The Exorcee

Chapter Nine

St. Gabriel had no night watchman—or if they did, he was overpaid. I lurked in the bell tower like an Irish Quasimodo all Friday night, fruitlessly watching the house of the GOB. I ate ham and roast beef sandwiches, drank Dr. Pepper, and listened to Warren Zevon on my headphones. Occasionally, I pissed in my pissing jug. My initial assumption was that if they made a move, it would be at night; so I stayed up peering at the dark and silent house until the eastern sky lit up, and then I wadded my jacket for a pillow and slept right there in the tower. The bells for afternoon Mass woke me up.

Saturday: named for Saturn, the Roman god of time (Chronos to the Greeks). Why the sudden intrusion of Southern deities into our Nordic cycle of the days? It all has to do with the collision of Germanic and Romance languages that produced modern English. To the French, Tuesday and Wednesday are still Mardi and Mercredi, for Mars and Mercury—lingering phantoms of imperial Rome. I’ve never been fond of that smug, comfortable mythology. I’ll give Christ this much: at least He got Himself killed, if only temporarily.

I paced around the narrow, musty space, communing with the doves and crows. I did push-ups and sit-ups. I found a sturdy rafter and did pull-ups. I ate and drank and discussed with my bowels how long they could go without evacuating their contents. The consensus was, not really too much longer. In the end, I made it till about four in the morning and gave up. There was absolutely nothing afoot over there. I headed downstairs, made my covert exit, and went back to Dill’s.

After sleeping and cleaning myself, I decided to give the surveillance one more day. If nothing happened by Monday evening, I’d go bust the door down and chance the consequences. The church opened up for a final Mass late on Sunday afternoon, so I snuck back in and resumed my post.

That was a long night. I couldn’t read or Net-surf, lest the light give away my position; and I’d run out of smart-people things to think about. “Shakespeare—Schrödinger—Battle of Hastings. Urrrg.” In the end, the memories came prowling from the starlit corners where the shadows loomed and flickered. “Kate.”

We were a pretty normal family, the Belmonts. Triple-great-grandfather Kalan came over from County Cork late in the nineteenth; before that, we had no idea what our auld countrie forbears had been up to. They tampered with our name at Ellis Island. Since then we’d been mostly in Massachusetts and scattered a bit through neighboring states. My dad taught History at Boston College, my mom English at Sacred Heart K-12 (yes, the same place I went to school as a kid). My sister taught Irish dance in Portland, Maine, and my brother taught Philosophy at Notre Dame. You can see where I get my didactic tendencies. But, for one reason or another, I’ve always been a little different.

I don’t know if my love for the martial arts grew out of my qi-sight or vice versa, or if both grew out of something deeper still; but as far back as I can remember, I’ve dreamed of fighting and crusading and wandering. Never had much desire for a home, a career, a dental insurance policy. As a kid, of course, you don’t worry about such things; you just imagine yourself traveling the land and punching out ninjas. As an adult—well—honestly, I have no idea what adults worry about. Raising children and contributing to society, I suppose. I got stuck at the ninja-punching stage by the unusual circumstance of finding myself actually punching ninjas in real life.

See—I didn’t do any of the things that one does after high school. I didn’t go to college or join the military or get a job or attend seminary. I didn’t go backpacking in Europe or knock up the prom queen or run away to an ashram or even destroy myself with drugs. Instead I took off wandering through the country in search of challenging opponents. Yep: just like in a kung-fu movie. What can I say, I was impressionable. And I know what you’re thinking; but you’re wrong this time. “That’s ridiculous,” you say, “nobody does that. Not in real life.” Well—I did.

I’d been studying wing-chun kung-fu and Brazilian jiu-jutsu at local dojos for four years, working at the shoe store and saving up money for three, and vaguely preparing myself to explain my lunatic life goals to my parents for about eighteen months. Of course, there’s really no good way to explain that sort of thing to you parents. It kicked off a howling match that, for all intents and purposes, Dad and I are still having. But I was just barely eighteen, being a summer baby, and the open road called out to me like a hundred thousand Sirens. (I know, I know, that’s Greek mythology; I suppose it does provide the occasional useful simile.) Thus began my idiotic adventures in the wide, strange world.

“Molly,” I muttered, drifting around in little circles. “Let’s not forget Molly.” Hadn’t I been beaten up in bell towers enough for one week? Apparently not.

Didn’t date in high school. Late bloomer. Fell in love when I was nineteen—sort of. Molly was a nice girl; definitely deserved better than me. That was in Oregon. Good fighters out there. Learned a lot. But, of course, not enough to satisfy this grey spirit yearning in desire to follow knowledge like a sinking star beyond the utmost bounds of human thought. We both got our hearts broken that year, but only one of us was at fault. So it goes. Met Violence Jones the same year.

“Heh! Fuckin’ Jones.” He was a fantastic martial artist in the classical sense, but he also taught me exactly how far that will get you in a serious fight. I’d never been shot before I met him. Still got the scar.

Wandered for another couple of years. Studied under Hatfield, met Alyra. Back to Boston at twenty-five, started freelancing. Dated Kate for a couple of years—ah, Kate. Another nice girl. Ultimately couldn’t deal with my bizarre and violent life. Who could blame her? I missed her, though. She was so feline; she used to curl up against me and just purr for hours. I wondered what she was up to these days. Hopefully something fulfilling, something that would shine her Kate-light on the world—something holy, I guess, if that means anything. God, I loved that girl.

But you’re right again. You think I was avoiding the topic of Hatfield in my head. My old sensei—my one true master. (Well—unless you counted Fr. Joe.) Yeah, he was a big part of the story. I glanced out the window again. Finally!—the sun was coming up. What time was it, anyway? I wondered if there was enough room to do katas in here.

Okay—okay. I was also avoiding the topic of Alyra. Alyra—my tigress, my passion, my curse. “Shut up, Belmont,” I said loudly. “We’re not talking about her. Everyone in that house will die before we discuss Alyra Vauksness.”

Speaking of the house. . .

“Crappity-shit!” I cast around for a moment and located my shiny new binoculars. I’d practically forgotten my ostensible purpose here, the last few hours. Anything stirring down there?

I peered for awhile, then sighed and cracked open another soda. Either my frontal assault had totally intimidated them, or they were just fundamentally boring people. That was a lot more credible than it might sound; demon-worship can look profoundly alluring from the outside, as I’d discovered first-hand, but the day-to-day post-conversion march to the everlasting furnace can take quite as much discipline and drudgery as Christianity. Ironic, right?

Another I don’t know how the hell long went by as I stomped back and forth going over basic strikes and blocks in my mind. It was shortly after 9:00 a.m. that I happened to glance down and see someone coming out of the house. “Ha!” I screamed, and went thundering heedlessly down the steps to the empty entryway. That son of a so-and-so was heading for the garage! I remembered this shit: tan late-model Subaru, Vermont plates, four-Baker-three something-something-whatever, who cares, I could finally get out of this bell tower and follow someone around! St. Gabriel the Archangel stood in the vestibule with one stone hand forbiddingly outstretched; I gave him a high-speed high-five and sprinted out to the parking lot to fire up my car and hit the riggidy road.