by Karen Hall
“No. You can hold on. You can, Laura. You have to! You’re not slipping. No, you’re not—”
He was cut off by the sound of a scream. “Laura!” Michael tried to yell, too, as if it could help. Nothing would come out of his mouth. And then he felt the spinning sensation again, and the pressure. The air around him changed, from searing heat to chilly, moist night air. New smells faded in. Pine trees. Candles. Smoke again, but not as strong. Some sweet smell he didn’t recognize. Colors began to break through the darkness and a new scene appeared. Men in long black robes. A fire. Noises. Chants. Moans. Howls. The scene became clearer and Michael was surrounded by frenzied activity. He was in the middle of an orgy.
Opium. That smell is opium. How do I know that? Dear God, don’t make me be here . . .
The men were all paired and grouped and their robes were open down the front and Michael refused to look at what was going on, but their faces were enough to tell him everything.
And then Michael saw Vincent.
Seventeen-year-old Vincent, but unmistakably Vincent just the same. On the altar in the middle of the circle. A young girl who must be Rebecca beneath him, terrified: screaming, crying, begging. Her pleas were useless, falling to the ground unheard. The look on Vincent’s face dissolved any hope Michael had harbored. Vincent was enjoying the hell out of it.
The strange reality shifted and all the sounds faded except for Rebecca’s screams and Vincent’s heavy breathing . . . and then it all seemed to speed up and Michael felt himself caught in the frenzy . . . and then Vincent’s breath became Michael’s breath, and somehow Michael was suddenly seventeen again . . . not watching, he was actually back there . . . not in the woods . . . in Donna’s basement on the sofa and she was under him and he could feel her mouth on his neck and their breaths rose and fell together and the frantic sounds he heard were his own and he could hear Donna calling his name and he didn’t answer, didn’t stop, didn’t slow down and she called more insistently and she was pleading now (“Michael, pull out! Michael!”) and he didn’t and he could have, but he didn’t and then it was too late and he heard his own cry and then it became Vincent’s and he was back in the woods and now it was Michael, not Vincent, who was on top of Rebecca and inside her as she screamed and her screams just excited him more and he could feel his body exploding with the pleasure of it as he gasped for breath and he could feel the heat of the ceremonial fire on his face and he could smell a mixture of booze and candle wax and semen and incense and somehow every smell seemed to wrap itself around him with slimy fingers and they wrenched the pleasure away and left a shell of self-loathing and then the scene changed again and he saw nothing but a flesh-colored blob . . . it started to take shape and it became a fetus, fully formed, totally human, sucking its thumb . . . and then a sound, a wailing that was coming from the baby, who was being pulled apart, limb by limb, by unseen hands . . . blood filled the screen of his mind, but not before he saw the pain and terror on the innocent face and he knew that the Satan worshipers had nothing to do with it . . . his baby, his fault, his selfishness, his crime . . . and the blood poured over him and he was covered in it and he could feel it hot and sticky and in a blinding flash he saw that he hadn’t escaped the ghastly legacy at all . . . born of murderers, he was a murderer himself . . . his soul was blackened beyond repair, beyond redemption, and if there was a guy in a flannel shirt, He’d been finished with Michael for a long time, wouldn’t hear him if he begged for mercy . . . the black hole in his soul was going to be Michael’s home for the rest of eternity . . . he heard Donna’s pleas again and Rebecca’s screams and the baby’s, and all the Landrys’ and their victims’ and the Ingrams’ and the people’s who died in the fire and all the screams reached a crescendo together . . . an ungodly sound . . . the sound of ruin and waste and destruction and hopelessness . . . He was the only person who could have made a dent in the agony and it was too late . . . He joined the scream and he screamed and screamed and finally realized he was back in the room . . . and the demon was howling with laughter.
“And you think a few words from your sanctimonious friend will save you from that?”
Michael was gasping, trying to get his breath back.
“Where’s your hope now, Padre?” the demon asked. “Where’s your savior?”
Not here . . . He’s not here . . . It was just a dream . . . No Jesus, just an angry, vengeful God who has it in for me . . . I’ve been living a lie . . . My whole life is a lie . . .
Michael was crying. He forced himself to stop. Didn’t want to give the demon the satisfaction of seeing it. He was standing in front of the window. He looked down at the street below.
This is what I could do. I could offer my life as a penance.
“Yes, you can,” the demon said. “It’s all you can do.”
Would that repay the sacrifice stolen from Vincent’s cult? Would that be the end of it?
The demon laughed. “Good, Padre. Now you’re getting the hang of it.”
The window suddenly slammed open. Michael looked at it. If he really believed that this would end it all, that the demon would leave and the trail of dead bodies would end . . .
You can’t trust him. With you gone, he’ll kill Randa and then Jack.
Michael put the window out of his mind and instead, he doused Jack with holy water in the shape of a cross. Jack yelled and recoiled as if he’d been scalded. Michael summoned words from the Roman Ritual.
“I command you, unclean spirit, whoever you are, along with all your minions—”
The demon filled the room with loud, maniacal laughter. When he could catch his breath, he said, “Let’s revisit the window idea, shall we?”
Before Michael could wonder what he meant, there was a loud whooshing sound, and the entire side of the room burst into a wall of flames. They covered the door and quickly began to spread toward Michael.
Is this real?
The heat was certainly real, as was the smoke that was filling the room. Not in gray clouds, as before, but thick and black and acrid. In no time, Michael could barely breathe. He moved to the open window and stuck his head out to get fresh air.
“ Now you’ll jump.”
Michael could feel the intense heat of the flames as they moved quickly toward him.
He had lost. He could stay in the room and burn to death, or he could jump out the window and fall to his death like his parents before him. He made one last attempt at the Roman Ritual, in between coughs.
“I adjure you . . . every unclean spirt . . . every specter from Hell . . .”
The entire room filled with the sound of the demon’s laughter, rising over the loud crackling of the flames. This had never worked, Michael thought. It was never going to work. There was nothing left but to choose his mode of death.
He decided on the window. At least he’d have fresh air on the way down. He quickly began the Act of Contrition as the flames roared closer.
“Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry . . .”
A thought struck him and he stopped.
Is this suicide?
“Go on, Padre,” the demon said. “Speaking from experience, you don’t want to burn.”
Michael looked at the window. If jumping constituted suicide, the demon would get exactly what it wanted. This battle had never been about his body.
“If you want me out the window,” Michael managed to cough out, “then push me.”
For the first time Michael could see something different in those eyes. Disappointment? Trepidation?
Michael grabbed another breath from the window, then faced the demon again.
“It will not be my choice,” he declared.
“We’ll see.”
The heat had become unbearable and the flames were right on him. Was there anything he could still do?
Pray.
He closed his eyes and tried to envision the cool shade of the pine tree and the guy in the flannel shirt. The picture appeared in his mind, as clear as a photograph. He f
elt the heat of the flames leave. He opened his eyes and the picture was real. The flannel shirt was gone, and the man standing before him was dressed in full regalia: flowing white robe with a bright red sash. A picture from somebody’s grandmother’s house.
“What can I do?” Michael pleaded.
“You can do nothing.”
Michael suddenly remembered something Bob had said, before Danny’s exorcism. “Only God can save Danny. We’re just the hired help.”
I can only do it through His authority. And I have rejected every part of it that I don’t like. Which means I have rejected it all. He either has all authority or He doesn’t.
He thought back to his ordination, when he had lain facedown on the floor in complete and utter submission. He immediately prostrated himself, arms out at his sides and face planted in the grass. He could feel and smell the ground under him.
“Please take me back.”
He immediately felt a warmth rush over him. He looked up. The guy in the robe was once again the guy in the flannel shirt and he was smiling—beaming at Michael.
“Shall we?” he asked.
Before Michael could determine what he meant, the scene dissolved and Michael was back in the room, surrounded by flames, gasping for breath. The heat was brutal, but he was no longer afraid.
“Evil Spirit, in the name of Jesus Christ and by His authority, I command you to come out of him, return to the pit from which you were summoned, and return no more.”
A horrible, brain-splitting howl filled the room. The demon was writhing, backing into the corner, battling an unseen enemy, putting up one last fight, and losing. When the howl finally ended, there was an enormous boom, and the fire was gone as if it had never been there. The room was a smoldering shell and the air was heavy with the smell of smoke and burnt wood. In the one unscathed corner, Jack collapsed to the floor, exhausted. He looked around, trying to get his bearings.
“It’s over,” Michael said. Jack stared at him, trying to take it in.
There were loud footsteps on the stairs, then Randa appeared at the door, gaping at the damage the fire had done.
“What happened?” she asked, but before Michael could answer, she had turned her attention to Jack.
“Jack?”
“It’s okay,” Michael told her. “It’s over.”
“Where am I?” Jack asked.
Randa ran to the corner and sank to the floor next to him. She took him into her arms.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “You’re okay.” She was crying as she said it. She buried her face in Jack’s shoulder.
“Michael,” Jack asked, “are you all right?”
Michael nodded. He looked out the window and took a deep breath.
Thank you.
It was well past midnight when Michael returned to the villa. He was surprised to find Gabe lying on the sofa in the library. There was a compress on his forehead and his eyes were closed. He opened an eye when he sensed Michael’s presence.
Gabe sat up and Michael noticed the rosary in his hand. He also noticed he felt no irritation about it.
“Are you okay?” Michael asked.
“Of course,” Gabe said. He put the rosary down on the coffee table.
“It’s over,” Michael said.
“Thank God.”
“Amen,” Michael replied. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the light, he could see a sizable knot above Gabe’s left eye.
“Are you sure you’re okay? You might have a concussion.”
Gabe shrugged. “I boxed for six years. My head is used to concussions.”
“Now I know you have one.”
“I’ll go to a doctor tomorrow,” Gabe said, relenting, and then changed the subject. “Where are Jack and Randa?”
“I took them home. I tried to explain it all, but . . .”
“But?”
“What we believe is insane.”
Gabe nodded. “That’s why it takes guts to not give a damn what anyone thinks.”
I want that, Michael thought. And then realized he was wishing to be more like Gabe.
“Does the piranha club need another member?”
Gabe smiled. “Come on in,” he said. “The water’s nasty, but you’ll be fine.”
ELEVEN
Jack was gone when Randa woke up. It was their second day back in Barton, and they had barely spoken in the last forty-eight hours. She didn’t know what to make of it, except that they were both paralyzed by the giant “What now?” hanging over them.
She was on her second cup of coffee when the door opened and he entered. She watched in silence as he hung his jacket on the back of the desk chair and finally looked up to face her.
“Where’ve you been?” She tried not to sound accusatory, but was pretty sure she’d failed.
“Cathy’s grave,” he said, quietly.
“Was that a smart idea?”
“What do you mean?”
“The cops might have it staked out. I’m not sure what they’d make of you being there.”
“I don’t care what they make of it,” he said. He didn’t sound angry, or resigned. It was merely a statement. Before she had time to analyze it, he made it irrelevant with “I’ve been thinking.”
Nothing good ever came from a conversation that started with “I’ve been thinking.” Randa braced herself. “And?”
“We don’t really know each other,” he said. “And I don’t know who I am, apart from . . .” He stopped. Neither of them had been willing, yet, to say the word “demon” without Michael in the room.
“It’s a lot,” Randa agreed. She’d been thinking, too. If she admitted she believed in a demon, wouldn’t she then have to admit she believed in God?
“What we should do, if we’re going to be adults about it, is return to our lives and figure it out independently.”
He was right, Randa knew. Maybe, in a few years, they could get in touch and give it another shot. For now, everything was too close and too chaotic. Maybe Michael would spend some time with Jack and the two of them could figure out how to deal with the aftermath of . . . whatever. She was not really a part of this. She had interjected herself. It was time to go away and leave it to the people who were actually involved.
“Okay, then,” she said. You can do this. Don’t fall apart. “I’m going to go to the hotel and pack, Then I’ll take a cab back to my rental car. . .”
She was half-waiting for him to stop her, but he was completely stoic.
She opened the door and he said nothing as she started out. Then, without even realizing what she was doing, she stepped back inside and slammed the door behind her.
“I hate this plan!” she barked at him.
“Oh?” he said.
“We’re a couple. Even if we’ve only been one for a week. And after what we’ve been through, that week should count for three years. You don’t get to unilaterally dictate the future.”
Jack stared at her for a moment, then cracked a tiny smile. “I didn’t say we had to do it. I just said it would be the ‘adult thing’ to do. You’re the one heading out the door.”
“Never mind that. What’s Plan B?”
“It’s your turn to have a plan.”
“How about I stay here indefinitely and we figure out a better ‘grown-up’ plan?”
He laughed, then reached out and pulled her into his arms. They stood there for a long moment. Finally he spoke. “Your plan is better.”
Was it? Randa wondered. There was no maturity to it. No logic. Only hope. But something had shifted, and hope no longer felt like a punishable offense.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To all the people who were thanked in the 1996 edition of Dark Debts: you remain thanked, and just as enthusiastically, but for present purposes I am going to limit myself to the people who are specific to this version of the book. First on that list is my editor, Jon Karp, who has endured my lack of writing (for him, anyway) for decades and who said “yes” immediately when I approache
d him with the idea of a new version of my novel for its twentieth anniversary. That is the kind of support he has always shown for Dark Debts, since the day it first crossed his door. My second phone call was to my literary agent, Bennett Ashley, who was thrilled with the idea of another go at it, and once again kept me from doubting myself at every turn.
There are new priests to thank this time around, who have spent a lot of time over the years helping me dissect Catholicism and put it back together again, and it is because of them that I now have (in my humble opinion) a more mature understanding of my faith. They are: Fr. Sean Raftis, Fr. John Brown, S.J., and Fr. Christopher Gober. There is one more priest who has helped me more than words could adequately describe and to whom I owe a tremendous debt, both personally and professionally. He wishes to be thanked cryptically. There you go, Father. My friend Joe Garcia should also be thanked under this heading, even if he missed his calling. And thank you to my dear friends Barbara Nicolosi-Harrington and Norris Harrington, Steve Skojec, and the others (you know who you are) who are helping me survive the daily insanity of this age.
I have more family members to thank this time around: I am always grateful to Brian and Christine Walker, for taking me in as family when I showed up out of nowhere. I would never be able to accomplish anything without the love of my life, my husband Chris, taking up the slack and offering his much-valued (even if I don’t always show it) opinions. Our son, Caleb, put up with a lot of being chased out of the room while I was working under a tight deadline. And, as my daughter Julianne Marie Bull would no doubt love to tell you, I ignored way too many of her phone calls from three thousand miles away, in order to get the book done on time.
I am grateful to everyone at Simon & Schuster for their hard work and the beautiful results. I spent the most time with Megan Hogan, publishing assistant, who is an incredibly patient and kind person. Laura Cherkas, my copy editor, did an amazing job. Nothing got by her. I am also grateful to: Cary Goldstein, VP and Director of Publicity; Anne Tate Pearce, publicist; Richard Rhorer, VP and Associate Publisher; Ebony LaDelle, Marketing Manager; Kristen Lemire, Managing Editor; Lisa Erwin, Senior Production Manager; Ciara Robinson, Senior Production Editor; Jackie Seow, VP and Executive Art Director; Alison Forner, Associate Art Director. I am often asked why writers need publishers in the year 2016. I offer this work as an answer.