Satans servant, p.14
Satan's Servant, page 14
“Is there anyone you can call who might have some more information?”
“I tried. My instructor back in Minneapolis knows a lot more about magic than I do, and he should also know more about the Theurgicon. The damn phone wouldn’t work. I even tried placing the call through the operator. It’s the damndest thing. The Minneapolis operator said the number’s working, but every time she tried to connect me, everything went dead. All I can do is try again later.” Roger picked up his cigarette pack and found it empty. He crumpled it up. “I think we need to do some shopping. I’m out of cigarettes, and the only clothes I’ve got are the ones on my back.”
Karen had quietly slipped out of the bathroom and busied herself petting Pita. “You’re not the only one with that problem.” She glanced down at her blue jeans and white shirt. “I think we could all use a change of clothes, not to mention some personal toiletries and things like that.”
Mike stood up. “You’re right. Let’s make the rounds of our houses and get what we need.” He looked at Roger. “Do you want to try some of my clothes? You look like you might be my size.”
Roger shook his head. “I’ll buy what I need. I’ve got plenty of cash.” He got up. “Now remember, we don’t know who’s normal and who’s not. So be careful.”
6
A chill swept over Father Edward Gardner.
That part of him which had told him evil was about to strike nearby and later told him it had arrived and had begun to spread now presented him with a new message. He was about to be drawn into the battle against that vile force—and that was the one thing he feared the most.
He put down his pen and stared at an invisible point midway between his desk and the door to his small office. He had to get a hold of himself. He had to.
7
At the same moment the chill hit Father Gardner, Father Sample sat down in his living room and reached for the phone. He finished dialing and waited.
“Archdiocese of Santa Fe.”
“Father Gardner, please.”
“One moment.”
To Father Sample, the name Archdiocese of Santa Fe was one of life’s little incongruities. The offices were in Albuquerque, not Santa Fe, and he wondered why the name was not Archdiocese of Albuquerque or, maybe, Archdiocese of New Mexico. He really did not care about the answer, but posing the question to himself gave him something to do besides fidget while he waited for the receptionist to connect him.
“This is Father Gardner. May I help you?” The voice sounded tired and drawn.
“This is Father John Sample at Our Lady of Mercy in Rancho Lucero. Uh, there are some things going on here I’d like to consult with you on if you have a few moments.”
There was a noticeable pause before Father Gardner said: “What is it I can help you with?”
“Well, I have a very strange situation here. Several people, including some of my parishioners, are convinced there’s an—uh—evil presence here in this community. I’m told you have experience in such matters.” Father Sample suddenly felt very uncomfortable and pictured himself in one of those places with lovely gardens where priests are sent to “convalesce.”
“An evil presence?”
Father Sample took a deep breath, then told the whole story including the visit that morning by Mike and Karen.
“If you’re firmly convinced of the seriousness of the situation, you should consult with the archbishop.”
“Before I go that far, I’d like to discuss it with you. I don’t want to trouble the archbishop until I’m sure I have something I should trouble him with.”
“I see. Well, the first thing you should do is consider all reasonable explanations that would exclude evil spirits. The skeptics are usually right. Most would-be cases of possession turn out to be anything from psychological problems to overactive imaginations. After The Exorcist came out, you would have thought demons were coming out of the woodwork. I’m afraid there are still some lingering effects. Have you tried to explain the situation in other ways?”
“I wouldn’t be on the phone with you right now if I hadn’t. I can explain some cases individually, but I’m at a loss to explain a thing of this scope.”
“Are you, then, personally convinced that what you have there is a mass possession by evil spirits?”
Father Sample tried to adopt the look of a hard-nosed scientist whose professional curiosity never exceeded the bounds of objectivity. Then, in the same instant, the expression dissolved away as he realized no one could see it. “No, I’m not. It’s a very difficult thing for me to accept. However, as I’ve said, there are a number of people who are convinced, and the situation is certainly very strange. I think I’m obliged to at least explore the possibility of possession, regardless of my doubts.”
There was a long pause. “You say the people who appear to be possessed fear both the cross and this Satan symbol?”
“I’ve personally seen the reaction to the cross. I’ve only been told about the other, but I have no reason to doubt it.”
“That’s very peculiar. If what you have there is an infestation of evil spirits, it’s a very unusual case, and it could be exceptionally dangerous for you if you get too deeply involved.”
“How do you mean?”
“As a representative of the church, you are a threat to evil spirits. You’re their enemy. Anything you do that could be seen as action against them could place you in jeopardy—even this phone call.”
“What could happen to me?”
“Any number of things. Priests have died fighting evil spirits, but that’s by no means the worst thing that can happen.”
“I don’t understand. What else can happen?”
“Let’s not discuss that right now. But if there is any chance at all that evil spirits are involved, keep a cross and holy water with you at all times, and please be very, very careful. You would be up against something of tremendous power, and it would use any means at its disposal to destroy you. You can only deal with an evil spirit when you’re clearly acting as a representative of the church. You must never let it become personal. If you do, the evil force will crush you. You’re no match for it. If you find yourself in a situation where you must confront an evil spirit, remember your best weapons are the cross, holy water, and above all, your faith. If you must command an evil spirit, always do it in Jesus’ name. Even an evil spirit must respect the name of Jesus. Never forget that.”
This was beginning to make Father Sample a little nervous. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. Under what circumstances would I command an evil spirit?”
“If the situation arises, you will know it.”
That did not help at all. Father Sample wanted to push for an explanation, but he could feel the other priest’s reluctance to say more. And there was another subject Father Sample needed to bring up. He groped for—and failed to find—the right words. “Uh, I understand you have performed an exorcism.”
There was a long pause, then Father Gardner’s voice came back weakly. “Yes. It was ten years ago in Massachusetts, a teenage girl. What happened there has marked me for all the rest of my life. If that’s what you’re considering, think long and hard. It’s a very dangerous thing, and no one involved will be the same afterward.”
The obvious distress in the other priest’s voice did nothing to settle Father Sample’s shaky nerves. “I’m certainly not to the point of recommending anything like that to the archbishop. Uh, one thing we haven’t discussed is the involvement of the Satanists. I’m not sure how to react to their professed desire to help. Also, I don’t know if there’s any connection, but their church was destroyed by arsonists Sunday night.”
“That’s unfortunate. Even Satanists are God’s children. They’re simply misguided and should be led back to the right path, not abused. As to your situation, all I can say is be cautious. Keep a clear head and strong faith if you must deal with them, and pray that they will see the light and confess their sins.”
“How would you suggest I handle this whole thing?”
“I think it’s your duty to inform the archbishop. But first, you’ll have to do some paperwork. You’ll need to prepare a report documenting everything. Get as many names, dates, places—”
The phone screeched and went dead.
Frowning, Father Sample redialed the number of the archdiocese. There was a click, then silence.
Depressing the button, he got a dial tone again and started to try the number once more.
Then he yanked the phone away from his ear. A piercing, screeching whine was coming from the earpiece. He stared at the screaming phone for a moment, then banged it down in its cradle, and the noise stopped.
He waited a few seconds, then picked up the receiver and cautiously moved it to his ear. The dial tone was there. He began dialing the number again. As he put his finger in the hole for the third digit, he pulled his hand away.
The phone felt warm.
It was not hot, just warmer than usual. Still, the pencil in his pocket suddenly seemed a better thing to dial with than his finger. He inserted the eraser end into the dial.
The rubber tip disappeared with a sizzle and a puff of smoke.
Father Sample dropped the receiver and the pencil. Staring at the phone, he remembered something Father Gardner had said:
Anything you do that could be seen as action against them could place you in jeopardy—even this phone call.
No, he thought. That’s impossible.
8
Father Gardner did not try to reestablish the connection. When the phone went dead, he slowly replaced the receiver, turned, and looked out the window. After several minutes, he turned back to his desk, took out a handkerchief, and blotted his face.
He was uncertain whether the moisture on the white cloth was perspiration or tears.
Chapter Eleven
1
The afternoon came, and Rancho Lucero still seemed oblivious to its death. The commuters had gone to the city; farmers had opened their roadside stands; employees at Maria’s Mexican Restaurant were getting ready to serve enchiladas and chile rellenos to the evening’s customers.
But a perceptive stranger who stopped here would have noticed the town had an unusual coldness about it, an almost complete lack of human warmth. He would have noticed how the people in this place performed their jobs mechanically and inefficiently with only a thin façade of interest in what they were doing. He probably would not have been able to consciously assimilate these things into anything meaningful, but he would have noticed.
And even for the unperceptive who did not stop, the town had become the kind of a place where just being there called up that eerie feeling in the pit of the stomach that causes a person to shiver for no apparent reason.
Motorists passing through found they were relieved when they looked in their rearview mirrors and saw the town limit sign on the other side of the road.
2
For the second time that day, Karen found herself riding in a patrol car with Mike. She had resolved not to start any more overly personal conversations with him, but now, as she watched him driving in silence, trying so hard to reason out a situation that defied all reason, she weakened. She groped around for something to say and came up with: “I guess you’re pretty worried about Jill.”
Mike nodded without taking his eyes off the road. A few silent moments passed; then he said: “I wish you hadn’t said that.”
The comment surprised her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to remind you of things too close to home.”
Mike’s eyes stayed on the road. “It’s not what you think. I guess I feel guilty because, in a situation like this, Jill is just one of the hundreds of people I’m responsible for. Oh, hell, I don’t know.” He shook his head. “It’s just that I’ve done such a good job of being a policeman and not letting it become personal. When the chips are down, I guess I’m a cop first and a friend or lover second.”
“I don’t believe that. I’ll admit you go around acting detached and logical most of the time, but underneath that, you’re one of the warmest people I’ve ever met. And I’m sure you’re super loyal. You’d do anything for someone you cared about. Hell, you even take in stray dogs.” She looked at Mike’s profile, hoping to catch a glimpse of his eyes. “I think you’re doing the job the only way it can be done, and that’s all.”
Mike looked at her and smiled weakly. His eyes briefly landed on hers; then he abruptly looked away as though Karen could see through his pupils into a part of him that was private and not to be shared.
She stared out the window until she realized the silence in the car had become a conspicuous thing sitting between them in the front seat. “How did you wind up being a policeman?”
Mike turned his head, but this time he was looking at her with noncommittal policeman’s eyes, and the shutters behind them were closed tight. “Well, I graduated from UNM and found out there’s not just a hell of a lot you can do with a degree in sociology. I wound up taking every civil service test there was, I think. Anyway, the first place to call me in for an interview was the Albuquerque Police Department. The way they work it is they get a whole bunch of applicants, then weed them out. The psychological tests get a lot of them. In any case, when all the weeding was done, I was still there and got hired. A few years later, I was a sergeant of detectives.”
“How did you wind up in Rancho Lucero?”
“There’s too much politics and backstabbing in a large department. When it comes to furthering their careers, cops are no different than people who work for corporations. Instead of foremen, you’ve got sergeants. Instead of junior executives, you have lieutenants and captains. It’s the same rat race with different titles. And in the city, there’s so much crime a cop’s job becomes impersonal. Just look at the terminology. You’ve got offenders, victims, drivers, subjects, suspects, and escapees. You’ve got everything but people. I decided I wanted out of the rat race, and I decided I wanted to go somewhere small, where people were still people. So, when the job opened up here, I applied. It’s a lot more work for less pay, but it’s a lot easier on the ulcers.” He sighed. “At least it was.”
Karen smiled. “Such sacrilege! The rat race, I’ll have you know, is modern man’s most sacred institution.”
Mike turned left off the main road, then left again into a small dirt parking area and stopped in front of Karen’s apartment.
He scooped up the two-way-radio microphone. “Unit one to unit two.”
Silence.
“Unit one to unit two. Erminio.”
Silence.
Mike laid the microphone on the seat. “I guess they’re still out at Erminio’s. I hope they’re not having any problems.” He killed the engine. “Come on. Let’s get your stuff.”
3
Karen’s place was a three-room apartment with worn gray carpeting and reupholstered furniture from the early 1950s. It was a bigger, slightly better furnished version of the adjacent cubbyhole once occupied by Wade Spencer.
Karen rooted through the clothes, shoes, and boxes crammed into the bedroom closet. She unearthed a small suitcase and tossed it on the bed. Then she turned her attention to the jumble of bottles, jars, and underwear covering the top of her dresser.
She gave Mike a sheepish look. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a housekeeper.”
Mike shrugged and sat down on the bed. “It looks about like my place. My mother calls me a compulsive clutterer.”
Karen dropped the last two items—a hairbrush and a pair of blue jeans—into the bag and slapped it shut. “I think that does it. Just let me check the bathroom on the way out to see if there’s anything I’ve missed.” She picked up the suitcase.
Mike stood up, turning to face her, and for a moment, they were a man and a woman alone in a bedroom, safe in their own private vacuum, untouched by the problems of the world outside. They both knew the only thing keeping them beside the bed and not on it was the lack of a subtle sign from the other. But the signal never came, and the moment passed.
Mike spoke first. “We’d better get going. We’ve still got to go by my place, and I don’t want to be away from the station too long.”
4
A small bell above the door tinkled as Erminio and Roger entered Padilla’s Store, a large part-adobe, part-stucco structure on the main road. It was also part corrugated metal, its rear portion having collapsed in 1951 and having been replaced with a section of a war surplus Quonset hut. A chubby dark-haired man behind the cash register looked up as the bell sounded, then his eyes returned to the magazine on the counter in front of him.
Erminio gave him a cheerful smile. “Hi, José. How’s business?”
José Padilla grunted and turned a page in his magazine
Erminio’s smile faded, and he turned to Roger. “The clothes are back here.” He headed off into the gloom of the old, dimly-lit store, the wood floor occasionally creaking under his weight.
Roger caught up with him. “Is this the only store in town?”
Stepping around a coil of rope, Erminio headed toward some bins of nails. “If you want anything else, we have to go to the city.” He stopped in front of several piles of work clothes, blue jeans, and western shirts.
Groaning, Roger began looking for his size.
The bell dinged as the front door opened and a girl about ten years old walked in. She was a chunky child with short black hair, and she wore a rumpled blue dress. Exchanging a glance of mutual disinterest with the man behind the cash register, she came toward Erminio and Roger.
Erminio grinned. “Hi, Doreen. You just get home from school?”
She gave him a small smile, but it was only a change in the shape of her lips, a thing done mechanically, without feeling. She brushed past them, and disappeared into the back of the store.
