EIGHTEEN
CALVIN STEPPED INTO a fog of silence in the hall outside of what had to be Mason’s office door. He’d expected to draw up behind the massive slab of mahogany and hear raised voices from the other side. Not quite right—he’d expected to hear Mason’s raised voice and Horton’s low murmur, doing his best to soothe the savage boss. The only sound was the quiet push of the air conditioning through an ornate brass vent set into the baseboard at Calvin’s feet.
How long would it have taken Horton to cool Mason out? It had taken Calvin a few minutes of wandering the corridors just to find Mason’s office, and he’d had several minutes in Jeremy’s room before leaving. Still, it didn’t seem like enough time had gone by to hush the temper of a man like Mason. Was there ever enough time for someone like that? The wood grain swirled in the door before him. Calvin took a breath and patted Finch’s gun, still in his hip pocket.
He knocked.
“Come in, Father.”
Mason sat behind his desk, an amber splash of light filtered through the half-empty tumbler of bourbon on the blotter. He waved Calvin into the room as if the priest had interrupted nothing more important than a discussion about golf. Horton sat with his back to the door in one of two chairs across from Mason’s desk. Calvin tensed. For a moment, it looked as if Horton might be too still but he turned and smiled. It reached his eyes, but the flesh underneath was dark.
Mason put his hands on the arms of his chair and leaned forward. “Drink, father?”
Calvin held up a hand. “No, thanks.” He glanced at Horton.
“Nice job in there, Padre.” Horton took a sip from a tumbler of his own.
Calvin raised an eyebrow.
“Have a seat,” Mason offered.
Calvin walked over and was just leaning back into the chair next to Horton’s when the bodyguard said, “I got to ask you for that stupid bastard’s gun, Padre.” Calvin suppressed a smile as he pulled the pistol from his pocket and handed it over. He faced Mason and asked, “Camera?”
“Every room except this one,” Mason said and picked up a stainless steel remote control from the corner of his desk. Two large sections of bookcase hummed back to reveal a four foot TV monitor. Several small images marched around the perimeter of the screen, ringing a large, central image: Jeremy’s room. The picture offered a crystal perfect shot of the boy from above. Finch’s body was just out of frame, his arm, the top of his head and left shoulder edged in from the side. Calvin let his mind fall back to the room. He hadn’t seen a lens but remembered a strand of hair blowing from his forehead. “Ceiling fan.”
Horton smiled into his drink.
Calvin got up and studied the screen. The smaller images rotated through the different corners of the house, but some of them were blacked out. “What’s with the dark ones?”
“Servants’ quarters,” Horton said. “They get up early.”
Mason clicked a button and the darkened squares glowed gray-green, revealing beds and a few slumbering forms, dark hair on light pillow cases. Calvin peered in at Emma Grouwe’s room. Her bed was empty. Horton caught his stare. “Night off,” he said.
Calvin thew a look over his shoulder at Mason. “Good thing, huh?”
Mason motioned with the remote, “Jeremy’s watching. He always knows when I’ve got him on.”
Indeed, the demon stared up from the bed, through the screen as if it could see right into the room. The boy’s gaze shifted just enough to make it appear as if he were catching Calvin’s eye. Jeremy smiled and nodded. Calvin’s stomach tightened and he focused on the other rooms. Tiesha was nowhere in evidence. Mason’s office wasn’t the only room without a camera then. Either that or he had his own bedroom blacked out. Calvin ran a hand along the edge of the retractable bookcase façade. It worked like a set of garage doors that opened from the side instead of the top, or like a roll-top desk where the spines of the fake books were the individual panels. “Very Bruce Wayne,” he said and sat back down.
Mason clicked the remote and the panels slid shut over the monitor. “Friend of mine in the NSA set me up with this.”
Calvin offered a polite smile and thought of all the gadgetry he’d seen in the basements of the Vatican. NSA were a bunch of amateurs. “One can never have enough surveillance.”
Mason took a sip of his bourbon, the ice clinking. “That was a rather effective solution you provided with Finch.” He put the glass down and pantomimed Calvin’s deadly move. “Crack! I loved it. You teach Horton how to pull that one?”
Calvin readied himself. He needed to get it out of the way. He looked down just like a good doggie and said, “I’m sorry I spoke to you the way I did back in the boy’s room, Mr. Mason.” He made eye contact, shark eyes. We sent the shark. “I was worried for your safety, sir.”
Mason nodded. “Bullshit.” He pushed back in his chair. “You did it because you were afraid I was going to set off Finch and that he would shoot my son.”
Calvin blinked. He hadn’t believed Mason was capable of admitting a mistake. Calvin burned a mental note: Mason was not to be underestimated again. He might be a sociopath, but his intelligence seemed to be at least on par with his personality disorder. Only made sense. People as crazy as Mason didn’t go as far in life as he had without the smarts to temper themselves when it really mattered.
“Still,” Calvin said. “I owe you an apology for my tone.”
Mason waved a hand. “It’s done.”
Calvin smiled. “Thank you.” He was on Mason’s eternal shit list and he knew it.
“What would you like to do with Mr. Finch, sir?” Horton asked.
Mason frowned and explained to Calvin, “Finch was our resident cleaner, I’m afraid. My own disposal skills are a bit rusty, and Horton’s expertise in that arena is somewhat…?” Mason looked at the bodyguard, eyebrows up.
“Rough, sir?”
Calvin offered, “If you have a large washtub or bathtub you’re not partial to, I can take care of it with stuff you probably have around the house.” Calvin scowled down a the carpet for a moment. “File said you and your men ditched your old surnames, that correct?”
Mason nodded.
“That’ll make things easier. Horton, can you lend me a hand with Mr. Finch?”
“’Course.”
Mason sat back in his chair, arms behind his head. “Very good, then.” A pair of sweat stains darkened his shirt. Calvin hid his surprise. He figured Mason would have somehow intimidated his own glands into compliance with his ultra-clean aesthetic. Calvin imagined Mason glaring at his own armpits in the mirror every morning. Looked like the ice-king was a bit more concerned for the life of his only son than he’d let on.
“Sir,” Calvin began. “I’d like to talk with you a bit about the exorcism.”
Mason sipped his drink.
“I’m going to need a few things before I begin.”
“Of course,” Mason said. “Horton’ll get you anything you need.”
“Actually, I’d rather do my own shopping if that’s all right with you.”
Mason flashed his teeth and said, “Fine,” a little too quickly. “We’ll provide you with a car. You do drive?”
A rich man’s question. Calvin was qualified to operate everything from a pair of roller blades to a Black Hawk helicopter. “Something inconspicuous would be best,” he said. “But if not, I can always get a rental.”
Horton sat up. “We have a plain old Dodge cargo van we used to use for—“
Mason glanced at Horton.
“—deliveries every now and again.”
“Perfect,” Calvin said. He was quiet a moment then, “Mr. Mason, I’m going to have to ask you for something else, and I wonder how I can put this so as not to offend you.”
“I want my boy back, father. What do you need?”
Calvin exhaled. “You trust Thom Neary.”
“Implicitly.”
“I need you to extend that trust to me and stay out of my way.” Calvin gave Mason a moment, and when he didn’t object Calvin went on. “Exorcisms take time. My own…experience took two weeks and that was with nothing fueling the demon.”
“What do you mean ‘fueling’?” Mason asked.
“I had no family or friends,” Calvin said. “ No one the demon could use. I believe your presence—even the smallest contact—would only spur the damn thing on. I’ve come across accounts of possession that have taken years to reverse.” Calvin lowered his voice. “Then there are those exorcisms that are never successful.”
“Not successful?” Horton said. “What the fuck does that mean?”
Calvin turned in his seat to face the bodyguard, noting the lines in his face, the twitch at the corner of his mouth. It was too bad the kid couldn’t have picked his own father. “It could mean a couple of things. In my research, I’ve read stories of victims who end up gibbering away in a corner for the rest of their lives.”
“The others?” Mason asked.
“They’re luckier. They just die from the physical stresses. Those tend to be the adults. Children last longer because their bodies can put up with more abuse.”
“Jeremy will not die,” Mason said.
Calvin sat forward in his chair. “That’s just why we can’t have you around, Mr. Mason. Demon’s are efficient. The targets of their possessions are people who are loved and valued, most likely to hurt those around them. In many ways, a possession isn’t about the possessed person at all. It’s about how many people the demon can hurt through that person.”
“That’s why it’s kids so much of the time,” Horton said. “Like in the movies?”
“Exactly,” Calvin nodded. “And exactly why we can’t have you in the room, Mr. Mason. The demon knows how important Jeremy is to you. Your feelings for your son,” Calvin couldn’t bring himself to use the word love, “are the demon’s food.”
Mason sat back in his chair, deflating. “Fine, then. We’ll starve the fucking thing. I’ll stay out of your way.” He grabbed his drink and drained it. “Just get it out of him.”
“I’ll do my shopping tomorrow then start the exorcism in the evening.” Calvin said then turned to Horton. “Tonight, I think you and I have a little cleaning to do.”
Mason stared at his desk, his eyes frozen on some point in space an inch above his bourbon glass. Calvin shot a look at Horton, who nodded and rose. Calvin followed and was just pulling the door shut behind him when Mason’s voice reached out and jabbed him in the back.
“I want you to hurt it.”
Calvin turned around.
“Make sure that cock-sucker is punished.”
Calvin nodded and closed the door. If Mason knew Calvin’s plan, he might not have expressed the sentiment.
* * *
Sins of the Fathers Page 36