City of Woe

by Christopher Ryan

  Another toke, this time he blew smoke out of the side of his mouth, away from the detective’s face, but stared right into Mallory’s eyes. “The church is very strict regarding their requirements for declaring someone possessed. Numerous behaviors must be observed, proof undeniably established. Bryan demonstrated behaviors we associate with those either already under the thrall of a demon, or susceptible to possession; fits, personality shifts, once even a mild physical transformation. At times he exhibited a fleeting ability to speak in foreign tongues he couldn’t possibly know. Each of these lasted only a short while but faded quickly. He sometimes would casually mention an event from my past that neither he nor anyone else in the school could possibly know,” He flicked the cigarette butt into a nearby sewer with casual accuracy. “He’d tease me about a dog that attacked me as a young boy.”

  The muscles around Mallory’s jaw tightened.

  “Admittedly, we were frustrated in our attempts to establish a clear pattern, aside from an annoyingly consistent appearance of some compelling indicator whenever we considered closing the case.”

  Mallory scowled. Gunner elaborated. “Sounds like he was fucking with you.”

  “What could drive a child to do such a thing?”

  “A horror movie on cable television.”

  “So a 10-year-old saw a film and was inspired to become fluent in Latin, Egyptian and Sumerian, without anyone’s help, or without anyone noticing, just to spring it on us at the right moment, using precise diction, and being able to respond to questions in those languages perfectly? Do you really believe that is a more realistic explanation? But let us agree he did exactly that. What influence would have to be behind such an elaborate, difficult scheme? Or what could, pardon the pun, possess a child to repeatedly throw himself across a room, or spontaneously recite personal knowledge of consulting priests and physician’s early lives that he had no possible access to?” He smiled at them, his voice low. “Now who appears naïve?”

  Mallory waved his hand at the priest once, dismissively. “Show me proof from board certified professionals I might possibly consider delusion, psychotic episodes, but that’s as far as I’m willing to go.” He walked to his car. “All he needed was a good therapist.”

  Gunner shrugged apologetically. “Come on, padre, I experienced ‘mild physical transformation’ as an adolescent too. It was called spontaneous erections.”

  Father Carry laughed. “Congratulations. But you should understand; we exhausted psychological, emotional and physical explanations. None of these overt symptoms lasted long enough to test. His only true constants were mood swings, and an ‘edge’ to his personality some would misjudge as merely a bad temper. But we never believed it was Bryan who threw the tantrums.”

  Mallory paused at the driver’s side door. “No, it was his mental illness. We’ve heard this all before, Father.”

  The priest slid a key into the door of his own car, a battered, ancient Mustang, immediately to the left of theirs. “We tried our damnedest for five years to prove that diagnosis. His behavior stubbornly remained borderline throughout his 13th year. And yes, admittedly we were never able to determine whether his case was one of psychosis or possession, two very different illnesses. But he continued to show evidence that he was at risk, so we arranged for Bryan to attend Fordham Prep, where I would teach, befriend him, mentor him, and watch over his soul as much as I could. The plan was to turn him over to a therapist should his condition prove purely psychological; that never happened.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first to misdiagnose,” Mallory said.

  Gunner smirked. “After all, he never puked pea soup, right?”

  “Nothing so overt, no.”

  “Look, Father, you’ve got nothing. Your investigation came to nothing, even your relationship with this guy is artificial,” Mallory opened his door.

  “I beg to differ.” Father Carry took off his glasses and cleaned the lenses with a napkin from a pocket. “You must have seen tonight, there is an innocence, a purity to Bryan from which one cannot easily turn away. One of the side effects of observing him was that our friendship quickly transcended my assignment and became genuine.”

  The priest slid his glasses back into place, and blinked at the detectives. “So there it is; my unprofessionalism revealed. I confess to becoming emotionally protective of Bryan. A dangerous development in my business, I admit, but I am doing the best I can.”

  Mallory drummed his fingers along the top of the door frame. “Touching, but if he has such psychotic potential—”

  “Demonic potential,” the priest interrupted.

  “Why shouldn’t we believe he committed these murders?”

  Father Carry smacked the top of his car with an open palm. “Because you’ve seen him, spoken with him, saw his world. Surely, you’ve observed that he’s not capable of such things.”

  “No, I haven’t observed that at all.”

  “And you call yourself a detective. God help us.”

  Mallory slammed his car door, rushing around the priest’s car. He got into the priest’s face, a finger jabbing not more than an inch from the smaller man’s chest. “You know what I’ve detected? Facts, Father: He keeps the same kind of notes on the same kind of cards as those left at the murders. He’s easily agitated, and exhibits evidence of emotional instability. Sounds like a prime suspect to me.”

  Father Carry placed a hand lightly on Mallory’s, patted it gently as he spoke barely above a whisper. “Surely a detective of your caliber also noticed his disability.” Now the priest lifted his hand, and brought it in toward his own chest. “Under pressure he shuts down. That alone would prevent him from succeeding in any of the activities you are suggesting.”

  “Your judgment toward him is clouded.”

  “Only by the truth.”

  “Outweighed by physical evidence.”

  “Detective, please hear me. Arresting Bryan now would be useless and harmful. If a demon was ever in Bryan, it is not there now.”

  Mallory strode away from the priest. “Oh, enough of this.”

  Gunner nodded at the priest. “You talking about a dyybuk?”

  The priest was clearly surprised. “Maybe. It is impossible to tell precisely what these things are until they openly manifest.”

  Mallory, turned back to the conversation. “Wouldn’t it be better to allow Bryan’s so-called demon to manifest in a jail or asylum, in the interests of public safety?”

  “Detective, I believe that, if there ever truly was a demon, it is no longer inside Bryan. You wouldn’t stop it by arresting Bryan, you would amuse it. And, let’s not kid ourselves here: stopping the demon is your destiny, detective.” With that, Father Carry climbed into his battered Mustang.

  Mallory stepped toward the priest. “There’s one problem with that line of thinking, Obi Wan; I don’t believe in destiny, possession, dybbuks, or anything else I can’t prove with solid evidence.”

  The priest turned the ignition, the car rumbling to life. “Tell me then, what do you believe in, Detective?”

  Mallory looked at his watch; it was 5:30. “I believe it’s time to go see my wife and kids.”

  The priest smiled, slid the car into gear. “Can’t argue with that religion.” Reaching into a pocket, he produced a business card. “Call me when you need my help."

  “With all due respect, Father, I won’t need your help.”

  “You will, Francis, you will.” Father Carry made the sign of the cross in front of first Mallory, then Gunner, murmuring something in Latin, then drove off.

  Mallory stared after him until Gunner touched his arm. “What?”

  “He called me Francis.”

  “So?”

  “I never told him my name.”

  FORTY-ONE

  Mallory pulled into Home Depot, stormed inside, and headed for the paint aisle. He searched for semi-gloss, interior-exterior. Found it in record time. He read the colors: White, eggshell white, off-white, gray, beige, something
called beach, granite gray, flat white, black, ash gray, blue, navy blue, cement gray, purple, slate gray, red— there it is. He picked up one gallon semi-gloss interior-exterior red. Plenty. Mallory selected three brushes and a roll of blue painter’s tape. He wandered the store looking for brass address numbers. Where would they be? Under brass? Doors? Accessories?

  Three aisles over, among doorknobs and peek-holes, Mallory found address numbers. He took the big brass-looking kind: a two, a one, a three, and a zero. After a moment’s consideration he added a large brass-plated knocker, and a matching exterior doorknob. This will look great, especially when he was home all the time after getting forced into early retirement for screwing up this investigation.

  “Back to reality,” he muttered.

  “Excuse me?” The cashier wore an expression that suggested she’d been punching up sales for too many hours that day to take any crap from Mallory. He nodded toward the total shown on the register, handing over a credit card.

  “’Back to reality,’ I said. I had been expecting to pay less.”

  “Sign a’the times, mister,” she shrugged, processing the charge smoothly, “Everyone pays.”

  Mallory looked at the cashier closely, braced to pounce if she gave him that damned one chin nod.

  FORTY-TWO

  Mallory arrived home by 6:30, and was mildly surprised to find Gina and the kids weren’t around. He changed into battered, stained chore clothes, stuck the signature white headphones of his iPod into his ears, hit shuffle, then play, then smiled at Carlos Santana’s sweet opening guitar riff for John Lee Hooker’s “The Healer,” as he approached the door.

  Hooker’s gravelly preaching about the healing power of the blues’ gave way to the soft guitar harmonics of “And You And I” by Yes. The beauty and texture allowed him to relax into the work, forget about the case, about Dante.

  The old door accessories came off fairly easily, and he covered both locks with blue painter’s tape before opening that can o’red. And red it was. Red red. Fire engine Red. Crayola Red. Max is gonna love this red. Kieran won’t claim this is a “I’m a Red Sox fan” red. Gina is gonna want to paint the rest of the house. Yeah, this is classy home front door Red.

  “And Through the Wire” jarred Mallory. Peter Gabriel sang of using the devil to reveal God while traveling the city’s rings. He shook it off, applied the first tentative strokes. He needed to work fast but smart, no time for mistakes, or pondering the serendipitous relevancy of random iPod song choices.

  The red easily, thoroughly, beautifully covered the ugly brown he hated so much. The first coat went on like a dream. By 7:30 he was gloating that Gina was going to love it, when she finally got home. He was pretty hungry now, and wondered why she hadn’t even called.

  The Temptations’ “Can’t Get Next to You” pumped up Mallory’s sagging energies. It had been such a draining succession of days, he welcomed the music’s rejuvenating urgency; it put a bounce back in his walk from the basement slop sink where he’d cleaned the brushes between coats.

  The paint proved to be fairly quick drying, so he launched into a second coat fairly quickly.

  By 8:30 a second coat was dry. Mallory attached the new fake brass accessories. He figured seeing the door looking like a million bucks would make Gina feel even worse for leaving him without so much as a phone call. The Stones sang “Time Waits for No One”. Damn right, hon.

  Mallory was cleaning up by the time Gina and the kids arrived home. When he saw her car pulling into the driveway, Mallory wiped his hands, popped the headphones off, and went to greet his family.

  Kieran helped Max out of his seat belt, then they both exploded from Mom’s mini-van. But the vibe was not their usual joy. Kieran was serious, almost severe. “Daddy! Where you been?”

  Max shook his head, smiling like he won a bet. “You missed everything!”

  As they bound toward him, all he could think of was red paint on their… cool new outfits. “Guys! Guys! Hold up! Wait! Wet paint!”

  Mallory glanced at Gina as she came around the rear of her car. She looked stunning. A little dressier than usual, her hair perfect, even a touch of make-up. Wow. The guys were looking snazzy too. He looked at Gina again; his stomach tightened a little. She was pulling out shopping bags. Lots of them. From at least four different stores.

  Shopping spree. Uh-oh.

  That only happened when she was really pissed at him, not that she’d ever admit it. He looked close, caught sight of her face. There was severe annoyance, maybe even actual anger, in her expression.

  His cheerful tone was a little forced. “Hey, hon, where have you guys been?”

  “Where were we? Where were you?” Gina shot back. “When you didn’t come home, we went to the mall, figuring maybe you thought you had to meet us there.”

  “We went to Vito’s,” Max said. “I ate two slices, Dad. Crust and everything.”

  “Okay, buddy. Let me talk with Mom.”

  “I ate some of Kieran’s too,” Max crowed. “And a whole soda!”

  “All right, Max.” he patted the boy’s head, eyeing his wife the whole time. “Hey, I finally painted the door. I bought all new hardware too. It came out great.”

  She just stared at him. He tried for humor. “So Vito’s, huh? None for me?”

  “Rice Krispies for you tonight.”

  “Gina, I’ve come home late before. Work is crazy lately; you saw the news the other day. I had a horrible day; I don’t need this from you.”

  Gina’s body tensed.

  “Next time I want to eat three slices—”

  “Hey, shut up about the pizza for a minute!”

  Max registered shock then hid his face in Gina’s legs, and cried.

  He could see Gina struggling to remain silent, which made him angrier. “What? What? Tell me! Don’t keep it in and make me guess! Speak up!”

  She trembled just a bit, holding Max close. “You asked me to set this up. So of course I did. You have us there, dressed up, hair done, sitting around looking like fools. For four hours. I couldn’t get you on the phone; I thought something horrible had happened; I kept giving you a little more time, forcing myself to believe everything was all right, that you’d been delayed, that you would come, that you didn’t forget, until the studio asked us to leave so they could close up. Even Kieran and Max were embarrassed.”

  He felt like a freezing ocean wave hit from behind. “The family portrait.”

  “You had a horrible day? I’m truly sorry that’s part of your job. I wish it weren’t. But you asked me to do this. Things change, I understand that, and I am always willing to adjust plans to accommodate you. But you never called; I checked my cell, you never even tried. I would have understood, would have rescheduled, we all would’ve been fine with it, if you had just called. This one’s on you, so please don’t take it out on the kids.”

  She turned to the boys. “Come on, guys, it’s late, we need to get ready for bed.”

  The fellas went inside, Gina carefully making sure they didn’t touch the paint job. She followed them in, just as carefully maneuvering the multitude of bags.

  FORTY-THREE

  After two snap, crackle, and popping bowls of dinner, Mallory figured he’d better score some Dad points before bed. But no one was in the family room. The living room was empty too. Not a good sign. They were already in the bedrooms.

  Mallory headed for the stairs. A little light roughhousing, get the fellas giggling, she loves that—

  “Lights out, guys.” Gina meant business, and the boys knew it. Their room went dark immediately.

  “O-kay,” Mallory muttered to himself, “she’s looking to talk it out, maybe even engage in a little make up sex.” He climbed creaky stairs, straightening his T-shirt, running fingers through his hair. Gina’s light clicked off. He stood there mid-climb, his mood plummeting from conciliatory to pissed.

  Mallory thundered down the stairs as loudly as possible, went to his den, grabbed Hunter S. Thompson’s Hey Rube
, stopped by the kitchen for a can of Guinness, popped the special pressurized top, poured it into a pint glass, then sought refuge in the family room. He stretched out in his favorite chair, sipped the foamy beer, looked over Thompson’s book, a collection of his columns for ESPN.com. He’d avoided getting it for a long time after Thompson shot himself, found he couldn’t read any of Thompson’s stuff anymore. He bought the memorial issue of Rolling Stone but hadn’t been able to read that either. Mallory remembered being surprised at how seriously angry he was at the notorious “gonzo” journalist, one of his favorite writers, for taking his own life.

  Just like Heinz.

  Mallory forced himself into the book, reading the first page a couple of times before he was able to leave work behind and enjoy time with an old friend. Because, in the writing, Hunter still lived. Even at the end, Thompson still wrote like no other journalist in the world. He pulled no punches, never shied away from outrageous exaggeration to make a point or generate a laugh.

  Mallory flipped to the last entry, dated October 13, 2003. Hopefully one last book of his writing will come out, he found himself wishing; I would have loved to read Hunter’s take on Janet Jackson tit-flashing the world during the Super Bowl. He found he was still pissed at that, too, remembering how it had freaked out his young sons.

  Pre-level little bitch.

  Tossing the book on the couch, Mallory went to the kitchen, poured a fresh one, took his time walking back.

  The cat shrieked, galloped across the house, then raced up the stairs.

  “Stupid f—”

  Another shriek, then the sound of the cat hitting what sounded like a window screen, hissing in an unfamiliar, nasty way—

  The pint glass fell from Mallory’s hands—

  Another bump of the cat landing somewhere—

  Then a sound that slammed fear through his veins—

  Gina’s voice, startled awake, repeating “oh”—

  First in shock—

  Then in fear—