by Deanna Chase
“Hush, now, Mr. Lohmann. We can hear you without shouting.” Jenny crouched in front of him as I inched sideways, wanting to get a look at his face.
The man was eighty-five if he was a day, with a grizzled face that seemed as gray as the unkempt bush of hair on his head. His lips had disappeared with age, and the untrimmed gray mustache he sported seemed to float unanchored on his face. His skin was timeworn and leathery, and now that I saw his face, I knew I would have recognized Eddie Lohmann without Jenny’s help. This man had fought battles. Fought and won. Now, I wondered if he was fighting his first losing battle.
His chin lifted suddenly, and he peered at me from under droopy lids. I could see enough of his eyes, though, to see the intelligence under there. Eddie Lohmann might be strange, but I’d lay odds he wasn’t senile. Not yet.
“Who’s that one?” he asked, talking to Jenny, but nodding to me.
“She’s here to visit you,” Jenny said. “Can’t you be nicer?”
His nose twitched. “Is she a demon?”
The other residents looked up from their various activities and peered at me. I stood up straighter and fought the urge to adjust my blouse.
Jenny sighed, then rolled her eyes toward me, which pretty much clued me in to what she thought of the whole demon thing. I took heart that his rantings went unheeded. Still, I didn’t like the idea that Eddie was spouting off to the residents and staff.
Jenny was still focused on Eddie, her manner calm and patient “She’s not a demon. There aren’t any demons, remember? We use holy water in the mop bucket. They can’t walk on our floors.” This time she gave a wink in my direction.
“Damn dastardly demons,” Eddie mumbled. He looked up at me, his eyes eagle sharp as he crooked a bony finger. “You there. Come here.”
Behind me, I heard Laura take a few steps backward, her desire to get out of there so thick I could almost feel it. I moved forward slowly, then speeded up the moment one of the other men (who’d stayed quiet during Eddie’s entire tirade) shouted at me to quit blocking the television before he took a cane to me. Nice man. Not exactly the grandfatherly type.
I stopped in front of Eddie and let him take a look at me. He fumbled a pair of half-glasses out of a front shirt pocket and put them on. As Jenny backed off, I stood like a statue, waiting for some signal from him.
“I don’t know you,” he finally said. He pointed a bony finger. “Get thee hence, Satan’s harlot!”
I bristled and stifled the urge to defend my reputation. I shot a glance at Laura, and she shrugged. Eddie had returned his attention to the television. I waited for a commercial, then tried again.
“Mr. Lohmann?”
He looked up at me, no recognition at all in his eyes. “Are you a new one they’re trying?” His eyes narrowed as he smacked his lips. “You won’t get anything from me.”
“My name’s Kate,” I said, trying for soft and reassuring. I gestured across the room to where Laura had faded into a corner. “That’s Laura. We came to visit with you.”
He kept his attention on me, not even bothering to look Laura’s direction. “Are you one of them?” He seemed grandfatherly, and yet there was an icy edge in his eyes, and I’d noticed that his muscles had tightened as I approached, as if he still had the power to defend himself should I attack.
He crooked his finger again, urging me even closer. I bent down, not at all surprised when his nostrils flared. “My breath okay?” I asked.
He snorted. “Could be faking,” he said. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out his bottle, and sprayed me straight in the face. I sputtered and wiped my eyes, probably rubbing mascara everywhere.
He sat back, obviously satisfied. “You’ll do,” he said. “Unless you’re working for them.” He leaned forward, peering at me.
“I’m not,” I said, fighting another wave of indignation.
He stared at me for so long, I feared he’d forgotten again and we’d have to start all over. Finally he spoke. “What do you want?”
I glanced around at the other residents. This wasn’t exactly the best place. “I was hoping to talk to you. Do you think we could go somewhere?”
He waved at the television, his expression turning surly. “Jerry Springer. Five minutes.”
I started to argue, realized that would do no good whatsoever, then perched myself on the arm of the couch right next to him. For the next five minutes I watched the wrap-up and Jerry’s final words (we all need to try to really listen to one another, in case you were wondering). True to his word, as soon as the program ended, Eddie hoisted himself up with the help of an ornately carved cane, then started shuffling toward the back of the room. I followed, silently urging Laura along, and ignoring Eddie’s instruction to “Get a move on there, girls.”
Since we were moving at glacial speed, it took another five minutes to make it to Eddie’s room. Once we got there, I closed the door and Eddie sank down into a dingy gray recliner that I have a feeling started out some other color.
“Have we met?” he asked, his eyes unfocused. “Where’d you come from?”
“We just met in there,” I said patiently. “I work for Forza.” I’m not sure what kind of reaction I expected, but I didn’t get anything. Not a blink, not a twitch, not even a nervous tic. He just stared at me, then calmly turned toward Laura.
“Her?”
“A friend. Not a Hunter. But she knows.”
His fingers inched toward the spritzer now peeking out of his breast pocket, but then he paused. His eyes narrowed as he looked at me. “You vouch for her?”
“With my life,” I said.
The fingers moved away, and he clasped his hands in his lap. “She can stay.”
I wasn’t sure what to say then. I’d come to meet this retired Hunter, but what did I really want from him? Now that I’d met him, my mind was blank and I stood there, feeling a bit like the star of one of those naked dreams— standing unclothed onstage while everyone waited for me to sing an aria or perform magnificent acrobatic feats.
“Did you come to kill them?” he asked. “I would. But the old body just doesn’t work right anymore.”
“Kill them,” I repeated. “Kill who?”
“Demons,” he said as the door opened to reveal a nurse decked out in teddy-bear scrubs. “There are demons everywhere.”
“Now, Mr. Lohmann,” she said, “don’t go starting up with that again.” She was balancing a tray of lunch dishes, and as I watched, she moved expertly to the table and slid the tray on. “He’s a Demon Hunter, you know,” she said to me, her voice both conversational and condescending.
“Oh,” I said stupidly. “How nice.”
The nurse looked up from her tray and winked at me. “Well, we think so. Such an interesting career. And the stories he tells. I mean, really. He’s certainly had some adventures.”
She crossed the room to Eddie and turned the light on beside his chair. In the harsh illumination he seemed smaller somehow, his features shriveled, as if the light had somehow stolen his energy. “Have you seen any demons today, Eddie?”
“They’re everywhere,” he said, but his voice lacked the conviction it had earlier with me.
“Well, then, I’d better refill your holy water,” she said. “We wouldn’t want any getting in here when you aren’t looking.”
As I watched, she grabbed his little bottle, winked at me, then headed into the bathroom. I heard the water running, then she returned and tucked the bottle back into his pocket. “There you go. That should keep those nasty demons away.”
“Good Melinda,” he said. “You’re the only one here who’s good to me.”
“Do you do that for him every day?” I asked.
“Oh, sure,” she said. “Otherwise, the demons might get him.”
“She understands,” Eddie says. “Melinda believes me.”
“Right now, though, it’s time for your medicine.” She turned to me. “Are you going to visit much longer? I can wait if you want. The meds m
ake him pretty loopy.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “We were just leaving.” Not entirely true, but I did need to get moving.
She shook a handful of multicolored pills out of a tiny paper cup, then handed them to Eddie, who took them without question. He popped the pills dry with one hand, holding out his other arm for the injection that Melinda was administering. As soon as she withdrew the needle, his head lolled back. Almost instantly I could see the tension drain from his body.
“Eddie?”
He looked up at me, but the Eddie Lohmann I’d met in the television room was gone.
“I-don’t-know-you,” he said, his words slurring together in one big jumble of sound. “Do-I-know-you?”
“We just met,” I said gently. “But we’ll come back later.” It didn’t matter what I said. He was already drifting off to sleep.
Laura and I followed Melinda out of the room. “What’s with the medicine cabinet?” I asked.
Melinda’s cheeks flamed. “Oh, golly,” she said. “You heard him. It’s demon this and vampire that all the time if we don’t load him up with drugs. He went too long today, actually, because he spit out his pills. That’s why Dr. Parker ordered the injection.” She leaned closer. ‘It’s kinda creepy. I think he really believes all of that.”
“No way,” I said, trying hard to keep my face straight.
“No, truly,” she said. “I don’t think he’s like dangerous or anything, but—” She cut herself off, her forehead crinkling.
“But what?’
“Actually, maybe he is. Once he totally jumped another resident. And the poor guy had just had a massive coronary the night before. It was a scene. There’s Eddie leaping on Sam, and he was going at him with this tongue depressor and trying to shove it into his eye. Took two orderlies and Mrs. Tabor to get him off.”
“Wow,” I said. “You saw all that?”
“Yeah. Gave me the willies.”
“How’s Sam?” Laura asked.
“Great,” she said. “Can you believe? Two days after a heart attack and he discharged himself. Said he was going to get an apartment in Sun City.”
I fought a grimace. Unless I missed my guess, Sam was the codger who’d flown through my window and was now cooling his heels in the county dump. “Sam discharged himself?” I asked. “He could do that?”
“Oh, sure,” she said. “The residents here are all voluntary. It’s not like they’re committed or anything. Most just don’t have anyplace else to go or their families can’t take care of them. Special needs and all. I mean, like Eddie. What if you took him home and he decided you were a demon or something?” She cocked her head as she looked at me. “You said you’re family, right?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
“Hard to see a family member spiral down like that,” she said. “I really sympathize.” She shook her head. “Demons,” she said with a snort. “As if.”
***
I dropped Laura back at her house before heading on to the cathedral. We didn’t talk. I think both of us were thinking about Eddie, stuck in that nursing home, keeping a watchful eye out for demons in his Rice Krispies.
The thing was, I believed him. (Well, not about the cereal.) Especially after the Sam story, I’d be stupid not to. But what could I do? If any of the old people I’d seen had been inhabited by Goramesh’s minions, then we probably didn’t have much to worry about in the fate-of-the-world department—none of them had seemed particularly interested in a Hunter’s presence on the premises. If anything, they’d seemed more interested in five-card draw and Jerry Springer. Not my choice of programming, but hardly demonic.
I was still buried deep in my Eddie thoughts as I pulled open the heavy wooden doors leading into the cathedral. I’d expected silence, but a creaking sound echoed through the room, and as I listened, I recognized it as the sound of a door swinging on rusty hinges. I couldn’t see anyone, but I assumed Father Ben was coming out of the sacristy, and I increased my pace to catch up to him. I wanted to get his thoughts on narrowing my search of the records. (Anything to shorten my time in the basement archives!) But as my silent companion stepped out from behind the partition, I stopped cold. Not Father Ben—Stuart.
I froze, guilt swelling. He had to be here looking for me. And when he found me without Timmy…well, I was going to have to come clean or come up with a fancy fabrication.
Not inclined to do either, I dropped to one knee, my head down as I genuflected. Then I moved into a pew, toed down the kneeler and put my head in my hands, the very image of a pious woman deep in prayer. With any luck, he wouldn’t notice me.
His footsteps increased, his tempo hurried, and he headed down the steps off the sanctuary and then down the aisle. After a moment I heard the heavy clunk of the door falling shut behind him.
I stayed in that position. At first my mind was blank, but then I think I sank into prayer, thanking God for not letting Stuart notice me, for keeping my secret safe until I was ready to share it with my family, for keeping me alive despite my—
A hand closed on my shoulder and I screamed, my voice filling the cathedral with as much power as the Sunday morning cantor’s did.
“Oh, Kate, I’m so sorry!”
I relaxed, my hand reflexively patting my chest. Father Ben. “Father. Sorry. You scared me.”
“Please, I should be apologizing. But I wanted to let you know that we’ll be closing the cathedral early today and tomorrow, so that the workers can sand the floors. I thought you might want to know so that your time in the archives isn’t cut short.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I do appreciate that.” I stood, and he followed suit. “I saw that Stuart was down there,” I said, hoping my voice sounded casual. “Was he looking for me?”
“I don’t think so. My understanding is he’s working on some project of his own.”
“Oh.” Not the answer I’d expected. And I couldn’t imagine what interest my less-than-devout husband could possibly have in musty old church records. “Do you know what?”
“I’m afraid I don’t. He made arrangements with the bishop.”
I blinked, getting more and more curious, but I just waved the comment away. “No big deal,” I said. “I’ll ask him tonight.”
We were at the door to the sacristy now, and I tugged it open.
“Since the construction will cut your time short today and tomorrow, would you like for me to arrange access for you Friday evening after the fair?”
“The fair?” I repeated, suddenly feeling like we weren’t talking the same language.
“Didn’t I see that you were signed up to help with the parish fair on Friday?”
“Oh, right. Of course.” Oops. I’d completely forgotten. “Yes, if you could keep the archives open late, I’d very much appreciate it.” I smiled, hoping I looked charming and helpful as I made a mental note to myself: figure out what I signed up to do at the fair.
I kept Father Ben detained for a few more minutes as I drilled him about the organization of all the donations. The answer, unfortunately, was that there really was no organization. What I saw was what I got. Which meant I was back to where I’d started. This time, at least I could try to find some regional connection.
I settled myself at the table, opened the first box (gingerly, in case of more bugs), and dug back into my project. An hour later all I had to show for my efforts was a backache. Okay, that wasn’t entirely true. I did learn some things. I found out for example, that Cecil Curtis was Clark Curtis’s father, which meant I was reading documents about Stuart’s boss’s family. (Which did make the job slightly more interesting. Basic human nosiness, I guess.) As I’d discovered yesterday, he’d left all of his land (and we’re talking a lot of land) and worldly possessions to the Church, specifically excluding his “spouse or issue,” a little fact that I imagine pissed off Clark (not to mention his mom and siblings).
I learned that Thomas Petrie had won a church-sponsored scholarship and had gone to St. Thomas Aquinas Colle
ge. He ended up being famous for his series of books that revolved around a mystery-solving priest, and after he started to hit the New York Times list regularly, he made frequent contributions to the Church. Since the donations weren’t monetary (one year he gave a wooden Madonna-and-child statute), I assumed he was donating things that he’d acquired researching each of his various books.
I skimmed through the other benefactors, too, but didn’t find much of interest. Mike Florence caught my eye simply because of the Italian town, but from what I could tell, he’d donated nothing more interesting than a six-inch-square gold box with a beautiful carved crucifix affixed to the lid. The receipt accompanied the donation, though, and unless Goramesh was on the hunt for a box sold at Macy’s in the 1950s, then I doubted I was on the right track. (I’ll admit I was a little curious to see the thing, but it was in a container at the bottom of the stack and all the way at the back. That’s what we in the archive-reviewing biz call “geographically undesirable.”)
With a sigh of resignation, I pushed aside the last itemized list. My options now were to review every single piece of paper in each donor’s file, or start in on the cool stuff in the boxes. Since I doubted I’d recognize what I was looking for if I saw it, the smart thing would be to review letters and correspondence. But I only had a half-hour left in the basement, my eyes hurt, and I was bored.
Besides, something in my gut told me we were running out of time, and at the moment all I could do was put my faith in God (and Larson and Laura). I was in a cathedral after all. If divine inspiration was going to hit, surely I was in the right place.
I pulled over the first box, but didn’t haul it up to the table. It weighed a ton. Instead, I kept it by my feet, then toed off the lid, keeping a safe distance in case a flock of beasties came zipping out
None did, and I peered down, dismayed to see that the box was filled with decaying leather-bound Bibles. Thousands of pages, any of which could have a note inscribed on them. And each Bible began with page after page of family histories scrawled in terrible handwriting that I was going to have to decipher.