The Exorcee

Chapter Thirteen

Burlington’s a small place. The address I sought was less than two miles from Dill’s, and the boundless wisdom of the Internet guided me thither through my phone. As I drove along, holding said guide in my right hand as I steered with my left, it occurred to me that I’d never bothered to name my phone—which was odd, because I name everything. What was a good name for a phone? Hal, obviously, or R2-D2—but I didn’t want a mechanistic-sounding moniker. Ratatosk was the carrier of messages of Norse mythology, but that wasn’t a title that rolled off the tongue. Tim? Too random. Phone, phony-phone, phonity-phone-phone, nope, I had nothing. Didn’t matter. The right name would suggest itself when and if the time came; no sense trying to force it. Meanwhile, here was Syme’s place.

It was a nice house, with two floors and an attic, red and brown and generally house-like. White Christmas lights were strung across the eaves, and a wooden Nativity scene stood on the lawn. Smoke rose in a wavering column from an old-fashioned brick chimney. I pulled in behind a tired-looking Volvo (Sister Immaculée’s, I was willing to bet) and a nondescript station wagon, hopped out, and headed over to the door. At the last second it occurred to me to wonder if I should’ve brought wine or something; but the sister hadn’t specified that this was an invitation to dinner, only to a conversation—besides which, it was too late now. I rang the bell, and the door opened almost immediately. Danny’s guileless face smiled out at me. “Hey, Belmont!”

I smiled back. “Hey, Danny. How’s your day?”

“Weird. Come on in!”

“Thanks.” Looking at him still felt a bit like walking into a brick wall, but at least now I was prepared for it.

Just inside was a short hallway lined with pegs, and I hung my jacket on one of them alongside a long black coat. Then I followed the kid into a wide, open-spaced living room. The ceiling was two stories high, and the windows were ten feet tall. A balcony ran around the second floor, terminating at the chimney I’d seen from outside; in the hearth a fire was blazing, and a silver cross dominated the mantelpiece. Despite the bigness of the room, something about the close-drawn furniture and the relaxed clutter of books and pictures made it feel cozy inside. A familiar classical piece was playing quietly—one of Bach’s Brandenburgs, maybe? As I entered the room, a huge panting golden retriever bounded over and leapt up to put her paws on my shoulders and lap my face. I giggled a bit and scratched her behind the ears. I’m not a racist—I prefer to judge dogs as individuals—but a man would have to be a Communist not to love golden retrievers.

“That’s Jenna,” said a deep, happy-sounding voice. “She seems to like you—which speaks well of your character.”

“Or at least my pheromones.” I let Jenna down to the carpet. “Mr. Syme, I presume?”

Continuing the room’s big but comfy motif, a huge fat jolly-looking fellow came toward me with a corpulent colossal stride, beaming through his beard. His face had a straightforward quality that made him look a bit like a 300-pound version of Danny, but I couldn’t see any family resemblance to speak of; and he carried a good hefty qi, but well within human parameters. “Wayne Basil Syme,” he said, catching my hand in a massive grip. “But the good sister tells me you prefer to go by Belmont, and I hope in turn you’ll simply call me Syme.”

“Done and done. I appreciate your taking the time to see me.”

“Not at all, my friend. Please, make yourself comfortable. Have you eaten? I’m afraid I dine rather early, but I daresay we could find you something edible.”

“I’m still digesting my latest pizza feast, but thanks all the same.” I lowered myself into a gigantic enveloping plush chair by the fire. I hoped I’d be able to find my way out again. I could’ve lived, raised a family, and been buried in that chair. Syme appeared to have risen from a big padded rocking chair on the other side of the hearth, and Sister Immaculée and Danny were seated on a sofa at right angles to us, facing the fire. “Good evening, Sister,” I said as I wiggled my discerning hindquarters into a comfortable spot. “Nice to see you again so soon.”

She smiled. “And you. I am glad you could come.”

Syme was hovering like an impossibly obese hummingbird. “Are you quite sure I can’t offer you something, Belmont? A drink, perhaps?”

“Well—my boss has been introducing me to Scotch, the last few months. Keeps saying the Irish don’t make the only whiskey in the world.”

“Perfect! I’ve just opened a bottle of Laphroig. Half a moment.” He bustled out of the room and I was left rolling the word “Laphroig” on my tongue. Laphroig, Laphroig—what a cool name. Yes: henceforth, my cell phone would be known as Laphroig the Phone. Already this evening was paying dividends.

“Belmont?” That was Danny, frowning.

“Yes.”

“I heard you’re a freelance retrieval expert.” I nodded. “But if you have a boss, you’re not really freelance, are you?”

I smiled involuntarily. Leave it to this super-powered urchin to puncture my pretensions. “I’m freelance in the sense that my services are available to anyone who cares to hire me. So far, only one person has chosen to do so—which makes him, for practical intents and purposes, my employer.”

“Do you advertise or anything?”

“Nope.”

“How come?”

“’Cause what I do is highly illegal.”

Suddenly, he smiled back. He had one of the most likeable smiles I’d ever seen. “Sounds pretty fun.”

“It’s got its moments.”

Syme returned with two clinking glasses, handed me one of them, and laboriously ensconced himself in the creaking rocker across the fireplace from me. Elevating his own glass, he said with a peculiar gravity, “L’chaim.”

I knew this one too. A Hebrew toast: to life. I raised my glass and echoed, “L’chaim.” We drank—and man, that was good booze. The smoothest, smokiest, caramelliest kick in the windpipe I’d had since the monsignor force-fed two fingers of the Glenlivet on Thanksgiving. As I set down the glass on the little table to my left, Jenna came padding over and curled up strategically on my right, between me and the fire, where I could easily scratch her head by dangling my hand over the arm of the chair. I was more than happy to oblige.

“So,” said Syme.

I echoed him again, like the black player getting Blitzkrieged in a chess match. “So.”

“It is no coincidence that I of all people was entrusted with young Daniel’s care, many long years ago. When Sister Immaculée contacted me this morning, I began my inquiries; and I would venture to say that I now know as much about you, Belmont, as nearly anyone on earth. Indeed, it is overwhelmingly probable that in several ways I know more about you than you do.”

“Really.”

“Oh yes. As an obvious example—Jacob Hatfield and I were once members of the same organization.”

“What!” I jumped out of my chair. Jenna leapt up too, whining in her throat, and Danny half-rose from the couch, doubtless intending to restrain me with his pinkie fingers. For about a quarter of a second I started going over calibers in my head, wondering how big of a gun I’d need for this kid—then I caught myself. “Okay.” I sat back down, and Danny and Jenna slowly followed suit. Sister Immaculée looked shocked and a little frightened, but Syme’s hadn’t batted an eye. “I’ll bite, Mr. Syme. How do you know Hatfield?”

“Please, just Syme.”

“That mode of address presupposes friendship.”

“Be reasonable, Belmont. You appear out of nowhere, making demands and allegations which to any normal person would appear to be those of a lunatic. Happily, this room is void of normal persons—but you can hardly blame me for being protective of the boy I’ve pledged my life to protect.”

I took a deep breath and gradually let it out. “Okay—okay. You’re right. I apologize.”

He waved the concession aside, looking faintly embarrassed. “There’s no need for that. Tell me, did Mr. Hatfield ever speak of the communion to which he used to belong?”

“Communion? No. . . What, you mean like a secret martial arts brotherhood or something?”

“Partially. As you may have reflected—” he gave a self-deprecating smile “—mine is not a physique which invites the rigors of a secret martial art. We have other methods than physical violence—though, as sons of St. Thomas, we know a just war when we see one.”

“‘We’? Who’s ‘we’?”

Syme paused and drank some Scotch. Danny shifted restlessly in his seat. Surely this couldn’t be the first time he was hearing all this? In the strange sudden silence, Immaculée raised her hand like a schoolgirl and said, “May I ask—who is Jacob Hatfield?”

“My sensei,” I said.

“I do not—‘sensei’?”

“Teacher. Master. The guy that showed me how to fight.”

“Ah. Your—” and then she said a word in Congolese that I’ve never been able to pronounce. From the context, I deduced that it was roughly synonymous with “combat instructor.” I’m not sure if there’s a martial art from the Congo. Capoeira comes from Angola, the country to the north, and I’ve studied that style extensively. But not every country is associated with one specific art—heck, even America doesn’t have an indigenous style, unless you count MMA (which I don’t). At any rate, she seemed satisfied with the linguistic cross-reference. I nodded vaguely and turned back to my enigmatic host.

“All right, Syme—if you know all this about me, then you know I’m at least trying to be one of the good guys. So you tell me: who exactly are you people? Which side are you on, and how do I know your secrecy and power haven’t corrupted you by now?”

He gave me a look of disconcerting shrewdness. “As long as we’re playing with languages, Belmont, do you know where the word ‘conscience’ comes from?”

“What’re you, my dad? It’s Latin—means ‘with knowledge.’ What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well. You now have a certain basic knowledge of Danny and myself. So—what does your conscience tell you? Are we to be trusted, or not?”

Shit. “Yeah, okay, fine. My gut tells me we’re on the same side—call it my conscience if you insist—and I have no other index. Now, that being the case, how many more riddles would you like me to solve before you give me a straight answer?”

Unexpectedly, Danny spoke up. “Just tell him, Abba. I trust him.”

Syme inclined his head. “I do as well.” That’s me, making new friends wherever I go. Until I lose my temper and alienate them, of course. “First of all, the group I represent is called the Hidden Sun. We were founded in 1976 by Cardinal Godfrey, formerly bishop of Chicago, for the purpose of maintaining surveillance on the rising number of dark cults in our country—cults like the Grace of Baal. As to secrecy and power—” his smile resurfaced “—our existence is not generally known, but we have Papal approval and we rarely operate outside the law. Our secrecy derives as much from public indifference as from any effort of our own. And I fear we have far less power than our enemies.”

“You’ve got Danny.”

“Yes. Now, this—this is far more of a secret. I must ask you both for your word not to repeat the following to anyone.”

Immaculée smiled. “I do not think anyone would believe us. But either way, I would never reveal information about a student. You have my word, Mr. Syme.”

“Please, Sister—”

“Oh yes, just Syme. Pardon me.” She reached over and patted Danny’s hand. “I hope I may still use your Christian name, Daniel.”

He smiled back. “Sure thing, Sis. You can even call me Mr. Wright, if you want.”

“Syme,” I said, “I’m aware that this is exactly how secrets tend to leak out, but I’d like to ask for one exception.”

“Ah. I imagine you would like to report on this matter to your employer.”

“With your permission.”

“Everything I hear of Monsignor Damascus tells me he is a devout and honorable man—besides which, he has shown the good sense to encourage you in cultivating a palate for Scotch. You may relate this information to him, provided you secure his promise not to repeat it without first speaking directly with me.”

“You’ve got my word.”

“Thank you. Then let us dispense with the preamble. Are you familiar with the legends of the Nephilim?”

Immaculée turned slowly and stared at Danny. The kid dropped his gaze and shuffled his feet a bit, looking for all the world as if he’d been caught passing notes in study hall. I frowned and sipped my Laphroig. “It sounds awfully familiar.”

“Genesis 6:4. ‘The Nephilim walked the earth in those days, when the angels of God went to the daughters of man and had children by them. They were the mighty ones of old, men of great renown.’”

Very, very carefully, I set down my glass. “Are you. . . are you saying. . . . .”

*

END PART ONE