The Exorcee

Chapter Eight

It was well past three in the morning when I got back to the Boardinghouse. I took a lot of side-routes and double-backs, and even cut over a few fences and rooftops, to make sure I wasn’t being tracked. A city worker in a Bobcat was plowing the sidewalk near Dill’s in the wee hours, so I followed him for awhile just to be extra careful about not leaving prints in the snow. As we passed in front of my little sanctuary, I turned into the parking lot and finally allowed myself to start feeling the bone-deep weariness I’d been fighting off till now. I slouched my way up the stairs, dug out my room key, and headed inside.

“Ugh.” What the hell day was it?—Friday now, technically. The monsignor would poleaxe me if I didn’t check in on time. But first things first. I stripped off my clammy threads and went into the shower. Foolishly, I had failed to arrange for the presence of alcohol, but at least I’d brought my beloved Zheng-gu-shui and ibuprofen along. I emerged dripping from the bathroom and utilized both. Then, after a brief debate, I decided to get some sleep and call the old man in the morning. I crashed naked onto the bed and blacked out.

Brother B. was surprisingly forgiving when I awoke. We were sore, of course, but not debilitatingly so. Still young enough to get away with combining the lifestyles of a warrior and a wastrel. I checked the time: it was two in the afternoon. (I sleep a lot.) I took about twenty minutes to stretch, and then found my phone and called Fr. Joe.

“Thomas?”

“Hey, Father. I, um—I had an eventful evening. Yourself?”

“I watched The Wizard of Oz and had some of that Glenfiddich you bought me awhile back. How’s Burlington?”

I blew out some breath. “Well. . . the bar scene’s pretty cool.”

“Tell me everything.”

So, I took a seat and we went through our little ritual. I described my whole day from the beginning and he listened without interrupting to the end—then he started in with the questions, and we went back through it all over again.

“Sophia,” he mused. “Does that mean anything to you?”

“Nope. You?”

“Not really. A common enough Christian name, of course. Greek in origin—it means ‘wisdom.’ Obviously a female name, and their leader by the sound of it. She must be formidable to rule such men.”

“Maybe they just need a mom.”

“From your description, Uther and the gunmen are oafs—disposable muscle. The two intelligent-sounding ones are no doubt higher in the hierarchy, but intellect alone wouldn’t count for much with the Grace of Baal. They must also be strong and cruel.”

“Probably so, but at least one of them will be hobbling for a few months. Plus two of his cannon-fodder lieutenants. And a fourth one’s gonna be eating through a straw.”

I could hear the smile in his voice. “Definitely a good night’s work. But don’t get cocky, boy. If you get yourself killed, I swear I’ll follow you into Purgatory and slap you senseless.”

“Tough talk from a guy in a pink robe.” The third Sunday of Advent—Gaudete Sunday, that weekend’s upcoming Sabbath—is one of only two days in the Catholic calendar when priests wear that particular color. I’d been giving Fr. Joe a hard time about it for fifteen years.

“It’s rose, not pink. And they’re vestments. Rose vestments.”

“Keep tellin’ yourself that, padre.”

We went back and forth for a few more minutes, and at length he left me with the usual unnecessary admonition to be careful and we broke the connection. I performed my morning ablutions (albeit in the afternoon), pulled on some grey slacks and a decent blue polo shirt, and headed out to cruise the streets once more, this time in my faithful automobile. B. was grumbling about chow, so Dave and I hit the nearest Dunkin Donuts and got some bagels and coffee. Then the whole gang of us headed back uptown to take a look at the house of the GOB in the sunlight. Just to be on the safe side, I stopped at a mall on the way there and got myself a long blond wig. If it somehow turned out that there was a Purgatory, I didn’t want Fr. Joe kicking my ass in there.

Seemed like a safe, nondescript sort of place by day. I rolled on by, well under the residential speed limit, and then banged a U-turn down the block and went by a second time—just a blond hippie in a Civic, glancing casually out the window at random houses in a random neighborhood. All their windows were still blacked out. There was nothing worth seeing from out here.

“Hmm.”

I headed back downtown, pondering my options. Abruptly, it struck me that I had, rather explicitly and undeniably, promised to call McCloskey if I got a lead on Grey and the GOB. I negotiated with my pesky conscience for awhile, looking for loopholes, and ultimately sighed and dug out my phone. Maybe I’d get his voicemail. That would count as calling him. I could just say—

“’Lo?”

Crap. “Hey Bobby, it’s Belmont. I got a lead on that Grey fella.”

“Belmont! Shit buddy, you need to keep outta this one. Feds’re in it.”

“Yeah, well—it has gone across state borders now, I guess.”

“Where you at, kid?”

“Uh—” I hesitated.

“Come on, it’s me! You in Vermont?”

“. . .Yeah. Burlington.”

“Coupla suits headed up there, Belmont. Hyland and Rosaly. You keep your eyes open.”

“Got it. Thanks, Bobby.”

“Anytime. Watch your back.”

“Likewise.”

I hung up and pulled over, frowning. This was getting serious. All I needed to be caught between Satan and the FBI. Agents Hyland and Rosaly, eh? It was a lot to hope that they might actually have some concept of what was going on up here. Aw hell, who was I kidding? Even I had no clear concept of what was going. All I could do was keep doing what I do. I put Dave back in gear.

A quick Google search brought me to the nearest place to get a good pair of binoculars. (You wouldn’t even believe what happened to my last pair.) I liked to think the previous night’s activities had succeeded in shaking up my foes; so the next step was to find a quiet spot, sit tight, and keep an eye on them. They’d make a move soon enough. After a few passes, I discovered that the best place from which to view the bad guys was the bell tower of St. Gabriel Church. Go figure. I got myself a blanket and a cooler full of sodas and cold cuts, and snuck into the quiet vestibule between Masses. Time for a stakeout, baby.