Novels 11 Adam Page 30

  They entered the conference room, where Agent Joseph Reynolds was bent over several Alex Trane papers. “Anything, Joe?”

  “His issues with abandonment are clear, but we’d expect that.”

  “No suggestion about his life in captivity?” Brit snapped.

  “No.”

  Lori stopped by the door, thinking she couldn’t keep up this charade and face these people.

  “Give me a minute, Brit.” She slipped back into the hall and headed toward the bathroom.

  Heather’s insistence that Eve would kill Daniel if the FBI approached had kept Lori frozen for the last twenty-four hours, and with good reason. She was right. Armed with the information Lori had, Brit would storm Oklahoma, maybe put an end to Eve and certainly to either Heather or Daniel, possibly all three.

  Lori couldn’t live with that. But she couldn’t live with leaving Daniel and Heather alone to face a fate beyond their control either.

  She entered the bathroom. Stared into the mirror.

  You’re playing with fire.

  If anyone other than Heather had demanded to go after Alex without her, she would have flatly refused.

  Eve had said three days, and he would honor all three. Two had passed. If Lori didn’t hear from Heather by morning, she’d do what she knew she had to do.

  “God help you, Heather.” She stepped up to the mirror and let out a long sigh. “God help you.”

  THIRTY- SIX

  THE MORNING WAS overcast with dark gray clouds. Heather drove the Explorer, respecting Father Seymour, who’d grown quiet when they’d turned onto the gravel road and headed into the trees.

  He’d taken a red-eye and arrived at the Super 8 Motel at three in the morning, left a message to wake him at nine, then promptly fell asleep.

  Heather read most of the book late into the night and hadn’t fared so well with sleep.

  The father’s single bag sat behind them, containing the religious symbols he’d brought with him: the appropriate priestly robes, a crucifix, two candles, holy water, and a prayer book. He held another small book titled The Roman Ritual of Exorcism in his hands, scanning passages.

  When she’d asked him about the crucifix and holy water, he patiently explained that they held no power in and of themselves, but as symbols humans associated with Christ, they were deeply offensive to the powers of darkness, and as such offered some protection. Though not necessarily much.

  He’d insisted on coffee and donuts, to calm him, he said. They talked about what to expect or not to expect, about the rites of exorcism, about the nature of evil, about Eve. But academics aside, even the father took the ride into the forest burdened by more questions than answers, she thought.

  They couldn’t know whether Daniel was even still alive. Or what had really turned his eyes black. And there was the question of Alex. Heading into the trees, knowing that a serial killer who had eluded the FBI for sixteen months might very well be expecting them, was enough to turn all the academics of exorcism into a sidebar.

  “Would you like to say confession?”

  Heather glanced at Seymour, who stared ahead. He was dressed in gray wool slacks and a white shirt, buttoned to his neck. His white hair was combed back, and he looked amazingly fresh despite his long journey.

  “I’m not Catholic,” she said.

  He looked at her with his smoky blue eyes. “I doubt God will hold it against you.”

  She faced the gravel road. “Well, God knows I’ve sinned.”

  “Fine, let’s cut to the chase.”

  “I’ve been a very bad sow,” she said. Her eyes misted. “That’s what Daniel called me.”

  “I’m sorry.” He paused.

  “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t even know what I believe.”

  He remained silent for a moment, then said, “I don’t want you to speak if we find him alive.”

  “You don’t trust me, Father?”

  “No. I don’t trust him. Or it. If you say the wrong thing, the consequences to you could be disastrous. Trust me, I’ve seen it.”

  “France?”

  He nodded. The freshness had left his face.

  “What happened?”

  “I was assisting, as a favor to a friend. The last of three exorcisms I’ve been present at.” He spoke in a monotone. “When Michael became ill after ten hours, I stepped in against his orders. The girl was in terrible torment, and I couldn’t bear the sight of it all. You read the case of the Girl-Fixer in the book?”

  “Yes.” A spirit by the same name had possessed a young man.

  “Like the priest there who was nearly killed, I, too, comforted the tormented girl. As one human being to another. But as a human I stepped out from under my protection and was beaten. Not by the girl but by a force that punched me in the gut repeatedly, driving me across the room while the girl rattled off my sins in the vilest possible terms. I was being hit in the stomach, but it felt like the hand was reaching inside. And accusing me of things I’d never confessed to a living soul.”

  She’d read of this and other cases last night, but watching Father Seymour’s face now, the certainty of such happenings settled in her mind, uncontested. She couldn’t think of what to say.

  Grass ran in thick tufts down the center of the narrow road.

  “We’re getting close,” she said.

  “Now listen to me.” He drilled her with a stare. “I want you to set your fear aside. I pay a price, but they cannot touch me if I toe the line. As for you . . . for you it’s very dangerous. You must not, under any circumstances, step beyond the authority I give you, do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “If Daniel isn’t restrained, he will need to be.”

  “Is that really necessary?” She knew it was, but it went against her deepest instincts.

  “I’ll make the determination, not you. You may not question anything. You may not speak unless I direct you. You will stand where I tell you to stand and leave if I ask you to leave. I need your absolute assurance on this matter.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  Maybe it would have been a good idea to bring some firepower. Brit could have provided at least that.

  But Eve had said no.

  “The point is I, not you, will make determinations. It would be best for you not to think, if that were humanly possible.”

  “I get the point.”

  “If I thought you got the point, I wouldn’t belabor it now.”

  She nodded.

  “If there is one thing known intimately by them, it’s humanity. They will draw upon weaknesses you hardly know exist—your obsessions, your fears, but worse, your reason. Always, as in most of life itself, a person’s reason betrays him. If you want to come out whole, I strongly suggest you let me do the reasoning.”

  “I understand,” she said. “I swear, I get it.” The cattle guard came into view.

  “For your sake, I hope so.”

  She slowed. “It’s around the corner, up ahead.” She gripped the wheel tighter to steady her hands.

  Father Seymour stared ahead, silent now. They rolled over the metal guard. The sounds made by the Explorer seemed too loud—the humming of the engine, popping of tires over gravel, whisper of the air conditioner, the slight creak of seat springs.

  The deep-woods compound slid into view as the car motored around the last corner. The house on the left and the shack to their right. The mound ahead. A grave.

  Undisturbed.

  And in that grave, Daniel.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  STOP THE CAR,” Father Seymour said.

  She already had her foot on the brake. They stared at the clearing, looking for any sign of life. Not even the tall grass moved.

  And then the father did. He reached back, retrieved his bag, and stepped out of the car. Without returning his eyes to the compound, he pulled on a long black cassock that covered him from neck to feet, then carefully fastened each button. He slipped into a waist-length white surplice and
placed a narrow purple stole around his neck so that it hung loosely to his waist.

  “Behind the hill, you said.”

  “Yes.”

  “Follow me.” He grabbed the bag and began to walk toward the small rise. His apparent calm gave Heather some courage, but she’d been in that root cellar. He hadn’t.

  She climbed out and hurried to catch up to him. “Father, I think maybe—”

  “I didn’t ask you to think. I asked you to follow me.”

  Having no desire to disturb his confidence, she followed. Fighting a deep unsettling, she did so closely, with one hand touching his elbow.

  He didn’t slow his pace as they rounded the rise and faced the open root cellar.

  “That was how you left it?” he asked quietly. “Now you may answer.”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded, walked up to the dark entry, and only then slowed. By day she could barely see the shifting torchlight inside.

  She wanted to suggest what she’d started to suggest before, that maybe she should wait outside, but she dismissed the idea after scanning the trees. Being alone, even outside, would be a problem for her.

  Father Seymour stepped up to the doorway, dipped his head slightly, and disappeared inside. Heather glanced at the trees once again, imagined Eve watching her, and then followed the priest into the root cellar.

  Blinded by the light from outside, Heather saw only the black, tarred walls and the single flaming torch at first. Then the chair.

  Only now there was no Daniel in the chair.

  She blinked and stepped up to the father, who stood holding his bag to her right. “He’s gone,” she whispered, glancing over. She immediately expected a rebuke, but the priest paid her no mind. He was staring ahead. To the right.

  She followed his stare. The long table with corner holes still sat in the shadows along the wall. Daniel lay on top, hands by his sides, facing the ceiling. He didn’t appear to be bound, and even from here she could see his chest slowly rising and falling.

  Heather stepped forward, but the priest’s hand stopped her.

  They stood watching him for thirty seconds. Finally, the priest moved closer, then stopped again, ten feet from the table.

  Heather stepped up behind him. Unlike the quivering form she’d found last night, Daniel now looked to be in a peaceful sleep. The chill in the cellar was gone. The entire atmosphere had changed.

  “Daniel?”

  The priest warned her again. “No, Heather.”

  Daniel’s eyes opened. They searched the ceiling in quick jerks. Then he sat up and looked around with wide, questioning eyes.

  Blue eyes.

  The change in him, from the tormented victim to this man whom she knew so well, flooded her with emotion. She couldn’t restrain herself.

  “Daniel?”

  He turned to the sound of her voice. “Heather?”

  “Daniel?” She moved forward, but Father Seymour’s hand stopped her.

  “No, Heather. Not yet. Please don’t speak.”

  Daniel slid his legs off the table and looked at the priest, then glanced around the room. His eyes misted. “You came . . . Thank goodness—that was you last night—you gave me the antibiotics.”

  He stood, felt his torso as if checking to see if he was okay. “It worked, you giving me the antibiotics. I . . .” He jerked his head up. “He’s gone?”

  “Who’s gone, Daniel?” Seymour asked.

  Daniel’s thoughts seemed to clear quickly, and he moved toward the door. “I know who Eve is, Heather. His name’s Alex Price. He grew up here, in this pit of a cult. We don’t have much time. He was here. I think he has another victim. A girl named Maria Sanchez. He’s going . . .”

  Father Seymour was moving to cut him off from the door when Daniel stopped and turned back. “Where’s Brit? Lori?”

  “We didn’t—”

  “Stop!” Father Seymour shot her an angry glare. To Daniel: “I would like to ask you a question.”

  Daniel looked the father’s robes up and down. “I can understand why Heather brought you here. If there was ever a place that reeked of hell, God knows this is it. But this is about Eve, not me. We don’t have time for this.” He glanced back at the door.

  “Would you be willing to pray with me?”

  Daniel blinked, incredulous. “Pray? I don’t have a praying bone in my body.” He started for the exit again. “This is all very cute, but we have to get back to cell service and contact Brit.”

  “The name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth compels you, Daniel.”

  Daniel didn’t slow.

  “The name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth compels you, Eve.”

  Daniel stopped and faced the priest, unimpressed, then looked at Heather. “Are you coming? I assume you have a vehicle.”

  “Not a word,” the father said quietly.

  Heather stood still. But she knew then that Seymour was wrong. She’d been mistaken. The antibiotics had worked, and she had Daniel back. Alex Price had something else in mind.

  While they were sidelined here, Alex was gone, finishing whatever he’d started.

  “You can’t just stay here.” Daniel walked back toward them, clearly frustrated. “Please, Heather. God knows this whole experience has been torture for both of us. Literally.” His face softened and he closed his eyes. Opened them.

  Spoke softly. “I can’t leave you, Heather. Never again. I was wrong, God knows I was wrong.” Pleading now. “We can put this all behind us. Please, we have to get out. If we don’t stop Eve now, I’m finished. But we will stop him. We have his name, his childhood, everything.”

  He reached for her cheek and brushed it with his thumb. “You know I’m right.”

  It was the first tender touch from him in two years. She wanted to step into his arms; she knew he would take her.

  “We’re running out of time,” he said.

  “Then pray, Daniel,” Father Seymour said. “Repeat a simple prayer after me so that we can leave.”

  “I wouldn’t believe a word of it.”

  “For me,” the priest said. He walked to the chair and pushed it against the wall. Why, Heather had no clue. “It’s just religious jargon, harmless, right? Just satisfy a foolish priest who flew two thousand miles to be here.”

  “We have a serial killer within reach, and you’re suggesting we pause to pray.” Daniel kept his eyes on Heather. “Asinine.”

  “Because that serial killer is Eve,” the priest said, returning.

  “It’s not remotely rational.”

  “It’s spiritual. Sit in the chair and pray with me.”

  A pause. Still Daniel refused to look at the priest.

  “You think it’s wise to argue with me, Priest?” he demanded.

  “Then argue with the power of—”

  “Fine, I’ll pray your foolish prayer!” Daniel snapped, swiveling his head to face Father Seymour.

  His faced sagged, and he looked like he might begin to cry. He walked past them, plopped down on the metal chair, rested his elbows on his knees, and lowered his head into his hands. His shoulder hitched once, then several more times with an uncharacteristic sob.

  Heather struggled to maintain control. Her promise to the father seemed to have been voided by Daniel’s health. She’d come expecting a snarling captive, body contorted by forces beyond her understanding.

  Instead they’d found Daniel. Just Daniel, as agnostic and stubborn as he’d always been.

  She looked at Seymour with pleading eyes, but he brushed past her, set his bag on the table, and withdrew the items he had brought. He spaced the candles two feet apart and lit them, then placed the crucifix between them.

  Daniel was crying now. Why? She’d seen his soft side more times than she could count. His peers saw him as a bulldog, but she’d spent many nights encouraging him when it all became too much.

  She couldn’t imagine the horror he’d endured these last two weeks. The deaths, the inexplicable bouts of fear, exchanging himself for h
er, knowing Eve would infect him.

  She started to protest. “Father—”

  “Please, is that really necessary?” Daniel asked, indicating the tools of the trade. “I said I would pray with you, confess your lies. So we can get out of here . . . stop Eve . . .” He stood and paced, crying openly now. “Not play priest with all the trinkets.”

  “We are going to pray, Daniel. If you’ll just bear with me, we will offer our allegiance to the supremacy of—”

  “Fine, fine, we’ll say your little prayer,” Daniel breathed. His ordeal had reduced him to a shell.

  He looked at Heather, the skin around his eyes wrinkled. “We have to stop him, Heather. His name is Alex Price. I know what he looks like. He told me that if you managed to save me, he would let us go. That we could hunt him.”

  Father Seymour faced him, unscrewing a small brown bottle of blessed water.

  “You love me, right?” Daniel pleaded. “He’s out there right now, Heather. He’s out there . . .”

  The father stepped forward, shaking water on his hand. “I would like—”

  “I’m going to say this prayer and then we have to leave. Right, Heather?”

  “—to bless—”

  “Oh, stop it already!” Daniel yelled, slapping the bottle of holy water from the priest’s hand.

  Heather watched the bottle flip through the air, clatter noisily to the table, and come to rest on its side, spilling its contents on the bloodstained wood surface.

  A loud hissing sound sent a jolt of alarm through Heather’s nerves. The water on the table began to bubble, then vaporized. All three stared in a state of mild shock.

  A hundred questions collided in Heather’s mind as the holy water hissed, but above them all rose one: if the father had been right about the water, could he also be right about Daniel?

  She spun back to her husband. But he’d moved from where he stood.

  He sat in the chair now, elbows back on his knees, head in his hands. Crying.

  Whispering. She couldn’t make out his words. Hardly more than a croak.

  Tears sprang to Heather’s eyes. The father held up a warning hand.

  Just audible now. “Free . . . Please set me free . . .”

  Father Seymour glanced at Heather. Then back at Daniel.