Decatur

by Patricia Lynch

  Father Weston, Max and Marilyn then told their tale for the head of the newly formed paranormal research institute, their words sometimes overlapping even as they spoke in hushed tones. She stopped them a couple of times, asking questions and making observations so they could see how it wove together with one event threading into another and what had led up to them being with her now. They hardly noticed when the student returned with red plastic baskets piled high with crisp skin-on fries. But under Gretch’s encouragement, their hands dug into the baskets and there was a momentary orgy of dipping and chewing until Marilyn looked up at Father Weston snarfing yet another sour cream doused fry down and said, “I know things are bad, but are these the best French fries you’ve ever had or what?”

  Gretch laughed then, and patted her on the shoulder. “Good, you’re resilient. You’ll need that in the days ahead. I didn’t have much time to research the Castello Aragonese, Max, but I didn’t need to, either. As you may already know there are sites around the world that attract paranormal activity both positive and negative. Without question the Castello is one such site.” She consulted a legal pad and softly read aloud a

  brief summary of its history including the long record of attacks by Goths, pirates, and Turks. The ancient castle that went back nearly fourteen centuries was located on a volcanic rock attached to the Ischia Porto by a bridge built in the middle-ages. The booth grew very still. Gretch noted there had been a nunnery that had been located in the Castello with curious and grotesque burial practices that involved collecting the bodily fluids of the dead sisters.

  “It’s real,” Marilyn whispered.

  “Yes it is. And those soul’s tears create the powerful religious relic that would attract the animphage,” Gretch said, her eyes suddenly desolate. “But what worries me, aside from the brutal attack on your colleague, Weston and my fears for Marilyn, is what about the hidden celebrant at that temple? He was undergoing a renewal of his own, which would place him deeper in the infernity’s rings of power.”

  “Are you sure you’ve told us everything you know, Marilyn?” Gretch’s voice was insistent and Max winced. He didn’t think Marilyn was in any shape to undergo another investigation, at least not tonight.

  “Look, she’s been through a lot,” Max said. Gretch threw him a quick warning look; he was letting his feelings get in the way.

  “She’s going to go through more before this is done,” Gretch replied.

  “I hope not, I mean, what are we doing here then?” Weston asked in a huffy way.

  Marilyn leaned back into the red vinyl banquette as she felt the eyes of her friends probing her. “Don’t you think we should be worried about helping Father Troy,” she asked trying deflect their attention; it was just too much right now. There was a tense little pause, the table now a heap of greasy paper lined baskets, soiled napkins, empty glasses and no easy answers in sight.

  Gretch nodded and said, “Perhaps you’re right. I want to examine him if I can. I’ll ride back with you tonight and stay over, shall I? You boys can bunk up at the parish house and we women will take the bachelor pad.” She winked then like it was all in good fun.

  “Are you carrying what I gave you, Rosenbaum?” Gretch said, struggling up as they threw money onto the table.

  Father Weston stopped then and looked a little alarmed, “What would that be, Professor Wendell?”

  “Something I won in ’55 at a card-game with high stakes in the back room of a carpet dealer with a hookah in Herat, Afghanistan. Real old Persia, snaky and unrepentant. Here, help me with my bag, Weston,” She pulled an alligator leather suitcase from underneath the booth. It was clear she had already decided she would be returning to Decatur, Illinois before they even got there. She slipped her leather back pack on and Father Weston picked up her suitcase with a nod. The woman was no-nonsense, you had to admit.

  They all walked out of the Sunflower Café as the kid with the mandolin moodily plucked at the strings.

  He let the cool night air rush past his face unharmed as he came back into the land of flat, the land of insect repellent, sprayed and overfertilized corn and soybeans, the land of two lane blacktop highways stretching from one little town with two gas pumps to the next. He drove the big brown Cadillac coupe with ease, J.J.’s car ran fine. He sucked down the night in gulps remembering how he had become who he was now; bit by bit he came into things, breathing himself into another’s being until he owned it. He used to inhale the essence out of people but that was for beginners, he was way past that.

  The sign read “Decatur, Illinois” white in his headlights. The fields of the outskirts were knee high in May corn; by August it would be seven feet tall. On an impulse he pulled the coupe off the road and into a field, pleasuring in the way the leaves on the stalks tore and bent against the steel. He plowed it through the neat rows, backing it around until the nose of the coupe pointed to the road, just because he liked the havoc in the manicured neat. Shutting off the lights he got out then and planted his boots into the dirt to fully experience the corn growing all around him.

  The DNA of the corn was twisted and he reveled in it, feeling its monstrosity that mirrored his own, this corn just wanted and wanted and wanted and it never wanted to stop. There was poison on the leaves and he savored the bitter sting of it on his tongue. The rainwater in the ditch would kill the smallest rodents with a sip, the rest it would riddle with cancers. It all seemed beautiful to him but it was still lacking something. He threw his head back and slipped his bony hands deep in his pockets, turning them out and laughing as the great chewing maws of the winged locust poured from his pockets, spilling over each other and taking flight, dark darlings that would thrive on the poison on the leaves, black and green beauties that would drink water in the ditch and rip a seam open in this world, his wrinkled lips air kissing them on their way to spread pest and pestilence.

  Once on the night highway with rows of grey cornstalks now bathed in the light of Father Weston’s Olds headlights, everything black, white and grey and looking like some man was running along with them as the fields flipped by like a picture book, Max pulled a silk wrapped bundle from his own battered canvas bag. “Here it is, what Gretch gave me,” he said. Marilyn, sitting in the front with Rowley squeezed in between her and Father Weston, turned around to look. Father Weston adjusted his rear-view mirror and flipped the dome light on so he too could see.

  “It’s a 9mm Browning, English service weapon. Only this one has a history that makes it special. Reinhard Heydrich, does that name mean anything to you?”

  Marilyn shook her head, her eyes wide and focused on the gun.

  “For crying out loud, Max, you want to warn me next time?” Father Weston turned the map light off with a snap and put his eyes back on the road, with its yellow double lines and the corn stalks running by them row after row. He thought he saw the nose of an old car sticking out of a field just on the outskirts of town and it gave him a jolt of fear. Wouldn’t be good to get stopped now. Rowley, curious, put his snout over the seat and sniffed while Gretch’s mouth made a twisted smile.

  “He was the number three Nazi: Heydrich, Himmler and Hitler, the three H’s of hell. He was assassinated in Liben, a suburb of Prague, but he didn’t go down easily. It’s one of the stories that make you understand just how visceral the struggle between light and dark is. The English trained and armed two brave Czech assassins and this gun belonged to one of them, Jan Kubis. When they ambushed Heydrich’s open car, the first shooter’s submachine gun jammed, so they threw a bomb at the car but Heydrich came out guns blazing and took out after Kubis, who shot him with this same revolver, and the collected wounds killed Heydrich two days later. In revenge, Hitler eradicated the towns where Kubis and his fellow assassin lived, right down to the graveyards.” Max said

  “That’s terrible,” Marilyn whispered.

  “Yes it is. But Heydrich’s death was the first of the fatal blows to the Nazi leadership and it opened up the one of the most critical things
that was needed in the war in Europe then: hope that evil was not impenetrable, that it could be defeated. I think we need to hold onto that hope now,” Max said.

  “I knew when the gun came up in the card game as a bet, I had to get it.” Gretch growled, ruffling the fur on Rowley’s head. Rowley saw Max put a dark metal thing in his sport jacket pocket. The humans were getting ready, he thought, smelling new determination coming off their bodies in waves. Their fang and blood instinct was coming up.

  When they returned to the hospital conference room, Bishop Quincy along with Father Mahoney had already arrived and were completing their examination of Father Troy who, while groggy, was still conscious in the locked ward Five E.

  Father Mahoney came back from St. Mary’s family conference room first, still unsettled by the sight of Father Troy raving and picking at himself. He froze in the doorway, completely taken aback by the curled-up dog, Marilyn still in her stained waitress uniform, what had to be the suspect Jewish professor along with a black FBI agent, and a masculine looking older woman sitting at the head of the conference table like they all had something to do with church business, along with Frank Weston. “It seems the parish in Decatur has a way of attracting odd elements and I don’t think that it’s lost on the Bishop that Father Troy is at risk because of this,” Father Mahoney said in a steely voice, his lip curling.

  But Father Weston brushed right through his chilly blustering, “I’ll wait for the Bishop’s assessment, if you don’t mind, Steve. It’s been a long day and I don’t have much patience for holier-than-thou.”

  Gretch clenched her fists underneath the table for a half second, regulating her breathing. Despite her background or perhaps because of it, she knew church authorities put her on edge and this was no time to get defensive.

  The bullet-headed Bishop who looked like a general came in then and paused, taking in the group. “Your friends are excused, Father Weston. This is a matter for you and I and Father Mahoney.”

  Father Weston sat very still for a half second, and then said, “They’re staying, Bishop. It’s a matter for all of us now.”

  “Father Weston, do not make me remind you of your vows,” Bishop Quincy replied in a low voice his brogue thickening, “It’s been a bad day, boy, don’t make it worse.”

  “Bishop, we haven’t met. I’m Dr. Gretchen Wendell, and I think I may have some insight to share with you on Father Troy.”

  “Oh,no,” Father Mahoney held up his hand. He couldn’t believe that the woman was speaking to the Bishop like she was in charge.

  Father Weston broke in. “Professor Rosenbaum and Marilyn Newcomb,” he inclined his head indicating them, “also have their own direct interests in this case of the man Gar who attacked Father Troy. Marilyn’s life is in danger, as I believe mine and the professor’s are as well. Dr. Wendell is an expert in this area who may be of help to us and Father Troy. Modern medicine does not hold the answer here. Nor will prayers be able to fix what is wrong with Mark Troy. It is an affliction of the soul and I believe we need expert help.”

  “Who are you?” Bishop Quincy asked the short haired woman who was looking at him in an appraising way that he wasn’t used to except when with the Cardinal in St. Louis.

  “Head of a new government-funded institute that deals with things that go largely unseen. Dark things usually,” Gretch replied. “Do you believe in miracles?” she asked Bishop Quincy, her green eyes narrowing.

  “What do you mean, does he believe? He’s a bishop!” Father Mahoney’s blood pressure was making his roman collar pinch.

  “I facilitate the people’s understanding of miracles as well as protect them from those that would make false claims, Doctor - I presume not of medicine,” Bishop Quincy was holding his anger in check but it was simmering just below the surface.

  “Why do you ask?” interjected Max, like the helpful bright student in class.

  “Well then, Bishop Quincy, you should not have trouble understanding that if there are such things as miracles in this world, there is the opposite. Events beyond human understanding that come together, phenomena that defy reality as we commonly know it but these events are not sacred, not merciful, not redemptive, they are ugly, punitive, and corrupt, and they are just as powerful. And if there are sacred sites in this world such as Lourdes, there are sites where evil forces gather and wait for their opportunities. If there are such things as holy men and woman then you know there must be demons.”

  “Which is why the church performs exorcisms, for example,” Father Weston offered, even as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

  Max and Marilyn did their best to make themselves invisible then as Father Mahoney sputtered, “This is outrageous. Your total lack of respect…”

  Bishop Quincy held up his hand then, stilling Father Mahoney’s protests instantly. “Thank you for your opinions, Dr. Wendell, but I do not need a lecture on theology. I’ve given Dr. Reed permission to involuntarily commit Father Troy to the locked ward for at least a week. I forbid Dr. Wendell any examination of the patient. You-” he turned to Father Weston whose cheeks were flaming.

  “You’re making a mistake, Bishop, please listen to me, your actions are testing my faith in the Holy Mother Church,” Father W was desperate to get his superior to understand that Father Troy was as good as being abandoned.

  “I’m going to excuse your behavior because of everything that’s happened,” Bishop Quincy stopped himself from giving Frank Weston a bracing slap in the face, which is what his bishop would have done to him as a parish priest. He managed to restrain himself by picturing himself in the Cardinal’s study discussing how young priests were leaving the orders in droves. “But you ever threaten me again or question my orders to get your own way, you better have your bags packed, because you only get one pass with me. I’ll see you in St. Patrick’s sacristy tomorrow at eleven and will hope you will have recovered your good sense by then.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Don’t Call Here Again

  Gar woke up with a sore neck and feeling sick to his stomach a little after eight that same night. The doctor’s office was lonely and the reclining patient chair not as comfortable as it should have been. He flicked on the overhead and examined himself in the mirror: true, the dog bite was healing, but it was still tender and while the stitches on his lip could probably be taken out in a day or so, they made him look roughed up now. But it was the quality of his skin that bothered him most, like it was losing some of its muscular elasticity, its golden tan hue seemed a little ashen to him but it could have been the fluorescent light, it had to be the fluorescent light. The doctor’s office with its hanging skeleton was just giving him a bad case of the nerves and the damned office clock with the Bayer aspirin face ticked and ticked and woke him up in the first place. His big fist smashed down on it and it broke apart like a toy, thankfully not cutting him. Jesus, he was losing it. He had to get out of there. Find the source. Just find the source, and not get picked up by the cops. That’s all that mattered now.

  They were just kids, kids who were a little left of center for the largely Christian- oriented liberal arts college that dominated the west end of Decatur, Illinois. Petey as their unofficial leader had called that night’s meeting of the independent study group and had the bright idea that it should involve refreshments. So they had met after their dorm cafeteria dinner and walked to the Hi-Lo package store on Water Street next to Del’s popcorn. Proudly showing their I.D.’s they pooled their money and purchased three six packs of Hamms. The drinking age in Illinois had just been lowered to eighteen that year and everyone was having a ball with it. The five of them, from the freckled redhead Lisa, to the super egghead Carol, the plain Jane Julie, and finally the refugee from AV, John, sat drinking it under the big weeping pine tree of Charlesworth Place as the dark grew on the grounds. Petey easily lorded over the five, the motley freshman-and-sophomore independent study group of Professor Max Rosenbaum, as they talked, argued and laughed about their project
.

  “I can’t believe we got permission to hold a psychic fair on the grounds of Charlesworth mansion,” Carol said, wiping foam from her upper lip. She would have a headache tomorrow but she didn’t care. She had friends. She belonged.

  ‘Well, we did. Decatur’s first. We’re going to be the cool ones now.” Julie had a clipboard and John pointed the flashlight at it, and there it was, the pink approved student activity permit.

  Petey slapped his hands on the ground, singing the Hamms beer jingle, “From the land of sky blue waters, from the land of pine something something comes the beer refreshing, Hamms, the beer refreshing.”

  “I can’t quite make out who signed it, but we got it,” Julie had picked up the activity permit up from the little student union housed in the basement of the administration building a couple of days earlier.

  “I bet it was old Rosenbaum who fixed it,” Petey said confidently, wondering if Lisa might sleep with him, she was the best looking of the girls in the group.

  “The maintenance workers said they’d have tents up by tomorrow at noon. We got four.” John quietly knocked back his third beer noticing how the pine tree sounded like it was moaning when the breeze blew. He held the flashlight steady on their group sitting cross-legged on a carpet of pine needles, empty cans at their feet.

  “That’s you, isn’t big John? You’re on the grounds crew, ain’t you?” Petey said and John nodded.

  “I think it was meant to be.” John said softly as a chill ran down his spine. “I mean it was so weird how we all came up with the same idea for our group project.”