by Lincoln Cole
“I don’t believe so.”
“Very well, Mr. Reynolds. Please, enjoy your stay.”
He thought to correct her that Father Reynolds was the man who’d made the booking, and that he was Father Paladina, but then elected not to. He was a precise man, but rarely petty.
Niccolo carried his suitcase up the stairs and down the hall to his room. The décor of the hallway appeared plain with a maroon color palette on the walls and carpeting that simultaneously attention grabbed and disgusted. The lights glowed soft and dim and very yellow.
His room seemed better, but not by much. The walls still sported an off-shade of red, and the carpet layered too thick, but at least it looked less ostentatious. On a cursory inspection, the bed appeared lumpy, and he found mildew in the bathroom. His only consolation came from the fact that he wouldn’t stay here for long.
He set his luggage on an armchair by the window, checked the thermostat to make sure it was set appropriately, and then turned his attention to the bed. It looked old and worn out, and he couldn’t help but imagine the thousands of previous guests who might have slept here. He wouldn’t dare to sleep underneath the sheets, but perhaps on top of the blanket would prove acceptable.
Niccolo took off his shoes but left the rest of his clothes on before lying on top of the comforter. The bed felt softer than he would have liked, but in his present state of exhausted jet-lag, he didn’t much care.
Paladina closed his eyes and laid his head back on the pillow. Rather quickly, he fell asleep.
◆◆◆
A ringing sound from the bedside table next to him awoke Niccolo sometime later. The hotel room had grown considerably darker than when he’d first laid down, and it took him a few moments to gather his bearings.
Outside, rain pattered against the window, coming down in thick sheets and blanketing him in a constant lull of sound. He rubbed his face, pushing himself into a seated position, and then he rolled his body toward the sound.
It came from the room’s telephone, which meant it was probably his wake-up call. He could hardly believe it had reached that time already, considering it felt like he’d only laid down minutes ago. He fumbled for it, missing the handle a few times in the darkness, before finally knocking it loose and onto the table. Then he picked up the handle, groggy, and held it to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Uh … Mr. Paladina?”
“Father Paladina,” he replied before he could stop himself.
“I was … uh … supposed to call you?”
“Was that a question?” He rubbed his face again.
“I had a note on my desk.” The young man on the other end of the line sounded like a teenager. “It said to call you and wake you at this time. And, uh … well, wake up, I guess?”
“And I have,” Niccolo said. “Thank you.”
Then he dropped the phone back onto the stand and collapsed back onto the bed. If anything, he felt worse from his short nap and wanted nothing more than to roll over and fall back into the comfort of sleep. The rain sounded gentle and relaxing, and the warmth of his lumpy bed seemed rather pleasant just now.
However, he had an engagement with Bishop Leopold Glasser that he couldn’t afford to miss. Niccolo had called the bishop prior to his flight to Everett, hoping to get his take on the situation at hand and to explain his purpose for coming here. It would be improper to work behind the bishop’s back, even if it were his duty on behalf of the Vatican, and he owed him at least the courtesy of explaining the situation in person.
Bishop Glasser had insisted they meet at his house, though Niccolo had remained unwilling to divulge the nature of his visit over the phone. He wouldn’t speak of something so important over such a long distance, especially when he couldn’t smooth things over in person. Paladina had no doubt that his business here would infuriate the bishop and undermine his authority; exactly what Niccolo didn’t want to do.
Niccolo had, graciously, accepted the bishop’s invitation to visit his home. So, he couldn’t let himself fall back into blissful sleep on his lumpy bed and would need to get moving so that he wouldn’t arrive late.
With a heavy sigh, the priest forced his legs over the side of the bed and stood, stretching out his tired body. He stumbled to the restroom, flicking on the light switch as he went, and splashed cold water onto his face. It helped a little, and he took a moment to study his reflection in the mirror. Tired bags hung under his eyes, and his hair looked wild and tangled, but otherwise, he looked acceptable.
Niccolo liked to think himself a handsome man, in his early thirties and dignified with a long face and striking black eyes. He kept his mustache trimmed and thin, wore his hair long, and spent a lot of time and effort maintaining his cultivated appearance, and knew he suffered from a modest amount of vanity, but it translated into confidence.
He enjoyed standing out in a crowd.
Finished using the facilities, he turned off the light and headed out into the main room to gather his shoes and dig his umbrella out of the luggage. He had, of course, packed one for this sojourn, much the same as if he had been heading to England or somewhere else where it often rained, and he would have felt surprised if he hadn’t found occasion to use it on this trip. The priest hadn’t dreamed he would need it earlier, though, and didn’t intend to get caught off-guard a second time.
A few minutes later, he found himself back out in the rain in front of the hotel. A car sat waiting next to the curb for him, a black limousine, and the driver stood next to the passenger door with his arms folded. He wore a poncho, but he looked soaked nevertheless. No doubt he had stood waiting there for some time for Niccolo to show.
The man had the practiced and blank expression of someone long used to serving important men without letting his emotions through. He didn’t speak, but instead, opened the door and allowed Father Paladina to slide in to the backseat.
A moment later, they wove their way through the city of Everett, Washington, and beyond, heading for the private residence of Bishop Leopold Glasser. The bishop lived a few miles outside the city, and by all accounts, he had an impressive home.
Chapter 2
The trip to Leopold Glasser’s countryside estate took longer than Niccolo expected. The bishop lived far outside the city in a thickly wooded area. Trees surrounded them in all directions and flanked the roadway like a tunnel. The estate backed up against a Federal park that extended for dozens of miles.
Father Paladina felt certain the drive would have looked beautiful in the day with the sun out to light their way, but traveling through the forest at night turned out quite eerie and made him uncomfortable. The trees seemed to close in around them, tall and spindly without their leaves.
Bishop Leopold Glasser’s estate outside of Everett appeared ostentatious and expensive; two floors and many thousands of square feet. The sight of it made him cautious about the bishop. Niccolo disliked such wasteful spending, yet many clergy leadership participated in the activity. Such men spent more effort propping up their station and creating an image than they did on solving problems in their communities.
They did, however, work as servants of their communities. The more distance they put between themselves and the people they served, the more difficult it became to understand what such people needed.
An unfortunate, yet forgivable, offense.
The rain stopped at some point during the drive; something of a relief. The air had a pleasant and earthy taste to it when he stepped out of the town car and onto the gravel driveway. He breathed deeply, enjoying the scents of nature, before heading up the steps toward the front entrance.
The door opened as he approached, and a butler met him. A tall and well-dressed man with hard eyes and an emotionless demeanor.
Wordlessly, he led Niccolo through the foyer of the home and upstairs. Leopold met him in an office on the second floor, but the first thing that greeted Niccolo was the smell of cigarette smoke pouring from the room.
The chamber appe
ared rich in its decor with soft cream-colored walls and gray carpeting. A fireplace spilled heat into the room, and an overhead fan sucked up a cloud of smoke as it wafted lazily across the ceiling.
Rich and ornate tapestries decorated one wall. They depicted historical events throughout the past millennia that had importance for the Church, including the Last Supper and a rather immodest representation of Joan of Arc that Niccolo disregarded immediately as tasteless.
Finally, Niccolo turned his attention to the bishop. Leopold Glasser seemed a short man with a trimmed black beard, and he had a bald spot at the top of his head. He held a cigarette between stained fingers, and a crumpled pack rested on the desk beside him. In his late forties, he’d started to turn gray, but not in a dignified way. Time had not been kind to him.
A young man sat in a nearby chair, reading a book. He was maybe fourteen years old with curly black hair and angular features. He looked up when Niccolo entered but didn’t say anything. He frowned at Niccolo and then returned to his book.
Father Niccolo had heard a lot about Washington’s Bishop, and very little of it flattering. Much of it, he assumed, came down to pure gossip—a favorite pastime at the Vatican.
In practice, Niccolo disregarded such rumors. He didn’t like to cast judgment upon people he’d never met and preferred forming opinions of his own about people; however, he also acknowledged that rumors and prejudice, on occasion, held nuggets of truth. After surveying Leopold for only a few seconds, his first impression indicated that he wouldn’t much like the man. He seriously doubted that the bishop could do much to change his opinion.
“Welcome,” Leopold said when Niccolo walked into the room. He leaned heavily against his expensive wooden desk with a small smile on his face. “It is a pleasure to meet you in person finally, Father Paladina.”
“Likewise,” Niccolo said, striding over and shaking the smaller man’s hand.
The bishop gestured his hand toward the young man. “This is Jeremy. He’s been staying in my home for the past few weeks. Jeremy, please say hello to Father Paladina.”
Jeremy didn’t look up from his book. “Hello.”
“Hello, Jeremy,” Niccolo said.
“Run along now, Jeremy. I have much to discuss with Father Paladina, and I believe you have lessons to attend to anyway.”
Jeremy flashed Niccolo a look of annoyance, but he did nod. He closed the book and walked out of the room, brushing rudely past Niccolo and into the hall. A few moments later and a door slammed shut.
Bishop Glasser turned his attention back to Niccolo. “I apologize. The child has been through much. He recently lost his family.”
“No apology needed.”
“I trust you had a pleasant journey?”
“Not exactly pleasant, but acceptable.”
“I must confess, your presence here intrigues me more than a bit. On the phone, you told me little about why you planned to make this trip. It seems a long way to come just to have dinner at home; so, might I ask why you came all this way?”
Niccolo couldn’t suppress his frown at the man’s demeanor. Leopold got right to the point and in a mildly aggressive way, which gave another strike against him. Civility and pleasant conversation provided an important cornerstone of modern civilization. He would have greatly preferred discussing issues like this with a full stomach.
“The silence about the issue was intentional,” Niccolo replied. “This is a rather delicate matter that should get attended to in person. Not over the phone.”
“Oh? I trust it isn’t anything too serious?”
“It pertains to one of the priests whose Parish you oversee. Father Jackson Reynolds.”
A look of something—dislike, maybe—flashed across the bishop’s face when Niccolo spoke the young priest’s name. It disappeared almost as soon as it had shown, however, and the man’s small and demeaning smile returned.
The bishop shifted to the side, dropped the butt of his cigarette into an ashtray on his desk, and then drew another one out of the pack with his teeth. He lit it, took a deep draw, and then, finally, turned his attention back to Father Paladina. He lowered himself into a seat across from Niccolo and pursed his lips.
“Ah, Father Reynolds. He is a dear friend.”
“I was told he came to you a few weeks ago about a member of his congregation. An elderly woman, behaving erratically, and who he believed needed help.”
The bishop frowned and waved his hand in dismissal. “He spoke of this in our last meeting. He believed the woman had experienced a possession and wanted me to request an exorcist from the Vatican to help her.”
“Yet, you did not send his request along?”
“I went through my due diligence and looked into the matter personally. I gave his request all of the attention it deserved and met with the woman myself.”
“Did Jackson go with you?”
“No, I went alone. I wanted to meet with Ms. Rose Gallagher without any preconceived notions or biases. After meeting with her, I did not agree with his conjecture.”
“You didn’t believe she was possessed?”
“Rose lives by herself and suffers from loneliness. She sees her family only rarely, and I admit, she seemed quite troubled when I met with her. Troubled but not possessed. I denied Jackson’s request to pass the information to the Vatican and asked him to speak no further of the issue.”
Niccolo nodded, pursing his lips. “The issue did not end there.”
“I can see that.”
“I’ve come here to present a full report on the situation and determine if Jackson’s concerns should get looked into further.”
“You’re an exorcist?”
Niccolo squirmed a little in his chair. “I am. But, should I determine that the Church will get involved in this situation, they will send someone else to handle the exorcism itself.”
“I see. I feared something like this might happen,” Bishop Glasser said. “Jackson is a rather … persistent young man.”
Niccolo could tell that the word ‘persistent’ hadn’t come to the bishop’s mind first. He also couldn’t fault the man for his edge of anger—he would have felt furious, too, if one of the priests under his charge went over his head and attempted to supersede him on so important an issue.
“My duty is to search for evidence and report back without biased input from either of you,” Niccolo said. “However, I thought it only dutiful to notify you that I will speak with Father Reynolds in the morning about these matters on behalf of the Church.”
“It’s a waste of time.”
“Of that, I have no doubt. Nevertheless, I must oblige the young priest and investigate this issue. I intend to report everything I find to the Vatican as accurately as possible. As I am sure you can imagine, this puts me in a rather tricky position.”
“One I don’t envy.” The bishop nodded. “Naturally, Jackson will ask you to speak with the old woman, and you will come to the same conclusion I did. She is a lonely woman who needs help, but not the kind of help that the Church can offer.”
“My superiors believe that as well.”
Bishop Glasser rose from behind his desk and walked over to a counter. It had various decanters on it filled with amber and brown liquids.
“Would you like a drink?”
“No, thank you.” Niccolo stood too. “I don’t partake.”
The bishop poured himself a glass and took a long sip before turning back to face Niccolo. The expression on his face seemed one of poorly disguised frustration, tinged with something darker. He held up the glass to the light, swirling the liquid.
“So, the Church sends an exorcist to dismiss the rumors of a wayward priest?”
“I didn’t come here as an exorcist.”
“Come now. Your reputation precedes you, Father Paladina. I know those whom you serve.”
“I have been trained, but I have not sat in upon a true exorcism.”
“Never called upon to serve God in that capacity?”
“And why do you think that is?”
A moment passed in silence. Niccolo struggled to ascertain whether the bishop meant to insult him or not. He hoped that the bishop simply spoke out of ignorance. “An occasion has never arisen in which the Church has asked me …”
He trailed off when a mocking smile spread on the bishop’s face.
“No. It has nothing to do with occasion or circumstance. It is because demons are not real,” the bishop said. “A fact which every priest worth his salt knows but none feel willing to admit. You know it. I know it. The Church knows it. Demons are an invention to scare lay people into giving larger donations to their parish.”
Niccolo didn’t respond immediately, but his blood seethed at the words. The bishop might be correct in his beliefs—Niccolo tended to feel torn on the issue—but it wasn’t Bishop Glasser’s place to speak openly about something like this. Certainly not to a practicing exorcist.
However, attempting to refute the ignorant man would prove a waste of time. A growing sect of the Church shared the bishop’s opinion. It made for a sensitive topic, and one not often brought up in gatherings. The people who felt passionately one way or another about the existence of demons never got swayed easily.
Niccolo’s opinion on the matter came down on the side that demons represented a darker part of humanity, much like the idea of heaven and hell. Demons represented a loss of control. Such a loss, even if only a perceived loss, could become devastating.
To personify them came down to design. Demons were human creations to help build symbolistic connections between the mundane and religious aspects of life. They inspired understanding and faith, and even if purely abstract, they also proved very real.
He didn’t believe that actual demons existed in the world, which lived in hell, like many in the Church maintained. Niccolo did allow that demons served as a representation of the inner darkness within humanity itself. He had taken courses at the Vatican on exorcism and demonology and had come to realize that much of the teaching and process was about offering forgiveness to people who believed themselves unworthy of it.