The Exorcee

Chapter Two

As you’ve probably begun to suspect, my position in the diocese occasionally involves activities that are not strictly, technically altogether legal from a dry, dusty, official legalistic standpoint, per se. If you wanted to get really nitpicky about it, you could even describe those activities with terms like “assault” and “kidnapping” and “interfering in police investigations.” However!—you may also be aware of how tightly the Church and the cops are bound together in Boston, on account of seemingly everyone in this town being third- or fourth-generation Irish Catholic. Hell, I even went to the same high school as Commissioner Leary, albeit twenty years later; and more to the point, we had the very same Theology teacher at Sacred Heart K-12. If you guessed that our mutual authority figure is now a monsignor, then I owe you a pint of Guinness.

I’m old enough these days that I no longer feel the need to fling myself into the gears of the system just for the sake of proving my toughness to myself or whatever impressionable chicks might be passing by, and Fr. Joe perceived that when he entrusted me with this task. I was confident that if I should happen to find myself in trouble with the law, he would find a way to dredge me out of it; but I’d been at this for almost four years and it hadn’t happened yet. I’m a professional: I can do discreet when I feel like it. It was just a little shy of noon when Dave and I pulled out of the St. Blaise parking lot and headed for Dorchester to go be professionally discreet.

The contents of my manila envelope—“the usual dossier”—were mostly public record, Internet stuff. Having skimmed it, I knew my quarry’s address and the names of his salient family members, which was an excellent start. For clues to his current whereabouts, however, I’d have to dig a little deeper. Or be idiotically lucky. I’ve gotten startlingly good results from the second option, actually, but it’s never a solid tactic to rely on it. First thing to do, beyond question, was to make my merry way to Chez Grey.

Factoring in some light traffic and another quick coffee stop, it took about half an hour to get there, by which time I’d whipped up a reasonable cover story. The file indicated that Ella Grey, née Furman, was a 41-year-old housewife with a degree in English from St. Anselm’s College, so I figured I’d dust off a vaguely literary persona for the occasion. As I’d hoped, there were no flashing lights out front—the cops must’ve long since come and gone by now—and this being a school day, I assumed the little ones, Nanci and Joe, would be off learning about Eli Whitney and dangling participles and the square of the hypotenuse. The house itself was mildly nice, in a mildly nice neighborhood: white paint, green shutters, a tidy lawn, all screamingly unremarkable. No smoldering pentagrams on the walls or severed heads on poles around the garage. Nobody seems to put heads on poles anymore.

I knocked lightly on the door and waited. Only a moment passed before it was opened by a plump, kindly-looking lady with hazel eyes and deep smile lines. I liked her instantly. “Yes? Hello?” She wore the harried expression of someone who’s just been told her husband is a crazed fugitive.

“Mrs. Grey?” I said jovially, producing an oblivious smile. “Hi! I’m James Kilmer with the Massachusetts Presbyterian Newsletter. I’ve got an appointment for an interview with Mr. Grey at one o’clock?” Ol’ Kilmer’s worked for a lot of non-existent but plausibly relevant publications over the years. No one really wants to talk to you if you’ve shown up because their loved ones have gone missing—but if you’ve been in contact with said loved ones all along and have appeared at this critical juncture by sheer coincidence, then you’re a godsend. Yes, I know how bad that sounds.

“An interview? I don’t—what’s this about?” She was already instinctively backing up to let me in, so I very casually put a foot on the threshold. “Do you know what’s happened?”

I let my smile falter a bit, as if direst confusion had befallen me. “Oh, Mr. Grey didn’t mention my email? He’s—he’s all right, isn’t he?”

She didn’t start to cry, but her face crumpled a bit and she clutched at her sleeves. I had to resist a sudden impulse to give her a giant hug. “I’m not sure, Mr. Kilmer. Why—why don’t you come in a sit down?”

“Thank you! And please, call me Jim.”

“Oh—certainly. Call me Ella. Would you like some—tea, or coffee?”

I can always gag down more joe, and she was clearly casting about for something to keep her hands busy while she got her emotions back under control, so I said a cup of the sweet stuff would be lovely. After she deposited me on her couch and went bustling off to the kitchen, I spent a few moments taking stock of the living room. As a martial artist, I’m trained to improvise weapons and exits (in this case, the fireplace poker and the picture window), but I’m not a naturally observant person, I’m too flighty. I have to make a conscious effort to register details, otherwise I can walk right through a room and not even remember what color it was. And you never know when some tiny piece of data might prove crucial to a case. So, let’s see, we had walls and a ceiling and a fireplace and some pictures and furniture and okay, nothing interesting. I started thinking about baseball. Sox had a good line-up this season.

Ella came back a minute later. “Here you are, Jim. There’s cream and sugar and—cookies—you said you work for a newspaper?”

“Yes ma’am, the Massachusetts Presbyterian Newsletter. Mr. Grey wrote us a wonderful letter last month about the religious experiences he’s been having. He and I have been corresponding for a few weeks, and I finally asked him if we could speak in person. Man, that’s good coffee.” Oops. Way to break character, jackass.

“Oh, thank you.” She barely seemed to notice. “It’s just that—well, Norman hasn’t spoken of this at all. He doesn’t even go to church except on Easter and Christmas.”

Well, it was a shot in the dark. Possession very often begins to manifest as feelings of intense spiritual awakening or enlightenment, but they have plenty of other opening gambits. Then again, it was likely enough that he wouldn’t share the feelings with his family in any event: the sense of pride and isolation helps to speed the process along. “No, he did say that he felt a bit shy about the whole thing. Sometimes it’s easier opening up to a total stranger before talking to our loved ones. Kind of like practicing a speech in the mirror.”

She laughed a little. “That does sound like Norman. I once found him giving a sales pitch to my African violets.”

“Ella. . . is he all right?”

“Oh God, I don’t know. The—the police were here this morning, they said he attacked Mrs. Dzenowski’s cats and ran away and they wanted to know if he’s been on any drugs. Norman, on drugs! He seemed so normal last night and I, I—I haven’t seen him since last night, I didn’t even wake up when he went out this morning. He should be at work! He has a presentation today!”

Aha: there it was. With a habitually placid and sedentary-type person, it tends to be tricky getting a reading unless he or she is stirred up about something. In her agitation, Ella was starting to emit some pretty serious qi for a suburban home-maker. I’ll bet anyone who messed with her kids would be in for one hell of a surprise.

Still, she was a nice lady whose husband had disappeared, and the part of my heart that wasn’t busy sensing auras went out to her. I leaned across the coffee table and took her hands. “Listen, Norman’s gonna be okay, I promise. With everything he’s been experiencing, it’s not unusual to have a bizarre reaction like this. I’ve seen it before.” That much was true, at least. “Ella, do you have any idea where he might’ve gone?”

She closed her eyes, and a single tear slipped down her cheek. “That’s what they kept asking. Do you really think I’d be sitting around here if I had idea where to start looking for him? I just keep hoping he’ll come to his senses and come back home, or—or at least call me.”

Yeah—if he was in fact Possessed, that definitely wouldn’t be happening anytime soon. But of course, it was still possible that he was just nuts. My job’s finding them; the Church insists on a whole battery of psychiatric tests, typically taking weeks or even months, before authorizing an exorcism. And a priest who attempts the rite without being empowered by his bishop is begging for grief. Fr. Joe once saw a guy try to drive out an unclean spirit on his personal “charismatic” authority, and the thing made him drive his thumbs into his sockets and rip his own eyes out.

“I’m sure he will. I shouldn’t keep you any longer, but it was very nice meeting you. And thank you for the coffee.”

She squeezed my hands and let me go. “It was nice meeting you too, Jim. I hope you’ll stop by again sometime. And—and God bless.”

“Likewise.” I know, I know, “God bless you too” is the proper response, but it’s not an expression that comes naturally to me.

As I stepped out into the street, I saw grim things moving in from the north: black clouds, storm clouds, slow and somber. Might’ve been the year’s first snow, but it felt like rain to me, and more than rain. Felt like Thor was two days early.

I slipped in behind the wheel of my trusty chariot and ruminated. It occurred to me that I should probably speak with the neighbor for thoroughness’ sake, though I doubted she’d have anything illuminating to say; but I could see a “Dzenowski” mailbox a few houses down, presiding over an empty driveway. She must have gone off to work, or prayer group, or whatever. Interesting that Grey passed by several other houses to get to hers. Maybe the others didn’t have cats. Or maybe they didn’t have Catholics.

What did the padre say? “It turns out Mr. Grey had been causing minor disturbances at Our Lady for several weeks prior.” So maybe I was coming at this from the wrong end. Maybe a stakeout was in order. In my experience, the Possessed rarely have anything we’d recognize as a logical agenda, but upgrading from minor to major disturbances might be close enough for ol’ Grey. It was a little thin, but it could be mistaken for a lead in a dim light. I fired up the engine and headed for the nearest church.