by Sloan, J. P.
I locked up my books and hustled upstairs to find the nearest Catholic church. I paused as I spotted two missed calls. One from Julian, one from Abe. I chose to return Abe’s call, which turned out to be an A/C unit on the blink. I gave him permission to call a professional to deal with it and jumped into my car. Julian could wait.
One thing about Baltimore, there was no shortage of Catholic churches. As the name might suggest, Maryland was one of the historic Catholic centers of North America. I drove past the closest one, however. It was too big. The Basilica would likely be a fantastic place to have high-minded conversations with some well-educated clergymen, but I wasn’t keen on calling too much attention to our little problem. I settled instead for St. Aloysius, a cozy church tucked between the University and some of McHenry’s new developments north of downtown.
I parked on the street and sat at the wheel, staring at the double doors at the front of the old stone building. I had no protocol for this. Did I need an appointment? Were walk-ins welcome? Did I just tap-dance inside and ask if a priest was on-call? What was the deal with the candles and the Holy Water? Hell with it. I figured Fortune favored the bold, and I didn’t have time to screw around.
One of the doors was unlocked, and I stepped inside. The wall of energy into which I stepped nearly dropped me to my knees. It wasn’t a shield so much as huge wad of resonant intent. There were tens of thousands of people in the city that feared the Devil, I was sure, and though I didn’t personally subscribe to a specific belief in the Christian Satan, I knew I wasn’t exactly on the welcome list. Still, I muscled through and managed my way into the nave, which was oddly circular. I had only seen movies of cathedrals in my youth, and expected something more rectilinear.
I spotted a young man rubbing furniture near the center platform, which I assumed to be the altar, and approached with a nod.
“Excuse me? I’m kind of lost. Well, I mean not literally, but I need to talk to a priest, and I don’t know how to make that happen.”
When the young man stood up to face me, I noticed the collar. He smiled and folded the wiping cloth, setting it on a table with a tiny bottle of oil soap.
“Then you came to the right place. Father Mark,” he chimed as he held out a hand. I shook it, trying not to intentionally shield up. “How can I help you?”
“Do I need an appointment or something?”
“If it was Holy Week, maybe. But I have plenty of time on my hands today.”
“I see that,” I replied nodding to the oil soap. “Don’t you have people who do that for you?”
“Sure, but I’ve always enjoyed a good polishing. Relaxes me. So, want to come to my office?”
I shrugged and followed him to a door leading out of the main nave. We ended up in a cozy if bland office with a short stack of bookcases behind a laminate desk. A large oil painting of some saint doing something saintly hung on the wall over the stacks of papers kept in neat columns. I never knew how much paperwork came with the priesthood.
“What’s your name?” he asked before he actually managed to take a seat.
“Dorian Lake.”
“How can I help you today, Mister Lake?”
“I have a friend who’s having some trouble of a spiritual nature. I don’t know if you’re the one who can help her or not. But I thought I’d give it a shot. Worst you could say is no.”
“Sounds seriously non-specific,” he said with a grin. “What’s the nature of her spiritual troubles?”
“She’s being influenced, I think, by an outside force.”
His eyes narrowed. I was already losing him.
“She’s the daughter of my best friend. I don’t know, maybe my only friend. More like family, really. I’m saying this so you get why I’m about to say this really ignorant sounding sentence out loud.”
He nodded and waved me on with his fingers.
“Okay, so, what I basically need is an exorcism.”
He nodded for several seconds before looking down to his desk and pulling a pad of paper in front of him. He clicked a pen and began making notes.
“Parents?”
“Yeah. Both.”
“I mean, who are the parents? Are they lay members?”
Crap. Did they have rules about that kind of thing? “Uh, that would be a no.”
“Believers?”
“They believe in plenty. Not necessarily your flavor of faith, maybe.”
“A simple ‘no’ would work, Mister Lake. What has led you to believe she’s being acted upon by some outside force? Describe her.”
“I was called in after it began, so I’m not sure how it started. But she had been feeling sick. When I got there, she was someone else. Her eyes look darker. Maybe. No, that could just be my imagination. Sorry, I’m usually more skeptical than this.” I really should have prepared for this better.
“But something makes you believe in this situation?”
“Well, yeah. She spoke to me about things she shouldn’t know.”
“Have the parents taken her to a medical professional?”
I paused and leaned back in my seat. For whatever reason, I had assumed that the Church would jump to a spiritual conclusion. I hadn’t accounted for common sense. That was my fault.
“They have an appointment for her. Not until next week. Doctor’s out shining his golf clubs or something.”
“So the young woman isn’t endangering herself or others?”
“I can’t be sure. Mostly she’s just talking filth.”
Father Mark made several more notes before looking up at me with serious eyes. “Are you disposed to give me her name?”
“I’d rather not.”
Instead of arguing, he simply nodded.
“I’m not trying to make a child protection case out of this, is mostly my thinking.”
“You’re obviously motivated for this child’s well-being. I can’t fault you for that. Can we both agree that we’re interested in seeing this child safe and healthy?”
“We can.”
“Then I’ll be frank with you, Mister Lake. The mind is a complex and often terrifying apparatus. It’s easily broken, even among children. When we see a young child in mental pain, it affects us. They are innocent, free of the corruption and complexity of adulthood. We have this universal understanding that a child is pure. When that assumption is shattered, it can very often seem sinister. Even Satanic.”
“I think I see where you going with this,” I sighed.
“Which isn’t to marginalize your request, here. But what most people see as the work of the Devil is most often the work of a brain in need of healing. There are several routes to healing, many tools. Faith is one. Another, medicine. Therapy. Correcting the physical and spiritual since they are both connected.”
“You’re saying she needs a shrink.”
“I’m saying that her parents seem to be of that thought already. But they haven’t come to me, have they? You have. You were moved to step into a church, and I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume that’s something you’re not used to?”
I smiled and nodded once.
“You put yourself into an awkward situation because you wanted to help. I bet you’re feeling pretty frightened for her. Maybe a little powerless?”
I tapped my fingers on the arm of my chair. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Then maybe you feel responsible?”
Damn, this guy was good. “Well, of course I’m responsible, that’s why I’m here. Though I’m starting to see it was a mistake.”
“I don’t mean to make you feel ignored, but without the girl’s parents here, there’s only so much I can do for her. You, on the other hand, are in a position to blame yourself for her misfortunes, and I’m just wondering why that is?”
“Because the thing inside her is gunning for me. It’s getting at me through her.”
“And if a gunman took a person hostage and threatened to shoot her if you didn’t hand over your wallet, you’d feel respo
nsible for putting her in that position?”
I shifted in the seat and shook my head. “It’s different.”
“I’m sure it is because what’s happening to this girl probably has nothing to do with you, and everything to do with her brain chemistry. Guilt, Mister Lake, kills hope. And when you kill hope, you open yourself up to despair. If you’re going to be any help at all to your friends, you’re going to need to shrug off this self-induced blame.”
I nodded and took a deep cleansing breath. “There are other factors.”
“There usually are, but in the end, do they really amount to you harming a child?”
“No.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” He set down his pen and leaned back in his chair, leveling earnest eyes on me. They were completely free of judgment, ready to shoot down any excuse I would have to feel sorry for myself. “I sense that your concern is motivated out of love. A desperate kind of love this world needs more of. I hope you see that I’m only trying to help you open that up to your friends. Be a comfort. Be an aid. Give them a fuller portion of this frantic need to heal.”
“There were two others,” I stated, folding my fingers in front of me.
“Others?”
“Two more suffering from possession. Both of them knew my name, knew particulars of my personal life. One of them was a complete stranger. The other was my girlfriend.” I stood up and straightened myself. “I’m just saying this, so you don’t think I’m insane.”
“I never thought that.”
“Well, then, you’re probably crazier than me. Anyways, thanks for your time. I don’t think you can help me. You were a long shot, in any case.”
I extended my hand, and Father Mark shook it. I fished a business card out of my pocket and set it on his desk. “If you have any thoughts about this, feel free to call me.”
He nodded noncommittally. I knew that business card was probably going to hit the trash can before the door closed behind me.
I left St. Aloysius in a dour mood. It would have been better if he had turned me out, called me insane, or tried to burn me at the stake. At least he could have scowled just once. Instead he was perfectly decent, concerned for everyone involved, and unforgivably realistic about it. Perhaps my entire problem was I was looking for real help. I was all but convinced this wasn’t a Jesus-Mary-Joseph flavor of demon. Why bother with the consummate professionals who knew their asses from holes in the wrist? What I really needed was to run a ringer past the thing inside Elle’s body and see if it offered any clues as to its identity or origin. What I really needed was a rank amateur.
he Healing Waters Christian Tabernacle was one of those dizzying monstrosities along the beltway, a hulking church building with three two-story crosses on the lawn bathed in spotlights and a full color billboard screen with an animated logo and information as to their latest week-long excursion into doctrine. They had a daily spot on the local talk radio where the pastor of Healing Waters would dispense a politically seasoned platitude wrapped in a dubious scriptural quote, and conclude with the same slogan: “I’m not preachin’, I’m just sayin’.” His smug tone always made me switch stations, but today I needed him.
I had phoned ahead as I had the feeling this church was more a business than a social service, and figured they took appointments. I had a two-thirty with Pastor Wayne Scovill, and this time instead of playing it by ear, I had an entire pitch prepared.
Stepping into one of several double-doors into a vestibule larger than the mall’s, I weeded through unmanned literature tables and found a wall sign indicating the Administrative Offices, just past the book store. Inside the office, I found a diminutive young woman with platinum blonde hair and a sharp business suit. She gave me a thin-lipped grin and cocked her head.
“Welcome to Healing Waters, hon. You got an appointment?”
“Yes. Dorian Lake for a two-thirty?”
She kicked away in her chair and rolled toward a back doorway to call for Scovill down the hall. In a few seconds, a gaunt man with sandy hair stepped toward me, hand outstretched.
“Hi, Mister Lake? Wayne Scovill. Won’t you come on back?”
He wore a light gray suit with a corn-yellow tie. He had the bearing of a Southern gentleman, but his voice glistened with New Englander sharpness. I followed him into a spacious khaki-painted office brimming with sunlight and festooned with glass sculptures and world maps. Scovill settled into his plush wing-back swivel chair and spread his fingers out on his desk, grinning with a nervous energy that made my scalp itch.
“Thank you for seeing me,” I offered in a practiced miserable tone. “I’m running out of options.”
“Not at all. Linda said you’re having some trouble with a friend of yours?”
“Uh, yeah. She’s my best friend’s daughter. Something’s happening to her and, well, I don’t know what I can do. I can’t do anything. Just feels hopeless.”
He leaned forward. “Nothing’s hopeless, friend. We can do all things through He who gives us strength.”
“I hope so, Pastor.”
“What’s she gotten into? What can you tell me?”
“Oh, she isn’t into something. In fact, I beg your pardon for putting it this way, but something’s gotten into her, I think.”
He cocked his head. “Come again?”
“Okay, I need to start from the beginning.”
I sighed with just enough histrionics to pull him in, and wound him through a white-washed version of what had happened to Elle. I focused on her innocence, and the sudden descent into madness, while glossing over our peculiar belief system and the fact that all of this was probably my fault. As I finished the tale, I rubbed the bridge of my nose and added, “Pastor, I think the Devil’s inside that little girl, but I don’t think anyone will believe that.”
Scovill fidgeted in his seat, staring at me as he laid a hand on the side of his face. “I want you to know something, first off.” He pointed at the map behind his desk. “I served in three missions to Africa in the last ten years. Once to Ghana, once to Mali, then Equatorial Guinea. On that first trip to Ghana I met a young man who wanted to make some extra cash as a porter for our trucks. Name was Kwame. Nice young kid. Well-spoken, eager to dress like us and talk like us. He thought the world of us, and we were just happy to have him tag along. He got sick the third week, just before we went to the airport, and we didn’t see him again before we left. When I flew back to Mali two years later, I talked the Elders into a side trip back to Accra to see Kwame. And I found out he’d spent the last two years in hospitals, and had been nearly executed for witchcraft. He was taken with fits, especially when exposed to the Cross or a Bible. I bribed an orderly to let me see him alone.” Scovill leaned forward, his eyes rimming red. “The look in his eyes, Mister Lake? I can tell you as one intelligent man to another, he was bound by demons. His eyes held this malice, this quality of hatred that shook me. I prayed with him. Laid on hands. And I heard him groan. Wheeze. It was perfect sadness. I remember that sound vividly. He was begging me for help.”
He took a breath as he reached for a handkerchief inside his suit.
Scovill cleared his throat and added, “I believe you, Mister Lake, when you say the Devil’s inside this child. I believe it’s possible, anyway. And if that’s the case, the worst case scenario, I want you to know that God is strong enough to deliver that girl!”
I had him.
Scovill invited some of the secretaries into the office, and we held hands as they prayed with me in a circle. They lapsed into babbling at times, squinting hard, and generally overloading their own chakras with unfocused energy. This wasn’t new to me. It was a simple way for anyone to manufacture an ecstatic experience, the result of energy overpowering the third eye and crown to reproduce spiritual sensations. It was the opposite of the discipline Emil taught me. When working with intent, one had to keep one’s energy completely checked, grounded, and focused.
We made an appointment that evening to meet at the Swai
ns. There was no talk of money, donations, or compensation. Scovill seemed motivated by something deeper. Perhaps I misjudged yet another clergyman?
On my way out of the church, I called Edgar to fill him in. He sounded exhausted, so much so, it felt contagious. I only had a few hours to rest before I had to take my second trip to Frederick that day, so I made quick time to Amity and the comfort of my obscenely dark room.
Unfortunately, I found a town car waiting for me in front of my house. Two thick men in suits stood outside, one by my stoop and one by the car. When I pulled into the lane between buildings, one of the goons opened the rear passenger door, and out stepped the last person I expected to see at that moment.
Joey McHenry.
He took two steps up my walk, then paused, shoving his hands into his pockets. His hair was a little grayer than when we last met. That was the day he witnessed me taking down Osterhaus. That was my first Nether Curse, and it’s what put me on McHenry’s radar. The man was a wrecking ball in a Fioravanti, so I checked my usual attitude.
“McHenry?”
He squinted at me, then peered up at the façade of my two-story row house. With a slow nod he commented, “The Poe House. Nice.”
“No shit, it’s actually the Poe House? I thought that was a line the realtor fed me when I signed.”
“It was.” He sniffled and turned to his left to gesture down Amity. “The actual house he lived in was two blocks west. It burned down in the nineteen teens, and the owner just moved the address sign to this property. But you’re not actually from Baltimore. You just live here, so you wouldn’t know that.”
What a dick.
“What do you want, McHenry?”
“Sixty-two oh one, three, five and seven, Fayette.”
I smirked. “I’m reasonably familiar with those properties.”
“You asked what I wanted. That’s what I want.”
“Ah yes,” I chimed, lifting a thoughtful finger. “Manor at Carrollton. It’s a brave new Baltimore, all of a sudden.”