can see them talking at the rear of the car. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but from the shaking of her head, I know she’s reluctant to leave.

  It’s hard to say no to Ramon. He has a calm, reassuring voice—a voice of certainty and reason that’s difficult to contest. It’s what makes him a good priest and an excellent exorcist. Father Ramon has attempted five exorcisms on me and conducted three confessions, and not once has he let Dudley take control of me. Though we have been unsuccessful in expelling the demon from my body, Ramon is the only priest who’s been able to keep it in check. I trust Paige with my life, but I trust Father Ramon with my soul.

  Whatever he says makes its way through to her. She turns and starts hiking up the dirt road. The rear hatch opens, and Ramon starts digging around. We’re actually going to do this.

  I wrap the lap belt around both my wrists then pull until the safety lock engages. My heart is racing, anticipating what’s going to come next. I hope it stays under one hundred ninety beats per minute.

  The rear hatch slams shut. Ramon’s footsteps crunch on the dirt road as he makes his way to the passenger side. I take deep, measured breaths to stay calm—a little trick I learned watching Lamaze videos on YouTube.

  The door opens. Ramon has a bible in his hand and his purple stole wrapped around his shoulders.

  “Oh shit,” I mutter, unable to control myself. My body tenses from anxiety, trying to steel itself for the experience.

  Ramon grabs my seat and pulls it forward, further tightening the belt. “Ready?”

  “Yes.” I shake my head. Nope.

  He crosses himself, and my stomach twists like the worst cramps I’ve ever had.

  “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti…”

  He’s doing it in Latin. Shit.

  I scream. It’s so loud my throat strains and cracks. My body writhes in the confines of the seat belt, twisting and turning. I close my eyes, trying to block out the pain.

  Father Ramon presses his hand firmly on my chest. It burns as if it’s searing my flesh. The overwhelming pressure keeps me trapped in my seat. The pain courses through me, but I’m unable to move from beneath his grasp.

  The alarm on my watch goes off. My heart rate is now over one hundred sixty BPM. This is par for the course, and I know Father Ramon will be able to keep Dudley at bay. He always has.

  “Deus meus, ex toto corde pænitet

  “Me omnium meorum peccatorum

  “Eaque detestor, quia peccando.”

  An inhuman wail escapes my lips. It’s agonizing, and I scream the whole time. The taste of blood pools on my tongue.

  “Non solum pœnas a te

  “Juste statutas promeritus sum.”

  I keep screaming. How Father Ramon manages to keep performing the prayer is a mystery, because I scream for a solid five minutes, and I don’t stop until he says his final “Amen.” Then I pass out.

  * * *

  It’s dark when I wake up. I look at my alarm clock to see it’s 3:33 a.m. Perfect.

  I don’t remember what happened after the confession. I don’t remember how I got home or how I got into bed. Knowing Paige, she probably drove me home, threw me over her shoulder like a lumberjack, carried me upstairs, and tossed me into bed.

  My muscles ache, and my throat is sore, probably from all the screaming. On a lark, I sit up and look at my nightstand. Sitting there are a full glass of water and two aspirin.

  Thank you, Paige. I take the aspirin, drink the water, and go back to sleep.

  Chapter 20

  ____◊____

  LUPE’S FUNERAL IS AT the Westwood Memorial Cemetery. It’s a strange little burial ground, small and unassuming, just a patch of green grass surrounded by skyscrapers amid the Wilshire Corridor. That suits me just fine. I stand on the roof of a nearby parking structure with a bird’s-eye view of the ceremony. I want to be here, but since I’m unable to stand on cemetery grounds, this is the closest I can get. Out of respect, I wear my best outfit—a black pantsuit with my thick wool overcoat and pumps.

  It’s an intimate ceremony with maybe thirty people in attendance. I recognize a few coworkers as well as Paige, who’s wearing a modest black flare dress. Lupe’s son stands at the head of the casket, saying a few words that I can’t hear.

  I scan the rest of the cemetery. David Resnick and Ed Snyder stand a respectful distance away. Once again, Snyder is clutching his daily can of sugar and caffeine. For a change, bo
th are wearing black suits. I can’t help but notice this is yet another new suit for David. Maybe Ed finally convinced him to update his wardrobe.

  They stand near David’s blue Dodge Charger, his police-issued cruiser. That means they’re here on official business. It could also mean they’re looking for me.

  The services conclude, and the attendees slowly make their way past Lupe’s son to offer final condolences. As the people head back to their cars, David intercepts Paige. They exchange a few words, marked mostly by Paige shaking her head.

  Finally, she moves past him. When no one else is around, it looks like Snyder starts reprimanding David, who takes it on the chin, nodding and listening. Snyder ducks into the passenger side of the car and disappears. David does a quick check of the area—no one is around, so I’m the only one who sees him flip off Snyder before he slips into the driver’s side.

  I head down the stairwell to my car on level three. The last of the other guests’ cars are pulling away when I hear the click of Paige’s heels echoing in the stairwell. She rises from up the steps and approaches my car.

  “What did David want?” I ask.

  “He wanted to make sure we weren’t still looking for Elizabeth.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I pleaded the fifth.”

  I laugh and open the driver’s-side door. “And what did he say to that?”

  She opens her door. “That I’ve been spending too much time with you.”

  In that lighthearted moment, when I feel calm and safe for just a second, everything changes. An arm comes out of nowhere and wraps around Paige’s throat. A gun is pointed at her head.

  “Paige!” I cry out instinctively.

  She screams and struggles, but her assailant presses the muzzle of his gun harder against her temple to quiet her. Yury Vilonov issues his order. “Quiet.”

  Paige complies and stops struggling.

  Yury is a very different man from the last time I saw him. He’s panic-stricken and nervous, and his clothes are disheveled and dirty. New scars and bruises mark his face. It looks like he hasn’t slept in days.