Forty-Four Book Twelve (44 series 12)

by Jools Sinclair

  I nodded and tried to smile. The sun was going down and the sky was changing to a darker shade of gray. I reached over and squeezed his hand.

  “Hey, by the way, it turns out you may have been right about Father Carmichael. I think he might be leaving the Church because of love. Or at least sex.”

  I told Jesse about the flash I had of him talking to the woman by the brick building. And the kiss.

  “Well, good for him. I tell you what, I’ll never understand that celibacy business. It seems like a bad idea all the way around.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I think you’re right.”

  “Okay, it’s past my bedtime,” Jesse said, standing up. “You can do this, Craigers. You’re going to beat him.”

  “I hope so,” I said.

  “Hey, remember back when all we wanted to do was go up to the mountain and snowboard? When did things get so crazy?”

  He turned around and smiled, and that’s when I saw it.

  A flash, quick and sudden.

  The wildfire. White flakes falling from the sky. And the two of us together in bed.

  That night hadn’t just been a dream.

  I stared at him in shock.

  “You okay, Craigers?” he said, waving his hand in front of my face.

  I nodded, but I wasn’t really sure.

  When he reached down to give me a hug goodbye, I could have sworn I smelled ash.

  CHAPTER 45

  It had happened.

  Jesse and I had slept together.

  We were together in the forest as a fire raged around us. I saw it all in the flash. I was burning for him and had wanted him to take me. I had never wanted anything more. I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath as the memory sent a wave of heat cascading through my body. I thought about Jesse’s eyes that night, green and full and wild with passion.

  When it had first happened, I couldn’t think of much else. But that felt like another lifetime ago now. I had put the thought, along with my questions, on the back burner. And the longer Jesse hadn’t mentioned it, the more I figured it was just a dream.

  But I was wrong. It was real. Jesse and I had slept together.

  Somehow, some way, it was real. How was it even possible to sleep with a ghost?

  I had been waiting for Jesse to say something, but now he didn’t have to anymore. That vision had said it all, had answered the question I had been too afraid to ask.

  I knew that I hadn’t said no to Jesse because I couldn’t. Our love was too strong, brewing like a storm out at sea for all these years until it finally blew in. Even now, with the memory of his lips on mine, together in that bed, my arms and legs around his body, pulling him closer, pulling him deeper, I had no regrets.

  Our love, in life and in death, was beyond regret.

  CHAPTER 46

  I was in the shower, still thinking about Jesse. But I knew I had to move on. As I dried my hair, I thought of Nathaniel.

  In the beginning I had lost to him because I was afraid. When I saw him coming toward me, something stronger had taken over. My terror became a living thing and it spilled out over everything. I tried to fight, but it was too much trying to take on both Nathaniel and the feelings he produced in me.

  I was finally able to get past the fear only to have another emotion lead to my downfall. Anger. And in this latest fight, I had lost because of my guilt. But maybe these emotions were only masking a deeper problem. Maybe I had lost because I lacked faith.

  Samael said repeatedly said that I needed to have faith in order to beat Nathaniel. I had assumed that he was talking about having faith in God, but maybe it was a different kind of belief. Maybe the faith I was lacking was faith in myself. Maybe I didn’t really believe that I could take down the demon.

  That could have been why Samael had told me that I wasn’t ready yet, that I needed to stay in the abbey. He wasn’t talking about doing more meditating or reading or adding more mileage to my morning runs. He was talking about finding a way to believe in myself that I could beat Nathaniel. To believe deep in my heart and soul that I could do it.

  That was what was missing. Deep down, I didn’t have the confidence.

  I remembered reading what Anthony Robbins had said about the difference between ideas and beliefs. That ideas are like a tabletop without any legs. But a belief is a table that has legs. Experiences are those supports.

  What I needed were some legs.

  And until I actually found them, I would end up dead at Nathaniel’s feet.

  Every single time.

  CHAPTER 47

  The next morning I skipped my run. Fourth grade came to mind, when I had learned about the Oregon Trail. The people who took Sundays off along the way reached Oregon in roughly the same amount of time as the wagon trains that pushed ahead without any breaks.

  I had a yogurt and some almonds and then headed to the center. I was helping Sister Charlotte set up the conference room for the artist workshop that was set to begin in the afternoon. I was only scheduled to work for about an hour there before going over to do some gardening.

  It was blazing hot again outside and I walked quickly through the still heat, but not quick enough to avoid the tiny beads of sweat that formed on my skin. I found Sister Charlotte working downstairs in the large banquet room, moving tables around. I almost didn’t recognize her. She was wearing plaid pants, a buttoned shirt, and flats. Her long curly hair was clipped back at the sides.

  She caught my stare and smiled.

  “Even nuns get a day off now and again.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “So, all I have planned for you today is helping me get this room ready,” she said. “How about you start putting these on the tables, and I’ll start unfolding the chairs?”

  She handed me a stack of white plastic tablecloths.

  “Sure,” I said.

  When I was done, I helped her with the chairs.

  “Sister Ruth mentioned that you’ll be leaving us next week,” she said. “I’ll miss you.”

  Then she told me that today was my last day working with her.

  “Really?”

  “Actually, you won’t have to do anymore chores after tomorrow. She wants to give you some time to contemplate and reflect before heading back out into the world.”

  “That’s nice of her,” I said.

  “She may not always project it, but Sister Ruth really does care about the people who pass through this place.”

  I helped her bring the folders over and place them on the tables. I could hear people beginning to gather in the lecture hall next door.

  “Perfect timing,” she said, admiring the room. “I think we’re done. I need to stay for the meet-and-greet, but do you mind going up to my office? There’s a stack of files I left on my desk that need to be put away. And that’s it.”

  Sister Charlotte walked over and gave me a tight hug.

  “Good luck, Elizabeth,” she said. “I’m not worried about you. You’re going to be just fine.”

  “Thank you, Sister. I hope you’re right,” I said. “Take care.”

  CHAPTER 48

  I headed downstairs to the storage room. I wasn’t thinking about ghosts. Right now, ghosts were the least of my worries. I didn’t even keep the block in the door, but instead let it close softly behind me after I switched on the lights.

  But as I put away the last of the folders, something caught my eye.

  The bottom drawer of the last cabinet was pulled out an inch and there were papers sticking out again. It was Father Carmichael’s file. I started to put it away but then something made me stop.

  I opened it to the first page of his application. It was the standard request for admittance into the retreat and nothing about it was out of the ordinary. It listed his full name, Joseph Xavier Carmichael. He was thirty-nine and born in Bemidji, Minnesota. Under his occupation he listed that he was a priest at St. Francis of Assisi Catholic Church in St. Paul, where he had worked for the past nine years. He h
ad arrived here June 10th, which meant he had been at St. Mark’s almost a full year.

  It felt wrong to read Father Carmichael’s letter of intent, but I was in too deep to stop now. I scanned it quickly at first, and then slowed down, reading through it again twice.

  I was right that he was thinking of leaving the Church. But I was completely wrong as to the reason why.

  It had nothing to do with a woman.

  Or love.

  While I still believe in Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior, a shadow has been cast upon my soul. My efforts to exorcise this darkness have all ended in failure. I have carried the burden of these grave and mortal sins for too long and have confessed them, but it is no use. There is blood on my hands, blood that cannot be washed away. I can no longer trust myself to do what is right.

  CHAPTER 49

  His letter had left me shaking. What grave and mortal sins had Father Carmichael committed and whose blood was on his hands?

  I didn’t remember the exact definition of a mortal sin, but it sounded serious. The kind of thing that would send you to Hell. Father Carmichael just didn’t seem that kind of man. He wasn’t a rapist or a murderer. Maybe he was confused and had lost his faith, but he wasn’t evil.

  I thought of the flash I had of him talking to the woman and her kiss. That couldn’t have been the sin he was referring to because of the blood. It had to be something else, something more. Could I have been wrong about him? It happened all the time, people swearing their neighbor was the nicest person in the world. The same neighbor who had just chopped up his family into little pieces.

  But I didn’t have to watch the nightly news to find proof. I had proof of my own and very close to home of just how wrong someone could be. When I had first met Dr. Nathaniel Mortimer all those years ago at our Thanksgiving dinner, I would have never guessed he was killing people on the side.

  Still, whatever he had done, Father Carmichael was no Nathaniel Mortimer. I would bet my life on that.

  My mind went back to the file. Why was it sticking out like that? Was it one of those ghosts trying to leave me a clue?

  Or was it more like a warning?

  CHAPTER 50

  A regular in the garden, Brother Jerome was picking and bagging herbs when I got there.

  “Where y’at?” he said.

  “All right,” I said. “Father Étienne taking the day off?”

  “No, he was just here a few minutes ago,” Brother Jerome said. “Must be having lunch. If you could finish with these I’ll start on the vegetables.”

  “Sure. You want me to water and weed when I’m done?”

  “F’sho,” the monk said.

  “So what time do we leave tomorrow morning?”

  “Oh, that’s right. You’re coming with us. It had slipped my mind. I thought it was only going to be Anna,” he said, handing me a pair of shears. “Drop by here about six. You can help us load before we go. And remember to bring a hat. It bakes down there.”

  “Okay.” I nodded. “Does Anna know about the time?”

  “Yes, but she’s getting a ride from Father Carmichael. She said she’ll meet us down there.”

  He must have picked up on my expression. He pushed up the glasses that had been sliding down the sweaty bridge of his nose and smiled.

  “Don’t you worry none, Elizabeth. Really. You gonna like the city. You gonna like it just fine.”

  I nodded.

  He was reading me right. I was worried.

  But it had nothing to do with New Orleans.

  I headed back over to the center. I had an hour before it closed, plenty of time to do a little research. I was hoping I was wrong, but I needed to be sure. I went down the hallway to the computer room where there were four stations set up for the guests to use. But when I stepped inside, I saw that they were all taken.

  I sat down to wait and let out an impatient sigh.

  Five minutes passed and then ten. And then fifteen. Finally someone got up and left. I slid into the seat and typed quickly, using the keywords of St. Paul and murder.

  It didn’t take long to find the stories.

  Seven women had been savagely raped and murdered in St. Paul, Minnesota between 2012 and 2014. The murderer had never been caught. The victims were all believed to have been prostitutes and the killer became known as the St. Pauli Girl Butcher. Along with the news accounts I found photos. The last victim, Hannah Jorgensen, age nineteen, was the ghost I had first seen by the fountain.

  I wasn’t one hundred percent sure that the other ghosts belonged to the first six murder victims. I didn’t really see them too clearly when we met in the cemetery. But it only made sense. They all looked similar, on the small side with long dark hair. And they all worked the streets in roughly the same part of town. I shivered as I read through the details, how each woman had been killed in the same way, how their throats had been slashed with a long, sharp knife, how their heads were barely attached to the bodies in the end.

  Hannah Jorgensen was found in an alley behind a church. St. Francis of Assisi. The same church where Father Carmichael worked.

  Was this the blood he said was on his hands?

  Was Hannah Jorgensen the woman I had seen in the vision talking to Father Carmichael, the woman who kissed him? I stared at her high school graduation picture again. I was certain she was the ghost, but I wasn’t positive it was the woman from the flash. But it could have been.

  The St. Paul murders had mysteriously stopped last March. And Father Carmichael had arrived here at the monastery in June. The math made sense.

  I was about to do a Google search on any recent murders in Louisiana matching a similar pattern when the power went out. The other three computer users left, but I sat there in the dark, waiting. A few minutes later one of the volunteers came in.

  “I guess we’re done here for the day,” she said. “You can come back in the morning if you’d like.”

  As I stood up my legs felt weak. I wondered where Father Carmichael really went during the day and if he had picked up where he had left off up North.

  Working at his new bloody vocation.

  CHAPTER 51

  I ate the little fish-shaped crackers and cheese, thinking about Jesse. If he were here with me now and I told him of my suspicions about Father Carmichael being a serial killer, he would say, “Craigers, what did you expect? Of course he’s a murderer. You’re a magnet for those freaks.”

  And he would be right.

  I didn’t want to believe it, but it was too much to write off as coincidence. The ghosts, the glimpse I saw, the fact that the murders had taken place in his back yard and then stopped just after he left St. Paul, and the blood he admitted to having on his hands. It struck me that the evidence against him was almost as compelling as what the police had on me. We couldn’t both be innocent. That was just too far-fetched.

  Were the ghosts here at the abbey seeking justice or were they trying to warn the living? I thought about Anna. She would be alone with Father Carmichael on the drive into New Orleans. I wondered if she would make it.

  It would be so easy for her to disappear and never be seen again. Her troubled past was no secret and it was probably documented in her file. He could drive off with her and do whatever he wanted. There were miles and miles of empty swamps and bayous around the monastery. He could kill her and hide the body anywhere, in any one of a thousand different places along the way. But I wondered if he was even interested in that. Hiding bodies didn’t seem to be his thing. Maybe he wanted them found. If they even asked, he would just tell the cops that he had dropped her off on this or that corner and that was the last he saw of her. It was a big city with big city crime. Things happened.

  Who would even miss her? Would even care? An asshole boyfriend? Anna would die alone and be forgotten before her body was even cold.

  She would be gone without a trace.

  But I wasn’t going to let that happen.

  CHAPTER 52

  As I sat there thinki
ng about all of it, Anna came out of her cabin. She hadn’t gone to dinner either. She was strapping her watch to her wrist.

  “Hey,” she said as she walked over.

  “Hey, Anna.”

  Her hair was up in a tight ponytail and as I looked at her, I noticed that she fit the exact profile of the murdered girls. I was betting that if she let her hair down, it was probably pretty long. She looked like all the ghosts. Long dark hair, nondescript features, small.

  She sat down next to me.

  “You ready for the city?”

  “Yeah, I think so. I’m looking forward to some beignets.”

  “I wish I could eat one,” she said. “But they go right to my hips.”

  “I hear you’re driving in with Father Carmichael,” I said.

  “I guess it’s hard to keep secrets in a place like this,” she said. “Not that it was a secret. Yeah, he’s taking me. Why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  Her energy moved in circles, faster now and an awkward silence fell between us.

  “So, you have something going on with him or what?” she said finally.

  “What?”

  “Do you like Father Carmichael?”

  “No, not like that,” I said. “We’re just friends.”

  Plus he’s a priest, I thought.

  “Okay, well, see ya.”

  She shot up out of the chair.

  “Anna, wait,” I said. “But I couldn’t help noticing that you two have—”

  “So you do like him,” she said.

  “No, that’s not…”

  But her eyes were like daggers suddenly, standing there with her hands on her hips.