I stopped by Laura’s before heading to Coastal Mists and found her perched at her kitchen table, her laptop open, her fingers tapping at her keyboard. I moved to stand behind her and found myself looking down at the Web site for the Larnaca tourist bureau.
I’m trying to impress you with my resourcefulness,” she said. “How am I doing so far?”
“Not bad.”
“Good. Because the only location you told me about was Larnaca, so after this, I’m stumped. Although I did do some research on the cathedral earlier this morning.”
I’d begun to read over her shoulder (the site raved about Larnaca’s easygoing pace coupled with its fascinating links to the ancient past), but at that I looked up. “St. Mary’s Cathedral?”
“Yeah. Since you said that Goramesh is looking here now, I figured I could start by researching the cathedral.”
“Pretty interesting history, don’t you think?” I asked.
“Did you read about the saints’ ashes used in the mortar?”
I could practically see her face fall. “You already knew about that? I thought I’d be telling you something new.”
“Sorry. Old news. That’s why Eric and I used to think this town had so few demons.” I snorted. “So much for that theory.”
“Well, demon-free or not, the cathedral sure has a lot of tragedy.”
“What do you mean?”
“Five of the original missionaries were murdered. Martyred I guess is the word. They were burned on individual pyres. Just horrific stuff.”
“Wow,” I said. “I had no idea.”
“Really?” She brightened considerably. “You really didn’t know?”
“I really didn’t. Tell me.”
“Well, the yuck part was that they were burned, but the fascinating part is that the cathedral still has their remains. The church kept the ashes in bags, saving them in case any of the martyrs were sainted.”
“I’ve seen them,” I said, remembering the coffee-sized bags in the display case. “So, were any of them sainted?”
She shook her head. “No, but one of them was beatified. That’s the first step, right?”
I nodded. “I doubt any of that’s helpful to us, though. The martyrs are part of the cathedral’s formal collection, so they’ve been on the Web site forever. Goramesh wouldn’t have to sneak around to find them.”
“Oh.” She leaned back, her enthusiasm fading. “At least it makes a good story.”
“Come on, Laura. I haven’t even asked you to help yet, and already you’re doing great.” I said all this in the same voice I use to tell Allie that her math homework was going really, really well. As uneasy as I’d been about Laura helping me originally, now I was keen on the idea. I didn’t want her to get discouraged and distracted, moving on to other more consuming things such as closet reorganizing or dust-bunny wrangling.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“So tell me about this,” I said, focusing again on the Web site about Larnaca and sounding more chipper than I felt.
“I just pulled it up,” she said. “I haven’t even read it yet myself.”
“Look,” I said, noticing a paragraph in the middle of the page. “It says that Larnaca is where Lazarus lived.”
“Rising-from-the-dead Lazarus?”
“I think so.” I leaned over her and pointed to a link labeled Places to See. “Click there.”
She did, and a list of tourist attractions came up.
“There,” I said. “Lazarus came to Larnaca after he was resurrected, and a church was built on the spot where his remains were said to be found.”
“A church,” Laura repeated. “Do you think that’s where the shrine was? The one that was spray-painted?”
“Could be, I guess.”
“But what’s the connection to Mexico or Italy? Or to San Diablo, for that matter?”
“I don’t know.” I chewed on the side of my lip, then paced her kitchen as an idea started to form. “Both the demons that attacked me talked about an army rising. So maybe the desecration of the shrine and the various cathedrals is symbolic. Jesus and Lazarus rose through the power of God, and the demons are going to rise through the power of Satan?” It sounded like a B-movie plot, but it was the only idea I had.
“Maybe,” Laura said. She sounded as dubious as me.
“This is all so frustrating,” I said. “And what does any of it have to do with bones?”
“Could be symbolic, too. You know, like ‘Dem bones gonna rise again.’” Laura’s voice was singsong. I just stared at her. She exhaled. “The song,” she said. “You know.”
I didn’t know, and told her as much.
“Didn’t you go to church camp?”
Obviously Laura hadn’t completely assimilated my description of my childhood. “I lived at the Vatican, Laura,” I said. “There wasn’t a lot of singing around the campfire going on.”
“Right. Sure. Of course.” She laughed nervously. This was going to take a while for her to get her head around. “So, I guess you probably didn’t sit around with the other Hunters telling ghost stories, huh?”
“Sure we did,” I said. “Only they weren’t stories. They were object lessons in how to survive.” I could still vividly remember how Eric and Katrina and Devin and I would huddle in the alcove between the boys’ and girls’ dorms. We’d share our own escapades along with any other stories we’d picked up from older, more experienced Hunters. Like Allie now did at her slumber parties, we’d stay up into the wee hours talking. But we weren’t doing it for fun. It was work. Survival. Knowledge, after all, is power.
“Your childhood sucked,” she said.
“Pretty much.” But even though I said the words with feeling, a part of me knew that—given the choice—I wouldn’t have lived my life any other way.
“I can see why you retired early,” she said. “Probably extended your life expectancy by decades.”
I didn’t answer. Thoughts of Eric spilled into my head. Retiring hadn’t saved him. Death had wanted him, and it had taken him. And even with all of Eric’s fighting skills, when it was his time, he’d still lost the battle.
“You okay?”
I shook my head, dispelling my thoughts. “What?”
“I asked if you were okay?”
“Fine,” I said. I moved to the table and grabbed my purse. “I’ve got some more information you can plug into Google,” I said. “Want to come with me to see Eddie Lohmann? I’ll give you the rundown on the way.”
Her brows rose. “Come with you? Real sidekick stuff? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Don’t get used to it,” I said, giving her a stern glare. I’m pretty sure, though, that my smile destroyed the effect.
As soon as we were on the road, I relayed my conversation with Larson, giving her all the key words to plug into her next search, and telling her in particular about Brother Michael. I also told her what Larson had said about Eddie’s condition.
“That’s a shame,” she said. “I was hoping you’d have some help.”
“I have you,” I said.
“I was thinking more along the lines of help that wouldn’t squeal like a girl and run the other way at the sight of a spider, much less a demon.” Her smile, however, told me how pleased she was by the comment. “So where’s the turnoff?”
We spent the next ten minutes trying to find the poorly marked driveway for Coastal Mists Nursing Home and Eddie Lohmann. I pushed thoughts of Laura and the cathedral and Lazarus out of my head, my attention focused solely on my newly founded Adopt a Geriatric Hunter program.
“So what exactly are we doing here?” Laura asked as I pulled into one of the many empty parking spaces. I had the feeling the residents of Coastal Mists weren’t inundated with visitors.
“I’m not entirely sure.” If he had all his marbles, I wanted to run the situation by Eddie and get his opinion. But the Goramesh problem notwithstanding, I just wanted to meet Eddie. I didn’t know the man, and yet I already felt a connection to him. Melancholy mixed with nostalgia, I’m sure. There were no other Hunters in my life. Eddie was a Hunter. Ergo, I’d latched on.
Pretty transparent pop psychology, but sometimes the most obvious answer really is the truth.
The entire front of the building was landscaped, with native plants lining the walkway, giving the place the external appearance of a fine hotel. The moment we stepped inside, the illusion faded, replaced by a hollow, antiseptic scent, as if the home’s administrators were trying just a little too hard to hide the fact that there was dying going on here.
I realized I’d stopped in the foyer and was hugging myself. Beside me, Laura didn’t seem the least bit perturbed. Mentally, I chastised myself. I’d seen all sorts of death and fought all sorts of demons. If the scent of a nursing home didn’t bother Laura, I sure as heck wasn’t going to let it bother me.
The hallway opened up into a large foyer, the focal point of which was a round nursing station that apparently doubled as a reception desk. A woman in an old-fashioned nursing uniform, complete with starched white hat, greeted us with a thin smile. “Can I help you?” she asked abruptly, even before we’d completely approached the desk.
Her tone caught me by surprise, and I started. I caught Laura’s gaze, and her eyes widened a bit, letting me know that it wasn’t just my imagination. I chalked it up to PMS and plowed on. “We’re here to see Eddie Lohmann. Can you tell me what room he’s in?”
She stared at me for so long I began to wonder if there was something gross on my face. I was just about to ask again (I am nothing if not optimistic) when she peered at me over the rim of her half-glasses and sniffed.
“Your name, please?” She shoved a registry in my direction.
“Kate Connor,” I said. “And this is Laura Dupont.” I started to sign in.
“Relatives?”
“By marriage,” I said, not missing a beat as I scrawled my name and Laura’s in the appropriate column.
I glanced at Laura long enough to see her brows rise almost imperceptibly. Then I pushed the registry back toward Nurse Ratched. Her lips pursed as she read our names, then she lifted her chin and surveyed me once again through narrowed eyes. I was beginning to feel downright paranoid, and I can’t say I particularly enjoyed the sensation.
“By marriage,” she repeated.
“He’s related to my husband,” I said, the lie coming naturally. “Why? Is there a problem?”
“Visiting hours for nonrelatives end in five minutes. If you’re family—”
“We are,” I said firmly.
I expected her to argue, but instead she raised a hand and a twenty-something girl in a candy-striper uniform came trotting over, her name tag introducing her as Jenny. “See these ladies to the media room. They’re visiting Mr. Lohmann.” To us, she said, “I’m surprised we haven’t seen you here before.”
“A long story,” I said. “We just found out that Eddie was here.”
“Hmmm. Well, I hope you have better luck with him than we do.” And with that cryptic remark, she returned her attention to the papers on her desk, leaving Laura and me to follow our candy-striper down a long, dim hallway.
Most of the doors were open, and as I peered into the rooms, I could see twin beds and various other bits of furniture and personal belongings. The rooms reminded me of the tiny monk cells that had doubled as dorm rooms in my youth, and I wondered if in some way Eddie hadn’t come full circle.
I noticed that most of the rooms were empty, and when I asked our guide, she explained that most of the residents were in the television parlor, which happened to be where we were going. “I’m so glad you’re here to visit him,” Jenny said. “He never gets visitors and it’s such a shame.”
“How long has he been here?”
“About three months. At first he was really disoriented, but I think he’s starting to get used to the place. A little clearer, you know?”
“That’s great,” I said, but my mind was elsewhere. Weird that the Vatican had just learned he was here. At the very least, I was surprised the diocese didn’t send a volunteer around to chat with him and a priest to give Communion.
I didn’t have time to ponder those things, however, because we’d arrived. The hallway opened out into a second foyer that I presumed had been a secondary entrance at one time but now obviously served as the famous media room. Two threadbare couches sat in front of a small television currently displaying Jerry Springer in grainy black-and-white. What was this? The Dark Ages?
The residents sprawled on the two couches, and the old man at the end kept shouting “You tell ‘em, Jerry!” at the television. The other two didn’t even flinch, and I took a guess that this was considered normal behavior in these parts. In addition, the room sported two card tables (surrounded by four old men playing cards, one of whom was trailing an IV rack) and a single rocking chair. A blue-haired lady with a hump in her back stood by the rocker, methodically whapping the end of her cane against the thigh of the old man seated there as she mumbled incoherently. (As I circled around, I realized the cause of the mumbling—she’d removed her teeth. The old man just ignored her, eyes glued to the television.)
I leaned closer to Jenny. “Which one is Eddie?”
“DEMONS!”
I jumped, then identified the howler as the same old man who’d been egging Jerry on. Now he was shaking his fist at the television screen. I looked in that direction and had to admit his assessment had some merit. The kid Jerry was interviewing had so many pins and tattoos that he looked like something out of a Hellraiser movie.
“THEY’RE EVERYWHERE. IN OUR TELEVISIONS. UNDER OUR BEDS. IN MY RICE KRISPIES. SNAP CRACKLE, THEY SAY. SNAP CRACKLE!” He whipped out a spritzer bottle and took aim, spraying fine mist toward the television, but mostly only dampening Jenny, who was slowly moving toward him.
Laura took a step backward. I grabbed her arm. She’d volunteered, after all. And I wasn’t too keen on facing Eddie by myself. (And, yeah, for a second I considered backing out, too. But I’d come to see Eddie, and see him, I would.)
“Hush, now, Mr. Lohmann. We can hear you without shouting.” Jenny crouched in front of him as I inched sideways, wanting to get a look at his face.
The man was eighty-five if he was a day, with a grizzled face that seemed as gray as the unkempt bush of hair on his head. His lips had disappeared with age, and the untrimmed gray mustache he sported seemed to float unanchored on his face. His skin was timeworn and leathery, and now that I saw his face, I knew I would have recognized Eddie Lohmann without Jenny’s help. This man had fought battles. Fought and won. Now, I wondered if he was fighting his first losing battle.
His chin lifted suddenly, and he peered at me from under droopy lids. I could see enough of his eyes, though, to see the intelligence under there. Eddie Lohmann might be strange, but I’d lay odds he wasn’t senile. Not yet.
“Who’s that one?” he asked, talking to Jenny, but nodding to me.
“She’s here to visit you,” Jenny said. “Can’t you be nicer?”
His nose twitched. “Is she a demon?”
The other residents looked up from their various activities and peered at me. I stood up straighter and fought the urge to adjust my blouse.
Jenny sighed, then rolled her eyes toward me, which pretty much clued me in to what she thought of the whole demon thing. I took heart that his rantings went unheeded. Still, I didn’t like the idea that Eddie was spouting off to the residents and staff.
Jenny was still focused on Eddie, her manner calm and patient “She’s not a demon. There aren’t any demons, remember? We use holy water in the mop bucket. They can’t walk on our floors.” This time she gave a wink in my direction.
“Damn dastardly demons,” Eddie mumbled. He looked up at me, his eyes eagle sharp as he crooked a bony finger. “You there. Come here.”
Behind me, I heard Laura take a few steps backward, her desire to get out of there so thick I could almost feel it. I moved forward slowly, then speeded up the moment one of the other men (who’d stayed quiet during Eddie’s entire tirade) shouted at me to quit blocking the television before he took a cane to me. Nice man. Not exactly the grandfatherly type.
I stopped in front of Eddie and let him take a look at me. He fumbled a pair of half-glasses out of a front shirt pocket and put them on. As Jenny backed off, I stood like a statue, waiting for some signal from him.
“I don’t know you,” he finally said. He pointed a bony finger. “Get thee hence, Satan’s harlot!”
I bristled and stifled the urge to defend my reputation. I shot a glance at Laura, and she shrugged. Eddie had returned his attention to the television. I waited for a commercial, then tried again.
“Mr. Lohmann?”
He looked up at me, no recognition at all in his eyes. “Are you a new one they’re trying?” His eyes narrowed as he smacked his lips. “You won’t get anything from me.”
“My name’s Kate,” I said, trying for soft and reassuring. I gestured across the room to where Laura had faded into a corner. “That’s Laura. We came to visit with you.”
He kept his attention on me, not even bothering to look Laura’s direction. “Are you one of them?” He seemed grandfatherly, and yet there was an icy edge in his eyes, and I’d noticed that his muscles had tightened as I approached, as if he still had the power to defend himself should I attack.
He crooked his finger again, urging me even closer. I bent down, not at all surprised when his nostrils flared. “My breath okay?” I asked.
He snorted. “Could be faking,” he said. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out his bottle, and sprayed me straight in the face. I sputtered and wiped my eyes, probably rubbing mascara everywhere.
He sat back, obviously satisfied. “You’ll do,” he said. “Unless you’re working for them.” He leaned forward, peering at me.
“I’m not,” I said, fighting another wave of indignation.
He stared at me for so long, I feared he’d forgotten again and we’d have to start all over. Finally he spoke. “What do you want?”
I glanced around at the other residents. This wasn’t exactly the best place. “I was hoping to talk to you. Do you think we could go somewhere?”
He waved at the television, his expression turning surly. “Jerry Springer. Five minutes.”
I started to argue, realized that would do no good whatsoever, then perched myself on the arm of the couch right next to him. For the next five minutes I watched the wrap-up and Jerry’s final words (we all need to try to really listen to one another, in case you were wondering). True to his word, as soon as the program ended, Eddie hoisted himself up with the help of an ornately carved cane, then started shuffling toward the back of the room. I followed, silently urging Laura along, and ignoring Eddie’s instruction to “Get a move on there, girls.”
Since we were moving at glacial speed, it took another five minutes to make it to Eddie’s room. Once we got there, I closed the door and Eddie sank down into a dingy gray recliner that I have a feeling started out some other color.
“Have we met?” he asked, his eyes unfocused. “Where’d you come from?”
“We just met in there,” I said patiently. “I work for Forza.” I’m not sure what kind of reaction I expected, but I didn’t get anything. Not a blink, not a twitch, not even a nervous tic. He just stared at me, then calmly turned toward Laura.
“Her?”
“A friend. Not a Hunter. But she knows.”
His fingers inched toward the spritzer now peeking out of his breast pocket, but then he paused. His eyes narrowed as he looked at me. “You vouch for her?”
“With my life,” I said.
The fingers moved away, and he clasped his hands in his lap. “She can stay.”
I wasn’t sure what to say then. I’d come to meet this retired Hunter, but what did I really want from him? Now that I’d met him, my mind was blank and I stood there, feeling a bit like the star of one of those naked dreams— standing unclothed onstage while everyone waited for me to sing an aria or perform magnificent acrobatic feats.
“Did you come to kill them?” he asked. “I would. But the old body just doesn’t work right anymore.”
“Kill them,” I repeated. “Kill who?”
“Demons,” he said as the door opened to reveal a nurse decked out in teddy-bear scrubs. “There are demons everywhere.”
“Now, Mr. Lohmann,” she said, “don’t go starting up with that again.” She was balancing a tray of lunch dishes, and as I watched, she moved expertly to the table and slid the tray on. “He’s a Demon Hunter, you know,” she said to me, her voice both conversational and condescending.
“Oh,” I said stupidly. “How nice.”
The nurse looked up from her tray and winked at me. “Well, we think so. Such an interesting career. And the stories he tells. I mean, really. He’s certainly had some adventures.”
She crossed the room to Eddie and turned the light on beside his chair. In the harsh illumination he seemed smaller somehow, his features shriveled, as if the light had somehow stolen his energy. “Have you seen any demons today, Eddie?”
“They’re everywhere,” he said, but his voice lacked the conviction it had earlier with me.
“Well, then, I’d better refill your holy water,” she said. “We wouldn’t want any getting in here when you aren’t looking.”
As I watched, she grabbed his little bottle, winked at me, then headed into the bathroom. I heard the water running, then she returned and tucked the bottle back into his pocket. “There you go. That should keep those nasty demons away.”
“Good Melinda,” he said. “You’re the only one here who’s good to me.”
“Do you do that for him every day?” I asked.
“Oh, sure,” she said. “Otherwise, the demons might get him.”
“She understands,” Eddie says. “Melinda believes me.”
“Right now, though, it’s time for your medicine.” She turned to me. “Are you going to visit much longer? I can wait if you want. The meds make him pretty loopy.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “We were just leaving.” Not entirely true, but I did need to get moving.
She shook a handful of multicolored pills out of a tiny paper cup, then handed them to Eddie, who took them without question. He popped the pills dry with one hand, holding out his other arm for the injection that Melinda was administering. As soon as she withdrew the needle, his head lolled back. Almost instantly I could see the tension drain from his body.
“Eddie?”
He looked up at me, but the Eddie Lohmann I’d met in the television room was gone.
“I-don’t-know-you,” he said, his words slurring together in one big jumble of sound. “Do-I-know-you?”
“We just met,” I said gently. “But we’ll come back later.” It didn’t matter what I said. He was already drifting off to sleep.
Laura and I followed Melinda out of the room. “What’s with the medicine cabinet?” I asked.
Melinda’s cheeks flamed. “Oh, golly,” she said. “You heard him. It’s demon this and vampire that all the time if we don’t load him up with drugs. He went too long today, actually, because he spit out his pills. That’s why Dr. Parker ordered the injection.” She leaned closer. ‘It’s kinda creepy. I think he really believes all of that.”
“No way,” I said, trying hard to keep my face straight.
“No, truly,” she said. “I don’t think he’s like dangerous or anything, but—” She cut herself off, her forehead crinkling.
“But what?’
“Actually, maybe he is. Once he totally jumped another resident. And the poor guy had just had a massive coronary the night before. It was a scene. There’s Eddie leaping on Sam, and he was going at him with this tongue depressor and trying to shove it into his eye. Took two orderlies and Mrs. Tabor to get him off.”
“Wow,” I said. “You saw all that?”
“Yeah. Gave me the willies.”
“How’s Sam?” Laura asked.
“Great,” she said. “Can you believe? Two days after a heart attack and he discharged himself. Said he was going to get an apartment in Sun City.”
I fought a grimace. Unless I missed my guess, Sam was the codger who’d flown through my window and was now cooling his heels in the county dump. “Sam discharged himself?” I asked. “He could do that?”
“Oh, sure,” she said. “The residents here are all voluntary. It’s not like they’re committed or anything. Most just don’t have anyplace else to go or their families can’t take care of them. Special needs and all. I mean, like Eddie. What if you took him home and he decided you were a demon or something?” She cocked her head as she looked at me. “You said you’re family, right?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
“Hard to see a family member spiral down like that,” she said. “I really sympathize.” She shook her head. “Demons,” she said with a snort. “As if.”
I dropped Laura back at her house before heading on to the cathedral. We didn’t talk. I think both of us were thinking about Eddie, stuck in that nursing home, keeping a watchful eye out for demons in his Rice Krispies.
The thing was, I believed him. (Well, not about the cereal.) Especially after the Sam story, I’d be stupid not to. But what could I do? If any of the old people I’d seen had been inhabited by Goramesh’s minions, then we probably didn’t have much to worry about in the fate-of-the-world department—none of them had seemed particularly interested in a Hunter’s presence on the premises. If anything, they’d seemed more interested in five-card draw and Jerry Springer. Not my choice of programming, but hardly demonic.
I was still buried deep in my Eddie thoughts as I pulled open the heavy wooden doors leading into the cathedral. I’d expected silence, but a creaking sound echoed through the room, and as I listened, I recognized it as the sound of a door swinging on rusty hinges. I couldn’t see anyone, but I assumed Father Ben was coming out of the sacristy, and I increased my pace to catch up to him. I wanted to get his thoughts on narrowing my search of the records. (Anything to shorten my time in the basement archives!) But as my silent companion stepped out from behind the partition, I stopped cold. Not Father Ben—Stuart.
I froze, guilt swelling. He had to be here looking for me. And when he found me without Timmy ... well, I was going to have to come clean or come up with a fancy fabrication.
Not inclined to do either, I dropped to one knee, my head down as I genuflected. Then I moved into a pew, toed down the kneeler and put my head in my hands, the very image of a pious woman deep in prayer. With any luck, he wouldn’t notice me.
His footsteps increased, his tempo hurried, and he headed down the steps off the sanctuary and then down the aisle. After a moment I heard the heavy clunk of the door falling shut behind him.
I stayed in that position. At first my mind was blank, but then I think I sank into prayer, thanking God for not letting Stuart notice me, for keeping my secret safe until I was ready to share it with my family, for keeping me alive despite my—
A hand closed on my shoulder and I screamed, my voice filling the cathedral with as much power as the Sunday morning cantor’s did.
“Oh, Kate, I’m so sorry!”
I relaxed, my hand reflexively patting my chest. Father Ben. “Father. Sorry. You scared me.”
“Please, I should be apologizing. But I wanted to let you know that we’ll be closing the cathedral early today and tomorrow, so that the workers can sand the floors. I thought you might want to know so that your time in the archives isn’t cut short.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I do appreciate that.” I stood, and he followed suit. “I saw that Stuart was down there,” I said, hoping my voice sounded casual. “Was he looking for me?”
“I don’t think so. My understanding is he’s working on some project of his own.”
“Oh.” Not the answer I’d expected. And I couldn’t imagine what interest my less-than-devout husband could possibly have in musty old church records. “Do you know what?”
“I’m afraid I don’t. He made arrangements with the bishop.”
I blinked, getting more and more curious, but I just waved the comment away. “No big deal,” I said. “I’ll ask him tonight.”
We were at the door to the sacristy now, and I tugged it open.
“Since the construction will cut your time short today and tomorrow, would you like for me to arrange access for you Friday evening after the fair?”
“The fair?” I repeated, suddenly feeling like we weren’t talking the same language.
“Didn’t I see that you were signed up to help with the parish fair on Friday?”
“Oh, right. Of course.” Oops. I’d completely forgotten. “Yes, if you could keep the archives open late, I’d very much appreciate it.” I smiled, hoping I looked charming and helpful as I made a mental note to myself: figure out what I signed up to do at the fair.
I kept Father Ben detained for a few more minutes as I drilled him about the organization of all the donations. The answer, unfortunately, was that there really was no organization. What I saw was what I got. Which meant I was back to where I’d started. This time, at least I could try to find some regional connection.
I settled myself at the table, opened the first box (gingerly, in case of more bugs), and dug back into my project. An hour later all I had to show for my efforts was a backache. Okay, that wasn’t entirely true. I did learn some things. I found out for example, that Cecil Curtis was Clark Curtis’s father, which meant I was reading documents about Stuart’s boss’s family. (Which did make the job slightly more interesting. Basic human nosiness, I guess.) As I’d discovered yesterday, he’d left all of his land (and we’re talking a lot of land) and worldly possessions to the Church, specifically excluding his “spouse or issue,” a little fact that I imagine pissed off Clark (not to mention his mom and siblings).
I learned that Thomas Petrie had won a church-sponsored scholarship and had gone to St. Thomas Aquinas College. He ended up being famous for his series of books that revolved around a mystery-solving priest, and after he started to hit the New York Times list regularly, he made frequent contributions to the Church. Since the donations weren’t monetary (one year he gave a wooden Madonna-and-child statute), I assumed he was donating things that he’d acquired researching each of his various books.
I skimmed through the other benefactors, too, but didn’t find much of interest. Mike Florence caught my eye simply because of the Italian town, but from what I could tell, he’d donated nothing more interesting than a six-inch-square gold box with a beautiful carved crucifix affixed to the lid. The receipt accompanied the donation, though, and unless Goramesh was on the hunt for a box sold at Macy’s in the 1950s, then I doubted I was on the right track. (I’ll admit I was a little curious to see the thing, but it was in a container at the bottom of the stack and all the way at the back. That’s what we in the archive-reviewing biz call “geographically undesirable.”)
With a sigh of resignation, I pushed aside the last itemized list. My options now were to review every single piece of paper in each donor’s file, or start in on the cool stuff in the boxes. Since I doubted I’d recognize what I was looking for if I saw it, the smart thing would be to review letters and correspondence. But I only had a half-hour left in the basement, my eyes hurt, and I was bored.
Besides, something in my gut told me we were running out of time, and at the moment all I could do was put my faith in God (and Larson and Laura). I was in a cathedral after all. If divine inspiration was going to hit, surely I was in the right place.
I pulled over the first box, but didn’t haul it up to the table. It weighed a ton. Instead, I kept it by my feet, then toed off the lid, keeping a safe distance in case a flock of beasties came zipping out
None did, and I peered down, dismayed to see that the box was filled with decaying leather-bound Bibles. Thousands of pages, any of which could have a note inscribed on them. And each Bible began with page after page of family histories scrawled in terrible handwriting that I was going to have to decipher.
Oh, joy.
I pulled the first Bible, fighting a sneeze as I reminded myself why I’d never started a family Bible for my own family—they get old and rotten and decrepit, and then what do you do? If you’re the Oliveras family, apparently you donate it to the Church so a slob like me can wade through the pages later. And why not? It’s not like you can dump it in the trash can. There’s no Thou Shalt Not, but it still seems to me that tossing a Bible would score you some serious demerits on your Permanent Record.
I managed to decipher the handwriting on the family-tree portions (nothing interesting), then paged slowly through the book (no handwritten phrases or underlined verses). I paid particular attention to John 11:17, the chapter and verse about Lazarus, but there didn’t appear to be any notes in the margin, any tipped-in sheets of paper, any messages scrawled with invisible ink. I even inspected every centimeter of the leather binding, searching for treasure maps hidden in the spine. Nothing. As far as I could tell, this was a family Bible and nothing more.
When I put the Bible aside, it was almost four o’clock. The cathedral was closing, and I needed to get Timmy. Of course, as soon as I stepped into the real world, all my real world problems lined up behind me. While I’d been in the basement, Eddie and Stuart had been forgotten. Now, though, they were front and center again.
Stuart, I assumed, had a reason for going to the cathedral, and had I not done my impression of the world’s most pious Catholic, perhaps he would have noticed me and explained. Since it was stupid to speculate, I forced myself off the subject. Surely he’d tell me tonight. And if he didn’t ... well, then I’d just have to ask.
Eddie was a harder subject. And as I turned into the parking lot at Timmy’s school, I still didn’t know what to do about him. More. I didn’t know why I’d suddenly become obsessed with the idea of doing anything at all.
At the moment though, Eddie was the least of my problems. Just beyond those doors was a two-year-old who (I hoped) hadn’t been scarred for life by his first experience in non-parental child care.
I parked the car and got out, realizing only then how much my stomach was churning. I’d kept my cell phone on all day with no frantic calls from Nadine or Miss Sally. So I knew (hoped) that no horrible accident had befallen my child.
But it wasn’t horrible accidents I was worried about. I was terrified of the expression I’d see in his eyes when I picked him up. An expression that said “Where have you been, Mommy, and why did you leave me with strangers?” As a Demon Hunter, I had a great answer to that. As a mom, I couldn’t think of a thing to say.
“He did great,” Nadine said as I passed the reception desk on my way to the Explorers classroom. I almost stopped and cross-examined her (What is “great”? Are you just saying that to make me feel better? Will my son ever forgive me for dumping him off on you people?), but I fought the urge and soldiered on.
One nice thing KidSpace does is put windows in the doors to all the classrooms. From a mommy perspective, this is a good thing, and I took the opportunity to peer in at my little munchkin. There he was, my little man, playing on the floor with a plastic dump truck, right alongside another little boy, this one pushing a dinosaur in a wheelbarrow.
He was smiling. He was happy. And from my perspective, this was a minor miracle. I’d made a good decision. My sweet little boy wasn’t traumatized. He didn’t need therapy. He wouldn’t run to Oprah in twenty years and rat me out. If anything, he seemed to be having a great time.
Life was good.
I opened the door, held out my arms to him ... then watched with desperation as Timmy burst into tears.
“Mommamommamomma!” The truck was forgotten as he raced to me. I caught him on the fly and scooped him up, hugging him and patting his back. So much for my rampant lauding of my parental decisions; this was one stressed-out little boy.
“He really did fine today,” Miss Sally said as I rubbed circles between his shoulders and murmured nice-sounding words. “This is very normal.”
I believed her (well, I sort of believed her), but that didn’t lessen the guilt. I shifted Timmy so that I could see his face. “Hey, little man. You ready to go home?”
He nodded, thumb now permanently entrenched in his mouth.
“Did you have fun today?”
Another reluctant nod, but at least it eased my guilt.
“Before you go, though, I need you to sign this form.” Miss Sally pushed a clipboard toward me. I shifted Timmy’s weight on my hip and squinted at the preprinted page. “Accident Report.”
“What happened? Is he hurt?” I looked down at Timmy. “Are you hurt?”
“No, Mommy,” he said. “No biting Cody. No. Biting.”
My cheeks warmed. “He bit someone?”
“Just a little bite,” Miss Sally assured me. “The tooth impression has already faded, and he and Cody have been playing together all afternoon.”
“He bit hard enough to leave a mark?” I could hear my voice rise, but I was having trouble getting my head around this. My son was a biter? My little boy was a problem child? “But Nadine said he did great.”
“Oh, he did. Truly. This isn’t that unusual for new students. And it won’t be a problem unless it happens again. Or unless Cody’s parents complain.” She held up a hand. “But they won’t. Cody was a biter, too.”
There it was. That label. Biter. I had a biter.
After a few more minutes of guilt on my part and reassurance on Sally’s part, I started to believe that the day really hadn’t been a total disaster. In addition to taking a taste of his schoolmate, Timmy had made friends, sang songs, and spent a full hour playing with finger paints. What more could a toddler want?
In the end we trotted down the hall hand-in-hand, and as we reached the door, he lifted his little face, and those big brown eyes sucked me in. “I love you, Mommy,” he said, and I melted on the spot. He might be a biter, but he was my baby. “Home, Mommy? We go home?”
“Soon, sport,” I said. “We have one more quick errand.” I hadn’t even realized I’d made up my mind until I said those words, but something about seeing Timmy in the care of others had fueled my decision. I couldn’t leave Eddie all alone. In his condition he might accidentally blow the lid off Forza, and that was something I simply couldn’t let happen.
Plus, I feared that Eddie was right—there were demons walking the halls of Coastal Mists. And any one of those dark creatures would be more than interested to know all the delicious little Forza facts that were locked in Eddie’s head. Facts that might get Eddie—or me or my family killed. Besides, Hunters protected other Hunters. I'd always lived by that code, and even now, retired, I couldn’t back away from it.
So Timmy and I were going back to get the man. What I’d do with him once I had him ... well, that was anybody’s guess.
***
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Also, CARPE DEMON is only the beginning! Here are all the titles in the series - learn more at http://www.DemonHuntingSoccerMom.com
CARPE DEMON
CALIFORNIA DEMON
DEMONS ARE FOREVER
DEJA DEMON
DEMON EX MACHINA
PAX DEMONICA (coming soon!)
THE DEMON YOU KNOW (a short story)
Enjoy!