Mallory exhaled. “Come on, Tizz, I’m supposed to believe these two happened to stop in for a quickie at the same exact hotel while Farrington was there killing people?”
“No, you are supposed to believe what Johnson from Mid-town South came up with while interviewing the front desk staff.”
“You’re killing me with these cliff hangers, Tizz.”
“Johnson reports that room 1013 was booked right at the front desk. When Johnson asked this first-week-on-the-job hotel clerk which victim made the reservation, she answered, ‘neither.’ Some guy did, telling her the room was a 10th wedding anniversary present for a client. He even used the hotel phone right in front of her to call each adulterer to announce that the other had made the reservation. Ready for the name the room was charged to? Whitfield. If she had been a long-time employee, she would have known the guy speaking to her wasn’t Whitfield.”
“Explains why Farrington hung around so long,” Mallory offered. “He was arranging revenge, or, in his mind, poetic retribution.”
“Whatever; gives us another link to this guy. Especially if little Miss Gullible can pick Farrington out of a line-up.”
“You’re all right, Tizzie.”
“Hey don’t go spreading that around. I got a rep to uphold.”
Mallory updated Gunner, then called Lieutenant Danvers. No answer. He left a message, hung up, and noticed Gunner staring at him.
“You look blown out, brother. Maybe you should get some sleep.”
Mallory let out a long, slow sigh.
“What?”
“It’s selfish.”
“What is?”
“If I’m honest, I have to admit I wish I could keep working the case before dealing with Pop’s….”
“Doesn’t work like that. Life happens, we deal.”
“But now? When we’re hip deep in such a mess? We’re pretty damn sure this guy faked his own death.”
“And actually killed his wife. And their kids. This guy’s bad and getting worse.”
“Which is why I should stay on the case. But… my father…”
“One thing has nothing to do with another. This stuff isn’t scheduled to make things harder for you or more convenient. Life just happens.”
Mallory gave a humorless chuckle. “And it’s all happening now.”
“Always is, all the time,” Gunner hunched one shoulder towards an ear, a sympathetic half-shrug. “Why are both happening right at this moment? Coincidence.”
“That again.” Mallory stared off. “We got a clear direction about what we should do next?”
“Not a clue.”
“Then I’m going to spend the night with my father.”
“You should.”
He paused. “Look, Gina and the kids are safe, but I need you on call just in case. So—”
“I won’t be drinking, don’t worry.”
“I know, I know. I’m going to keep my car in the hospital garage, I don’t know, in case I need it. Can you give Bitsie and Maggie a ride home?”
“No problem,” Gunner turned onto 67th Street, eased up alongside the hospital, and parked illegally. “I forgot how cute your sister is. You think —?”
“She’s married, wiseass,” Mallory smirked. “I’m not putting anything past this guy, so make sure you aren’t followed. Make sure they get all the way into their homes safely too, okay?”
“I got this, Mal,” Gunner flipped the sun visor down showing official police vehicle identification. “Don’t let this demon-can-be-anywhere bullshit get you riled.”
Mallory waited until they were in the elevator to answer. “We aren’t dealing with a demon. This is a frustrated guy obsessed with what he’s lost, with the passing of his world, with being screwed over by powerful bosses and greedy young executive punks.”
They got off the elevator, nodded to the nurses, approached the room. “The demon thing was just smoke. The real problem is all in his head. Make no mistake, he’s a troubled man. But all the other stuff? Coincidence.”
“Didn’t your new buddy Father Carry say there are no coincidences?”
“That priest bugged me too. What was with that blessing? I’ve had it with that holy know-it-all.”
They entered the room where his father lay buffeted by pillows, arms across his chest, hands turned in disturbingly, legs bent at the knee, suggesting the beginnings of a dread-inducing fetal curl. Seemingly in a deep slumber, Pop’s breath rattled under the thick rubbery oxygen mask.
And at the foot of the bed, three people prayed fervently: Bitsie, Maggie…
…and Father Carry.
FIFTY-THREE
Maggie looked up, saw Mallory’s shock, smiled at Father Carry. “You’re right, Father, they are surprised to see you.”
“Get away from my family right now,” Mallory said to the priest in a low tone.
Bitsie worked herself out of her chair, stood in front of Father Carry and stamped her little foot. “Francis Patrick Bernard Mallory, speaking to a priest like that is a mortal sin, I’m sure of it!”
“Bitsie,” Mallory ordered calmly, “get out of the way.”
Father Carry stood up behind her. Mallory and Gunner tensed.
The priest stepped around Mallory’s Mom, gently guided her back to a chair. “Rose, thank you, but I understand their surprise, even their anger. If I found some strange priest I’d just met on a police investigation sitting with my parents, I might find myself wanting to punch him.” He glanced at Mallory, then smiled, turned back to Bitsie. “And that’s fine; I know plenty of priests who could use a good shot in the mouth.”
Bitsie blushed and sat down. Maggie laughed out loud.
Pop, seemingly unconscious, head back, mouth open, also laughed, sort of, from deep in the recesses of his morphine fog. The grunt quickly mutated to a chest-rattling coughing fit. The priest stepped to his side, addressed him in a soft soothing voice.
“Easy, Patrick, relax into it. Don’t fight it. Let it go. Let it go. There you are.”
Pop’s hacking subsided along with the soothing words. Though he never opened his eyes, he seemed to hear Father Carry, and took deeper, more normal breaths. After monitoring him for a moment, the priest turned slowly to the detectives. “Gentlemen, please feel free to pat me down, frisk me, put me in cuffs, but let’s avoid a strip search, shall we? Nothing more embarrassing than a defrocked priest.”
“Don’t you dare lay a hand on him, Francis Patrick Mallory!” Bitsie scolded.
The priest chuckled. “Thanks again, Rose.” To the detectives he spoke quietly. “Maybe we should take this outside. To the visitors’ lounge, perhaps?”
Mallory nodded his head just once, toward the door. “Let’s go.”
Gunner wasn’t as confident. “Could be a trap.”
“Then each of you should take me by an arm, securely, so I can’t try anything,” the priest countered, offering them each a black clothed elbow.
They took hold of him and walked out of the room, then stopped, not knowing exactly where the visitors lounge was. Father Carry did. “Down the hall, corner room on the right.”
“How do you know so much about the layout of this place?” Gunner demanded as they headed toward the lounge.
“Frank’s father is not the only cancer patient I’ve ever lent spiritual comfort to, my friend. These kind of places are part of my job.”
The lounge was empty. The detectives released the priest, who took a seat on a small sofa across the room.
“Tell me how you knew where my father was,” Mallory demanded.
“Most people are very helpful to members of the clergy, especially when a colleague has an illness in the family. I visited your offices to see if there was any additional help I could provide, and a young detective let me know your father was ill, sadly, with cancer, and that you would be with him.”
Gunner shook his head. “Laura still has some stuff to learn.”
“Don’t hold it against her, detective,” the priest smiled.
“Help and support should never be seen as an invasion.”
“But why are you here? I hardly know you,” Mallory demanded.
The priest stood to face Mallory. “I feel obligated to help.” Recognizing the flicker of doubt in their eyes, he pressed his hands together on his chest. “Look, I meant what I said about Bryan. He is my charge; I consider his soul to still be in my care.” Mallory rolled his eyes. Father Carry raised a hand. “Detective, you don’t have to embrace my position, but please show enough respect to hear me out.”
Mallory’s St. Raymond’s Elementary School training kicked in. “Sorry Father. Please go ahead.”
Gunner, however, had been kicked out of his Catholic school. “This shit better be good.”
The priest leveled a challenging stare at him. “I promise it will be.” He closed his eyes if in silent prayer, then nodded solemnly to the detectives. “I believe Bryan was indeed touched with what I am comfortable terming a demonic presence for years, but after that concert, I am convinced something changed. He was less troubled for the first time since I’ve known him. At first I thought the demon had finally abandoned him, and prayed my thanks to God. But when the news of the murder broke, and especially when I saw Bryan in the precinct, I was no longer so sure—”
“See?” Gunner cut in. “It is that little weirdo.”
Father Carry touched his arm lightly. “No. You, of all people, should understand what I am about to say; you brought it up first.”
“Whoa, don’t pin any a’your weirdness on me.”
“I now believe that Bryan is tied to this, but not in the way you think. He was joyous at the concert, as he always is. The presence must have hated his elation, must have been pained by his joy. I also believe that sitting next to Bryan was a shattered soul, weak, defeated, ripe for the taking.” The priest looked at them, one at a time, searching their eyes for some acceptance of his words. “I know this will be difficult for you to accept, but I am compelled to speak honestly with you: I believe the presence that housed itself in Bryan for all these years finally did leave, and it jumped into your true suspect.”
Mallory exploded. “Bullshit!”
“I’m afraid that convenient explanation doesn’t hold.”
For Gunner it clicked. “So you do believe it was a dybbuk?”
The priest turned to Gunner: “Most likely.” He reached into his suit jacket pocket, withdrawing a folded, thirty-three-page document. “But as to your faith problem here, Detective Mallory, I offer this: a list of all the possessions, in this country alone, that are similar to the scenario I just described for you. You can neither keep this document nor use it in a court of law—”
“Then it is useless to me.”
“Please do not take this kindness lightly. I have promised the Archbishop of the Archdiocese of New York himself that our cooperation would not be betrayed.”
“Maybe I should just confiscate this and have its information confirmed.”
“Please understand that this document comes with the following warning: should you try to retain or make public this document, His Holiness the Pope will have you arrested, with all the international influence and power of the Vatican itself behind said action.”
Mallory made no move to accept the papers. “If I can’t use this to prove my case, why are you even showing me?”
The priest forced the document into his hands. “To help you believe.”
The pages were filled with single-line entries, all identifying a victim by initials, age, gender, town, state, then indicated “exorcised” or “fatality” (there were many more of the latter). Each page featured a raised seal signed by the Pope.
“You expect us to believe these are records from hundreds of cases of actual exorcism,” Mallory challenged.
“Careful, Detective, you now doubt the official word of the Catholic Church,” Father Carry advised. “Even you must acknowledge how serious we are taking this situation if the Church is willing to share confidential internal documentation.”
Mallory shoved the documents back into the priest’s hands. “Doesn’t mean I am obligated to believe.”
“Then what do you believe, Frank?”
The detective bristled and began to walk out.
“Detective,” the priest called. Mallory stopped. “This may not obligate you, but it does obligate me.”
“How?” Gunner asked.
“If the problem with Bryan was, as you say, a dybbuk, then this is still my responsibility; this presence was my assignment for 25 years.”
Now both detectives turned their backs on him. The priest hurried around in front of them, all but blocking the door. “Disguising himself as Bryan, stealing Bryan’s note cards at the concert, appropriating Bryan’s affinity for taking notes, his love of classic rock music, his proficiency with Dante’s Inferno, all of this fits perfectly with a demon’s method of torment. He meant to make Bryan a prime suspect, to cause him pain. And he succeeded in duping you, or at least those other detectives. Can you deny that Bryan suffered at the Police Department’s hand due to your true suspect’s actions?”
Mallory answered. “No. Neither can you prove it was some sort of demonic presence doing all this. You cannot make us believe.”
“I’m not asking you to believe, Frank,” the priest pleaded. “I’m asking that you allow me to do whatever I can to help, even if that means making myself available to comfort your father in case I am right, and this presence comes looking to make you suffer.”
“Why is he focusing on me?”
“In many such cases, there is evidence of communication, baiting such as you have endured with the notes. Soon he’ll make contact in other, more personal ways—”
Mallory flinched.
The priest spoke quietly. “Oh, I see he already has. My deepest sympathies. Is your family okay? Safe?”
“Yes—”
Gunner cut his partner off. “Do you mean ‘Is weird shit happening’? Damn right it is.” He ran down the list, the bulldog, the cat, the box, the batch of cards it contained, the writing addressed directly to Mallory.
“Oh my,” Father Carry said. “Understand, from his point-of-view, you are hunting him. He embraces this, delights in the challenge.”
“So, you believe the bulldog and cat were…” Gunner couldn’t finish his question.
“Domesticated animals are the easiest to possess.”
Mallory studied him. “Why is this case so important to you?”
The priest averted his eyes. “I pledged to defeat this thing, and for 25 years have failed to do so.” He looked at Mallory, eyes threatening to overflow. “Every pain he causes, every soul he takes, is my deepest spiritual responsibility.”
Malloy exploded. “This isn’t about spirituality, it’s about the law!”
“That you’ve chosen to uphold the law for a living helps define your spirituality.”
“I separate church and state, Father—”
“It’s all connected whether you acknowledge that or not. Without the spirit to fight for what’s right, none of the men in blue could carry the weight of what you all see while doing your jobs. I know this because the same applies to men in black. Different uniform, same battle.”
“I don’t believe you.”
The priest’s face was etched in sorrow. “Detectives, you believe what you want, but please understand that with every particle of my being, I believe my very soul is at risk here.”
“I’ve got no time for this,” Mallory muttered. “I’ve got to see about my father.” He walked out, leaving Gunner to deal with the priest.
They stared at each other for a long while, until Gunner finally nodded. “Fine. But you stay here.”
FIFTY-FOUR
Maggie was talking to Mallory, exhausted, watery-eyed, when Gunner joined them. “Daddy has been in a restless sleep about three hours. He seems to wake from it occasionally, mumbles to himself, but otherwise he’s out of it. One of the doctors was in. He explained that the but
ton for the morphine can administer six even doses per hour. Pop pushed that button 25 times in the first 45 minutes.”
A nurse making her rounds suggested that Pop would be like that the rest of the night, so they probably should go home to get some sleep themselves. Mallory made it clear to everyone that he would not be leaving. They agreed that Gunner would take Bitsie and Maggie home.
Once they left, Mallory looked around the cold, impersonal room. The Russian had left, one way or the other, so Pop had a de facto single. It would be just father and son. He sat down in the chair opposite him, alone together for the first time in years. He wrestled with consciousness in the big, square uncomfortable chair, often spacing out, then coming back to himself, suddenly awake, startled, and staring at his father. Though seemingly unconscious, Pop was talking almost constantly now; barely audible murmurings that included pauses as if someone were answering him. He lay propped up, four pillows under his head, others under each arm, at the shoulders, at the elbows, at the forearms. He was covered to the chest with a hospital-issue sheet and blanket. His hands punctuated his ongoing conversation, waving in front of him to emphasize a point the way they had throughout Mallory’s life. But at other times, his arms would seem to be warding off something or someone. When that happened, Mallory’s stomach churned.
The vigil allowed ample time for memories. When Heinz killed himself, Mallory wanted answers, real, tangible answers. He found his father in the small kitchen of their overcrowded Parkchester apartment. Wearing baggy dungarees and a V-neck undershirt, with a dish towel thrown over one shoulder, Pop was washing the family’s ancient copper-bottom pots with Cameo, a cleanser made specifically for such a task. Pop kept scrubbing a medium-sized pot. It seemed perfectly clean, but Mallory knew for father everything had to be “spic and span.”
Pop was strict, and could be quick with his huge fists when he felt it appropriate, so the teen kept his distance, just in case the old man didn’t approve of his line of questioning. “Pop, can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“Well, um, what really happens after we die?”
He launched into his familiar Baltimore Catechism voice. “‘The judgment which will be passed on each one of us immediately after death is called the particular judgment,’” he recited. “‘The rewards or punishments appointed for men after the particular judgment are heaven, purgatory, or hell.’”
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