The Exorcee

Chapter Twelve

My initial plan was to swing by Papa John’s on the way back and pick up my personal special pizza: pepperoni, jalapeños, extra cheese, roma tomatoes, and anchovies. I call it The Horror. For some reason, none of the Boston pizzerias I frequent have added it to their regular menus yet, but it’s only a matter of time. In any case, I was betrayed by Chronos—they didn’t open till eleven. I headed back to Dill’s, lachrymose and bellicose.

When I got to the turret, I started instinctively for the shower; but then I caught myself. I was too amped up to sit around right now, so there was no point in pre-cleaning. I felt the need of a particularly intense workout. Push-ups—everything starts with push-ups. I knelt down and checked under the bed. Yep: perfect height, just enough room for me to crawl in and lay on my stomach. I squirmed around until I found the ideal balance point and then started my set, lifting the whole bed with my shoulders and bed on every rep. I did as many of those as I possibly could, then rested on my face among the cobwebs, breathing harsh and hard. Then I did some more.

Once my poor triceps were shredded beyond reclamation, I opened the window and dragged the oaken bureau in front of it. Everyone knows that crunches are good for the abs. But in the old days, when the chosen few of us were training under Hatfield, they served double duty, strengthening our spiritual as well as our physical cores. He used to love making us practice on the edge of fatal falls—said it sharpened our focus. And, as in most matters, it was difficult to refute the man’s logic. So: I sat facing inwards on the windowsill, hooked my feet under the edge of the topmost drawer, and leaned slowly backwards until I was hanging head-down by my knees over a four-story drop onto ice and rocks. Then I started my crunches. Once again, I did all I could, plus a couple more (cheating a bit by pulling with my hands), and then I hung there, rasping for air, with the trapping blood whispering in my skull. Then I did some more.

Finally, gurgling in torment, I hauled myself back up and collapsed on the floor. But there was no sense in sparing B. from further agonies when, Lord knows, our enemies wouldn’t. So I dragged my tired ass back down the stairs and took off down Shelburne Road at a reasonable jog. Kept that up for a few blocks and then broke into an absolute balls-out sprint for as long as I could—then back to a jog. Schlepped along a few more blocks, gathering qi, and then sprinted again. Kept that up for about a mile and then turned around and did the same thing all the way back home. Home—whatever the fuck that meant. I’d never felt at home anywhere. Ever.

Back to the turret—pulled the mattress off the bed, leaned it up against the wall—then unloaded on it. Kicks and punches, knees and elbows, head-butts, shoulder-rams, flying tackles, rapid-fire wing-chun combos, and ultimately—when I’d reached my uttermost limit and passed it—the one-inch punch. It’s just what it sounds like, a hand almost touching the target, suddenly twisted into an explosive thrusting impact. They say Bruce Lee could knock a man right across the room with this move, and I believed it for one simple reason: the last time I saw Alyra, that’s exactly what she did to me. She was good, folks—she was very, very good. Me? I—hadn’t completely mastered this particular technique. Some of it, no doubt, was natural inborn aptitude. And, conceivably, some of it was the fact that Alyra used to spend literally entire days at a time drilling that one move again and again and again. She was—I don’t know. She was something else. Take that, mattress!

It was a little past noon when I hit my cut-off point and dropped to the carpet. For a long time I just sprawled there, breathing slowly, contemplating the chair legs of which I had such an excellent view. At length I bestirred myself, activated my laptop, and got some AC/DC playing on the speakers. Next, after gulping down about half a gallon of water, I dialed up Papa John’s and placed an order for The Horror.

“Yes, I’m sure I want jalapeños. Oh, I’m well aware. I assure you, my entrails have faced this ghastly combination before. Hey, buddy—if I wanted the Surgeon General, I wouldn’t have called a pizza joint, okay? Thank you. Sheesh.”

Once Frank from PJ’s succeeded in suppressing his sociogastronomic conscience long enough to place my order, I pulled off my sopping clothes and limped into the shower. Frank had assured me that The Horror (though he wouldn’t use its proper name) would arrive within forty-five minutes, which was a relatively brief shower time by my standards. I managed to attain a base-line of cleanliness before the delivery man appeared, but it came right down to the wire. (I gave him a 75% tip to compensate him for having to see me naked.) At last, with my training complete for the day, I dug some Cokes out of the little fridge and sat down on the bed to stuff myself.

At about a quarter after one, I decided it was time to submit to slumber. I had no idea what my next move was, but I was fatigued enough by now to take it on faith that the proper gambit would reveal itself at the appointed time. Reflexively, I checked my phone as I was lying down—and it turned out I’d missed a call.

“Belmont, this is Sister Immaculée. I have spoken with Danny’s guardian, and he would like to meet with you in person. If you are free this evening, around six o’clock, I hope you will accept Mr. Syme’s invitation. I will be there as well.” She gave an address, somewhere down Battery Street, and repeated her quiet injunction to attend. “I will see you soon,” she concluded.

“Quite so, madam,” I mumbled. “Quite so.” I set my alarm for 5:30 p.m. and passed out.

I woke up feeling fantastic. Loneliness and depression had been catching up with me this past month, but all of a sudden I was back on my game. I’d regained my physical peak, and my head and heart were now totally engaged by my mission. And I’ll be honest about this: I am very much the sort of man who needs a mission, something to fight for, whatever it might be. If Fr. Joe hadn’t put me to work when he did, I would absolutely be working for the other side by now. I was aware that burying my existential troubles in a battle with the GOB did not resolve or even address the roots of those troubles in my soul—but fortunately, I didn’t give a shit. There would be plenty of time to untangle these issues in the afterlife, if such a thing existed; and if it didn’t, then death would bring merciful oblivion. Either way, my immediate concern was a date with the mysterious Mr. Syme.

Time was short. I brushed my teeth and threw on my tough old blue jeans and a blue button-up shirt. After squinting at my reflection for a moment, I decided not to bother shaving. I’m just not a hirsute guy: even at my tidiest, I don’t take steel to my face more than once or twice a week. I added my blue jacket to the ensemble—I’m not a fashionista (obviously), but I do like solid colors—and headed for the door.

The sun was down, and the evening sky was a deep, deep blue that made it hard for a guy with my background not to think of the Virgin Mary’s robe encircling this bent world of ours. The moon and stars weren’t out yet, and the twilight shaded off into blackness in the east; but in the west, where a few pale clouds still glimmered over Lake Champlain, Mars and Venus stood alone in Heaven’s vault like sentinels. Moments like this, it’s not so difficult to believe there’s someone looking out for us up there. But even as I allowed that thought to form in my mind, a bleak-looking cloud-mass obscured the planets and flakes of bitter snow came drifting down.

“Get a grip, Belmont,” I muttered. “No one’s coming to save us.” What can you do but go down fighting? I got in my car and headed for the rendezvous.