Prayer

by Philip Kerr

  “And you thought that could be me?” She shrugged. “That is a natural mistake for anyone to make, I suppose.” She folded her arms and looked thoughtful for a moment. “How much do you know about this house anyway?”

  “What’s to know? Look, I thought you were a scientist. Surely you don’t believe in all that Amityville Horror shit.”

  “I don’t. I just wanted to hear you say you didn’t believe it.”

  “I don’t know what I fucking believe.”

  “But there is something you’re not telling me.”

  There was, of course. But trying to figure out where to begin convinced me that it was probably a lot better not to begin at all.

  “No,” I said. “I think I told you everything when I was in your office at UT. And you didn’t believe it then. About the only thing that’s happened since is that I’ve been to the church. The one I told you about, where they pray for the destruction of God’s enemies. And now they’re praying for me.” I shrugged. “As a matter of fact, I was there earlier this evening and the pastor—Nelson Van Der Velden—he told me that I had twenty-four hours before the Lord’s angel of death came for my soul.”

  “And you believe that?”

  “Like I said, I don’t know what to believe. But things have happened tonight that I can’t explain.”

  “Such as?”

  “Just—things I can’t explain.”

  “Not yet, you can’t. But just because we can’t see a rational explanation doesn’t mean there isn’t one.”

  I sighed. “Sara, I work for the FBI. Before that, I trained as a lawyer, okay? I was weaned on admissible evidence. So you don’t have to give me the skeptic’s notes on this. I’ve got a pretty hard head of my own.”

  Sara seemed to think better of making her next remark; instead, she said, “It won’t help to argue about this.”

  I nodded. “You’re right. But please try to remember how you felt when you saw the bed, Sara.” I pressed both hands on my chest as if trying to calm my heart. It didn’t work. “That’s how I’m feeling to the power of ten right now.”

  “Meaning what? That I was making something out of nothing?”

  “I didn’t say that. Listen, I think we’ve each had a severe fright. My nerves are in shreds.”

  “Well, mine aren’t much better,” she said. “This past week has been a fucking nightmare.”

  “There’s no monopoly on nightmares,” I said. “Not here.” I took her hand. “What I mean is that there’s no point in taking this out on each other. We need to keep calm so we can figure out what to do.”

  We were both of us naked and Sara went into the bedroom to fetch her T-shirt and put it on.

  “Well, I think I know what to do,” she said, glancing around the floor.

  “You do?”

  “Can you remember where my panties are?”

  “They’re downstairs. I took them off when we were on the sofa.” I frowned. “You’re getting dressed? Why?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m getting dressed because I’m leaving. I can’t stay in this crazy house tonight. Not anymore. Not after all that’s happened.”

  “You say ‘crazy house’ in a way that makes me believe you think it’s me who’s crazy, not the house,” I said.

  “No, I don’t think that at all,” she said. “But I probably will think you’re crazy if you don’t leave with me.” She shook her head. “You can’t stay here.”

  “You think it’s any better out there?” I pointed at the window. “Outside? Anywhere else?”

  She frowned. “But there is something you’re not sharing with me, isn’t there? It might just be that you don’t want to scare me any more than I’m scared already, but we both know that you didn’t get those scratches on a fucking tree.”

  “If I tell you everything, I don’t want you going into a tailspin,” I said.

  “Oh, God,” she said, looking sick. “I was just bluffing in the hope there isn’t any more to know. But there is more, isn’t there?”

  I nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid there is. But mostly I’m just afraid.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  We went downstairs to find her underwear. I started to tell her about the events of the day, but I hadn’t gone very far with my halting, sheepish explanation when she shook her head and, for a brief moment, covered my mouth with her hand.

  “No. I don’t want to know. I just said I did, but really I don’t, Giles. I’m scared enough as it is.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “It won’t help.”

  “Look, all I want to do is get the fuck out of here. Will you come with me?”

  “Sure, but where are we going to go, Sara?” I glanced at my wristwatch. “It’s two a.m.”

  “Anywhere there are people,” she said. “We’ll just get in the Bentley and drive north across the state line. Washington, D.C. Yes, that’s it. We’ll go to Washington.”

  “Washington? It’s twelve hundred miles to Washington,” I said. “What the fuck . . . ?”

  “So? We can be there in a day. Look, Martins, shit like this doesn’t happen in Washington. People are normal in Washington.” She held up her panties and then proceeded to put them on.

  “Why do you think that?”

  “I don’t know. All those fucking lawyers probably. They’re all of them godless skeptics like you and I are. I kind of think that if you’re surrounded by people who believe in a lot of fucking nonsense like ghosts and gods and Christ knows what then it’s easier to believe in those things yourself. That’s why we’ve got to get the hell out of Texas.”

  “You could have a point,” I said, although I was hardly convinced. I was doing my best to humor her; she was close to breaking down altogether and I figured that the best thing to do was just play along with her for now. Maybe a few miles down the road with the top down and some fresh air would help to bring her to her senses. There was a decent-looking motel just off the Gulf Freeway near Texas City where I figured we could probably stay. I’d been planning to stay there myself when I moved out of the diocesan house.

  “Sure, I have a point.” She sighed loudly. “Now I have to go back to the bedroom to fetch the rest of my clothes. Will you come with me?”

  We went back upstairs where I found some clean clothes and she put on the ones she’d been wearing. I also took her gun, my FBI ID and badge, a couple of bottles of water, and my keys. While Sara finished dressing, I rolled up the blind and stared out of the window at the street, which seemed to unnerve her.

  “You’re looking out there like you expect to see something,” she said.

  “It’s what I’m not expecting to see that I’m worried about.”

  “That’s a comforting thought. Could we not do that kind of thing?”

  “I can’t help it, Sara. I can still feel that thing in my arms.” I shivered and rubbed my scalp furiously. “Makes my hair stand on end just thinking about it.”

  “All the more reason for us not to delay,” she said.

  I do his will. As it was of old, in the beginning and in the Bible.

  “Switch off the light,” I told her.

  She switched off the light. “What is it?” she asked nervously.

  “There’s someone out there,” I said.

  “What?” She came over to the window and looked outside. “Where?”

  “He’s standing in the driveway of the blue house on the opposite side of the road. Just by the mailbox.”

  “I can’t see.”

  “Maybe that’s because you’re not wearing your glasses. You’re a little nearsighted, aren’t you?”

  “How did you know I wear glasses?”

  “They’re on the dashboard of the Bentley,” I murmured. “I figure you only wear them for driving.”

  “That’s right. I do.” Sara screwed her eyes up tight and made
an almost painful-looking effort to see what I could see, but without success.

  “Take my word for it, he’s there.”

  “Well, what’s he doing?”

  I wasn’t exactly sure. There was someone there all right, but with the amount of rainwater on the windowpane, it was hard to determine if the figure was naked like the man I’d met in the back garden of Mr. Hindemith’s house.

  “At the moment, he’s doing very little but standing where he is, looking across the street at this house.”

  Sara shook her head. “Well, this is a free country, isn’t it? People can do what they like, surely?”

  “It’s not exactly a night for stargazing, Sara,” I said, as a brief squall of rain hit the glass in front of my nose like a handful of gravel and reminded me of Nelson Van Der Velden’s stupid poem about prayer. But I didn’t want to think about him.

  “No, perhaps not,” she said. “So, what are we going to do?”

  “You’re still determined to leave?”

  “God, yes. I don’t want to stay a minute longer in this house than I have to.”

  “It’ll be dawn soon. We could go then if you like. Maybe the weather will have cleared up. And I’ll be able to see clearly across the street.”

  “No, Giles, please, let’s go now.”

  “Then perhaps I’d better go out there first.”

  “Suppose something happens to you?”

  “I’ve got your gun.” I shrugged. “And when I’ve opened the trunk of my car, I’ll have another gun. Two more, actually.”

  I turned and, folding her in my arms, kissed her freshly perfumed forehead fondly. “It’s all right,” I told her. “You won’t have to stay up here. You can wait inside the front door. Or on the porch if you prefer. When I judge things are safe, I’ll open the car door and you can run straight into the driver’s seat.”

  “That’s on the other side of the car,” she observed. “On his side.” She shook her head. “Perhaps you should drive, Giles.”

  I shrugged. “All right. If you’re sure. But if that was my car, I wouldn’t let anyone drive it but me.”

  “Right now, all I care about is getting out of here as soon as possible.”

  We went downstairs.

  “Here,” I said, handing her the Walther. “You hang on to this.”

  “What happens if you need it?”

  “I told you. I’ve got another one in the trunk of my own car. It’ll take me just a second to fetch it. Just leave the front door ajar, and when I’m ready for you, I’ll call you.”

  She nodded.

  I opened the door, stepped out onto the wooden porch, and went down the steps. Warmish rain showered my face, stinging the scratches a little and soaking my clean shirt. As I walked to the rear of my car, I glanced across the road at the house opposite. The man was still there, not moving, almost as if he were a statue. And this time I was quite sure it was the same figure I’d seen in Mr. Hindemith’s garden: the man was muscular and quite naked.

  I do his will. As it was of old, in the beginning and in the Bible.

  For a second, I remembered the terrible face I had seen in the light of the match I’d struck. And the dreadful, malevolent expression on that face. I wasn’t ever likely to forget it. Not ever. I’ve met some real psychopaths in my time with the FBI, but his was the most awe-inspiring face I’d ever seen.

  I quickly opened the trunk. With the courtesy light on, I swiftly surveyed the array of weapons and protective clothing I kept there. I didn’t think I’d need the vest, but I took my other Glock and the FN self-loading shotgun that was part of an agent’s arsenal. I put the Glock into my empty hip holster and laid the shotgun on the ground before locking up the trunk. Then I picked up the shotgun, racked one up from the six-shot magazine, and turned to face the house opposite.

  For a moment, I just stood there, dumbly rooted to the spot, glancing one way and then the other and feeling a little foolish with the shotgun in my hands. The man was gone.

  “Is he still there?” called Sara.

  She was standing on the porch with the Walther in her hand. Cursing myself for not springing the live round from the automatic’s muzzle before returning the weapon to her, I realized that all that was going to prevent me from getting myself accidentally shot by her was the Walther’s ambidextrous safety catch.

  Toting the shotgun, I walked across the street.

  The blue house was derelict; and I could see no sign of anyone having been there for a long while. Not even a set of footprints I could follow into the backyard. There was only a tremendous sense of loss and time passing—a sensation that was not uncommonly felt almost anywhere in Galveston. But perhaps I also felt a sense of mortality and human insignificance—most likely my own.

  I came back to the Bentley, opened the passenger door, and waved Sara down the steps.

  “He seems to have gone,” I said. For some reason I found myself reluctant to use the word “disappeared,” although that was certainly what it felt like.

  She ran to the car even though it seemed to have stopped raining.

  When Sara was safely in the passenger seat, I went quickly back up the steps, closed and locked the front door of the house, and then returned to the blue Bentley.

  “Where did he go?” she asked.

  “I have no idea,” I said. “But it really doesn’t matter now. We are out of here. Shit, why didn’t I think of this before? All these weeks I’ve been staying in this hellhole of a town by myself, it’s a wonder I’ve not gone fucking crazy.”

  “Who says you’re not?”

  “It’s crossed my mind more than once in the last twenty-four hours.”

  I put the shotgun safely in the backseat, shifted my Glock onto the floor of the car, and hit the ignition button that started the big six-liter engine.

  The seat belt warning alarm began to toll like a church bell, only it seemed to be prompting me not to buckle on the belt but to address the loaded Walther that was still clutched in her hand about ten inches from my neck.

  “Here,” I said, taking the gun gently from her. “Just in case you don’t like my driving.”

  I took the Walther and looked around the car’s sumptuous leather interior. I put the gun in the glove compartment.

  “There,” I said. “That’s better.”

  I shifted the seat a little with an electric button and then reached to adjust the movie theater–size rearview mirror, which was when I found a length of silver chain and a medal hanging from it like a cabdriver’s lucky charm.

  “What’s this?” I said.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “This is your car,” I said, unthreading the chain. “You must know.”

  “It wasn’t there when I arrived here earlier.”

  I switched on the courtesy light and turned the medal in my fingers, confirming what I already strongly suspected. The Scottish design was unmistakable; the head of St. Christopher quite distinct; if anything, it seemed more sharply defined than I remembered, as was the inscription on the back. Only it couldn’t have been that medal. Not in this world. I felt the faraway faint flash of another life in another time that someone very like me had lived in a parallel universe. My chest tightened and a cold sweat appeared on the back of my neck and my hands.

  “It must have been there,” I whispered. “You must have . . . surely . . . It doesn’t make sense . . .”

  But even as I spoke, I knew she really didn’t know anything about the medal; she couldn’t have. The medal wasn’t hers. It never had been. It wasn’t anything to do with her. I was quite certain she’d never even seen it until she’d got into the car alongside me.

  The medal was mine.

  “Oh, God,” I heard myself mutter, and I sank weakly back against the leather seat as if my whole spine had simply disappeared from my torso. The me
dal couldn’t have weighed more than a few grams, but it seemed as if it weighed a ton in my hand.

  She took the medal from me and examined it more closely on the palm of her hand. “It’s a St. Christopher’s medal,” she said.

  “At least I’m not imagining that, I suppose.”

  “What the fuck do you mean?”

  I shrugged, but it must have been clear that I didn’t dare answer her for fear of sounding like a lunatic.

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “G. Martins. April 5, 1988.” She frowned. “This is your St. Christopher medal.”

  “Yes.” My voice was full of dread. “It is.”

  She handed the medal back. I looked at it sadly, remembering the events of that distant day in Glasgow. I saw my mother’s face so full of pride; I felt the cold in my thin white cotton shirt; I could even taste the host on the roof of my mouth. I remembered peeling it off my palate and then spitting the thing into the center of my handkerchief as if it had been a piece of spent chewing gum. I remembered the sickening sense of loss when I returned home after the confirmation and found my medal was gone and the frantic and ultimately hopeless search to find it again. I remembered it all as if it had been yesterday.

  “Well then, why ask me about it, Giles? I don’t understand.”

  I sighed. “I don’t understand, either,” I said. “This is my medal all right. I got it on the day I was confirmed. Which was also the day I lost it. In Scotland, when I was just a kid. I haven’t seen it since, Sara.”

  “Giles? What the fuck are you talking about?”

  I groaned. “I don’t know,” I said, and switched off the engine. The silence between us was as thick as a fog. And I knew we were already drifting apart again, like two lost ships.

  “You don’t know. Well, that makes two of us.”

  “Sara, I’m absolutely certain that this medal wasn’t hanging on the mirror when I came outside to put the top up.”

  She glanced across at the blue house. “The man who was over there—the one you claim was there.” She shrugged. “Perhaps he put it there. Well, why not? I suppose it’s just about possible. He could have got into the car somehow, although I really don’t see how. He must have had something to do with it.”