by James Swain
“Of course. You see, I’m a priest.”
34
Peter could not have been more confused. His mother and father weren’t Catholic. Why on earth had they taken him to see a priest? “Why did my parents come to see you? Were they thinking of converting to Catholicism?”
Hunsinger stole a glance at Sierra. Where to begin? his facial expression seemed to say. After a moment his eyes returned to Peter’s face. “If you don’t mind, I need to sit down. My body is frail, and I am unable to stand for long periods of time.”
The priest lowered himself into his chair. He was sickly and moved in slow motion. The fact that he’d ventured out in such poor health to meet Peter was not lost on the young magician.
“Can I interest either of you gentlemen in more coffee?” Peter asked.
The offer brought a smile to both their faces, Liza’s also.
“Another cup of your delicious coffee would be splendid,” the priest replied.
“I would love another cup as well,” Sierra said.
“Me, too,” Liza chimed in.
Peter fixed a fresh pot and served his guests and Liza, then pulled up a chair to the table. His heart was racing and he could hear a bass line pounding in his ears. Life was filled with unexplained mysteries which we carried with us to our graves. One of those mysteries was about to be explained to him. Liza sat on the windowsill overlooking the courtyard, content to listen as Peter’s past unfolded.
“Perhaps I should go first, since it was me your parents first came to see,” Sierra began. “As you and Liza know, I am a marriage counselor by profession, and I specialize in dealing with relationship issues. One day, your parents appeared in my office, and said they were having problems, which is nothing new in my line of work. They were both rather vague about the situation, and seemed to be having difficulty coming out in the open and discussing it. Whatever this problem was, I could tell it was affecting them deeply, and harming their marriage. As our session wound down, I bluntly asked them to tell me what was going on. If they were unwilling to do this, I said, then there was no point in their coming back, since I couldn’t help people who couldn’t be honest with themselves.”
Peter stared at the table. It sounded like an echo of his own problems with Liza. “Did they finally tell you what was going on?”
“Your mother broke the spell and explained the situation,” Sierra said. The problem, it seems, was you.”
Peter drew back in his chair. “Was I causing problems?”
“I’m afraid so. Your parents were beside themselves as to what to do. It was tearing them apart, so they decided to come and see me.”
“How bad were the things I was doing?”
“Very bad, I’m afraid.”
“Did they spell them out?”
“No, but they alluded to them. Don’t you remember?”
“Not at all. I must have repressed the memories.”
“That is not uncommon in violent children,” Sierra said.
The kitchen fell quiet. A sense of enormous guilt came over Peter. To think that he’d done things that had nearly ruined his parents’ marriage was unconscionable, and he felt the overwhelming urge to bolt from the room. Milly had accused him of running away from his problems, and he forced himself to sit tight and face the music.
“You must have some idea of what I was doing,” he said. “Was I hurting other kids at school? I had a rough time when I first came to the United States. I was small, and my British accent made me stand out. I got into a fight with a bully at school who was picking on me. Was that what they were talking about?”
“No, it was not,” Sierra said. “Your parents told me that you had a demon inside of you. They said that you were born with this demon, and that when it showed its face, it was capable of all sorts of horrible acts. At first, I thought they were exaggerating, and blowing the problem out of proportion. After all, you were only seven, and how much trouble could a child that age cause? It was at that point that your father decided to show me the photos.”
“What photos?”
“Your father took photos of the things you’d done. I’m not exactly sure why. Perhaps he needed evidence to convince men like myself what you were capable of. I still have them.”
“Are they bad?” Peter choked on the word.
“Yes, I’m afraid they are.”
He glanced at Liza. She nodded as if to say it was okay.
“Show them to me,” he said.
Sierra produced a faded envelope from his jacket pocket, pulled back the flap, and removed a stack of photos. “I want you to know something. Up until now, I’ve shown these photographs to no one except Richard. I protected your family’s privacy, and will continue to do so. Your family’s secrets are safe with me, despite what you might think.”
“Thank you,” Peter said.
The stack was handed to him. Taken on a Kodak Instamatic, the color had faded but not enough to hide the horror of the images. The top photo showed Peter’s bedroom in the family’s apartment in Murray Hill. They had lived in a third-floor walk-up with rattling pipes and noisy neighbors. In the photo, there was shattered glass on the floor that appeared to be swimming in a substance that resembled catsup.
He stared hard. Not catsup. Blood. And there was a lot of it. Had someone died in his bedroom, and he’d not heard about it? It didn’t seem possible, yet the photo said otherwise.
His eyes shifted to the broken window in the photograph. There was a hole in the glass big enough for a man to slip through. The hole led to a fire escape outside.
“I don’t understand,” Peter said. “What happened?”
“Look at the rest of them,” Sierra said.
Peter laid the photos in a row on the table, and let his eyes drift over the disturbing images. After the bedroom came the narrow hallway, where bloody handprints covered the walls. Next was the kitchen, where the furniture had been turned upside down, leaving more bloodstains. Then came the study, where his parents held séances with their psychic friends and talked with the dead. This photo was the most troubling of all. In it, Peter sat in his father’s chair dressed in his Batman pj’s. His eyes were half open as if in a trance, his mouth twisted in a menacing snarl. The front of his shirt was soaked in blood, as were his hands. He looked more animal than human.
Peter looked across the kitchen at Liza. If she saw these photographs, things between them would never be the same. But if she didn’t see them, things wouldn’t be the same either. Whatever was left of his relationship with Liza was about to go up in flames.
Stacking the photos, he went to her, and placed them in her hands. “Here.”
Then he poured himself more coffee.
35
Liza shocked him. After she’d finished studying the photos—which she spent over a minute doing—she dragged a chair up to the kitchen table, sat down beside Peter, and placed her hand on top of his, clasping it in the process. She was going to go down this road with him, no matter where it took them both. What was the expression from the country-and-western song? “Stand By Your Man.” He wanted to hug her.
“Who did I kill?” Peter asked his two guests in the calmest of voices.
It was Sierra who replied. “You didn’t kill anyone. At least your parents didn’t think so.”
“But I hurt someone pretty badly.”
Sierra nodded gravely. No wonder he’d asked Peter if the demon inside of him had come out the night his parents had been murdered in Times Square. Sierra had already seen the demon, and knew the carnage it could wreak.
“Any idea who it was?” Peter asked.
“Your father said that the apartment house where you lived had been burglarized several times,” Sierra replied. “Late one night, a burglar broke the window in your bedroom, and tried to enter. That was when the burglar encountered you. He managed to get away, but only barely. Your father said there was a great deal of blood on the fire escape and also in the alley below.”
“Did I stab
him?”
“You used the sharp edge of one of your toys.”
“Wow. Talk about a little demon.”
No one laughed. Peter picked up his mug and drained it.
“Your parents were torn over what to do,” Sierra went on. “Your mother was fearful that your demon was out of control and might strike again. The night of the burglary, your parents went over to a neighbor’s for a few minutes to see her new baby. This was when the burglar chose to enter your apartment. When your parents returned, it was your mother who found you.”
“Did seeing me covered in blood scare her?” Peter asked.
“Very much. She told me that she had this same demon inside of her, and explained how difficult it had been for her to keep it contained all her life. It upset her that the demon had come out in you at such a tender age. She was fearful it might take control of your soul.”
“Is that what she said?”
“In so many words, yes.”
But it hadn’t taken control of my soul, Peter thought. The demon went back to its dark hiding place, and he’d gotten on with his life. End of story.
“Your father viewed the matter differently,” Sierra continued. “He was fearful that if doctors started examining you, the demon would be unleashed, and never go away. He wanted to treat you with tender loving care, which he said was the only cure.”
“Who won out?” Peter asked.
“I did, actually,” Sierra said.
“How so?”
“Your parents brought you in, and I examined you. I tested your reflexes to make sure you didn’t have any neurological damage, which is not uncommon in violent children. You know when a doctor hits a patient in the knee with a rubber hammer? Well, I struck you in the knee with my hammer, and the next thing I knew, I was lying on the floor in a pool of blood.”
“I hit you?” Peter asked incredulously.
“Knocked me right across the room. I never saw the blow. To be honest, I’m not certain you actually threw one. You did it with your mind. That’s when I convinced your parents that Richard needed to be brought in.”
Peter looked across the table at the sickly man dressed in black. “You’re an exorcist.”
“I am a priest who on occasion practices exorcisms,” Hunsinger replied.
“Same difference. Did you perform an exorcism on me?”
“Yes, I did.”
Peter took a deep breath. “And?”
“Nothing happened,” the priest confessed. “We performed the exorcism in my chambers at the church. You lay on a couch with your parents sitting to either side of you. I wore an alb, a purple stole, as prescribed in the Old Testament. I made the sign of the cross over you, doused your body with holy water, and invoked the words ‘Ecce crucem Domini! Fugite, partes adversae’ while placing my right hand on your forehead in the same manner in which Jesus healed the sick. I followed the procedure exactly as it was written.”
“How did I react?”
“You looked up at me and let out a little laugh.”
“I laughed?”
“Yes.”
“Was it demonic?”
“Not at all. It was a little boy’s laugh. The demon inside of you had receded. I don’t know if I sent it away, or if it left on its own accord, but it was gone. What remained was a precious seven-year-old boy.”
Liza squeezed his hand as this last sentence was spoken. It made Peter feel like there was still hope. “Thanks,” he whispered.
“Anytime,” she whispered back.
“Now you understand why Dr. Sierra and I wanted to see you,” Hunsinger said. “We wanted to know what had become of you. To see how you turned out, if you will.”
“You wanted to know what had happened to my demon,” Peter said.
“That, too,” the priest admitted.
“Yes, that, too,” Sierra echoed.
Peter drummed the table. The phrase “troubled childhood” was taking on a whole new meaning. But he still wasn’t sure why Sierra and Hunsinger had gone to such great pains to seek him out. Both men had seen scores of troubled people during their careers. So why had they worried about him? Because he was a child when this had occurred? That was one explanation, although he was quite certain both men had seen scores of troubled children during their careers. There had to be another reason.
His drumming grew louder. So loud that he could hardly hear himself think. Out of frustration, he attempted to read both men’s brains to see what they were up to.
It didn’t work. Both men were cutting him off by thinking about the lunch they’d shared a few hours ago. It was almost as if they’d planned it.
He gave Liza a look and whispered, “We need to talk.” She rose from her chair the same time he did, said, “Please excuse us,” and followed Peter out of the room.
Huddled in the hallway, Peter spoke in a hushed tone. “They know something they’re not telling me.”
Liza gave him a quizzical look. “What more is there to know?”
“That’s a good question. I keep thinking back to Sierra asking me if the demon had come out the night my parents died. I think he already knew the answer and just wanted confirmation that it had.”
“How would he have known if it had?”
“My parents’ murders made the front page of the New York newspapers. Maybe I did something horrible that night that also made the newspapers, and Sierra and Hunsinger read about it, and made the connection.”
“Did you?” Liza asked.
“Not that I remember.”
“But you don’t remember hurting the burglar in your apartment either.”
Liza was right. Was this dark spirit inside of him so powerful that he couldn’t control it, much less remember when it took over his body? It scared him to think it might be true. Grabbing his leather jacket off a peg, he gave Liza a kiss.
“I need to talk to the police. They’ll know what happened that night,” he said.
“What about Dr. Sierra and Hunsinger? What should I tell them?”
That was a good question. Sierra and Hunsinger had opened Pandora’s box, and Peter didn’t think he’d ever get it closed. But why had they done that? Out of an insatiable curiosity, or was something else in play here? Peter was determined to find out the answer.
“Thank them for dropping by,” he said, and flew out the door.
36
He hurried uptown.
Soon he was standing outside the 19th Precinct on East 67th Street. Did he really want to know the truth about himself? Could he handle the truth? He was about to find out.
He went inside. The lobby reminded him of the Port Authority bus terminal and was just as noisy. He sifted through the crowd, picking up people’s thoughts. When he was under stress, his psychic powers got the better of him, and he heard things without meaning to.
He waited dutifully in line to talk to the female desk sergeant working reception. In front of him, a Puerto Rican man was trying to determine how he was going to tell his brother—who’d beat up someone over a girl—that he didn’t have the money to bail him out of jail. Behind him, a distraught mother was wondering if the police had any fresh information about her runaway teenage daughter. Their thoughts were incredibly loud, as most stressful thoughts were, and bounced around him like so many echoes.
Finally his turn came, and he approached the desk.
“Hey, magic man, long time no see,” the desk sergeant said. “How’s tricks?”
He’d helped the police solve a murder not long ago, and was surprised she remembered him. “I’ve been good. I’d like to see Detective Schoch.”
“Do some magic first. I want to be amazed.”
He searched his pockets for something to fool her with. He’d left the house without so much as a deck of cards. Normally in situations like this, he would have read her mind, but the desk sergeant was one of those rare birds whose minds could not be read. He pointed at the notepad lying on the desk.
“Pick up that pad and draw somethin
g on it. Don’t let me see it,” he said.
“You gonna read my mind?”
“I’m going to try.”
“Cool.” The desk sergeant picked up the pad and a pencil. “Turn around, I don’t trust you.”
“Come on, I’m one of the good guys.”
“I still don’t trust you. Now turn around.”
Peter obeyed, and found himself staring at a scummy-looking character standing where the distraught mother had been. Day-old stubble, rheumy eyes, and lifeless blond hair made up the picture. The man’s dark thoughts invaded Peter’s head. He was a cold-blooded murderer.
“Something wrong?” the scummy-looking man asked, picking up his vibe.
“There was a woman standing behind me,” Peter explained.
“She left.”
“I’m finished,” the desk sergeant said loudly.
“Nice meeting you,” Peter said.
“Right.”
Peter turned back around. The man’s crime was running through his head like a trailer to a movie. Friday night, a rough bar in Hell’s Kitchen, the man and a drinking buddy left the bar together, walked into a dark alley, where the scummy-looking man robbed his friend and shot him for good measure. He was a stone-cold killer.
“So tell me what I drew,” the desk sergeant said.
Peter had absolutely no idea what the desk sergeant had drawn while his back was turned. But he was about to find out without his subject being the wiser. “Please tear off what you drew, and hide the drawing,” he replied.
The desk sergeant tore off the drawing and hid it under her desk. Peter wondered how was he going to tell her about the killer without tipping her off that he was a psychic. He decided to finish the trick, hoping a solution would come to him.
“May I please have the pad and your pencil,” he said.
“So polite. I like that in a man.”
She winked at him while handing over the items. Peter held the pad up close to his chest. Using the edge of the pencil, he lightly shaded the page, and the impression of what she’d just drawn popped to life. There were only ten objects that people ever drew. Peter pegged the desk sergeant for a house, and glanced down at the page. Sure enough, she’d drawn a house. But not just any house. This one had a winding driveway, a mailbox at the road, and a front lawn. Had she drawn the house out in the suburbs where she lived?