Dark Debts (37 page)

“No, thanks. I have a headache.”

“Well, you might as well have it out here. At least you won't be bored. You know who plays in it? That woman who played on that show you used to like . . .”

Randa relented, since she knew from prior experience that resistance was futile. She lay on the sofa and pretended to watch the movie while Jane provided political color commentary. (
“Pretty soon the government's gonna make it so you can't even pray in church.” 
)

“Mom?” Randa asked, her voice rising over a tampon commercial, “why do you believe in God?”

“What kind of a question is that?”

A direct one. The unpardonable sin . . .

“I just wondered.”

“Well . . . because I've read the Bible,” Jane said, as if nothing could be simpler or more obvious.

“How do you know it's true?” Randa asked.

“Because,” Jane said firmly, “I just do.” She furrowed her eyebrows and fixed her gaze on the television screen.

“That's not a reason,” Randa said.

“Randa, don't you come into my house with your California atheist shit.”

“I just asked a question.”

“Well, I gave you my answer and you didn't like it.”

Randa opened her mouth to speak again; she was cut off by a harsh “Shhhh!” Jane picked up the remote control and turned the volume up a couple of notches.

Randa set her alarm clock for five a.m. When it rang, she got up, wrote a note to Jane saying she'd decided to take an earlier flight, and drove off into the dark. She headed for the airport, but when she got to the exit, she could not make herself turn. She kept driving. She stopped in McDonough for gas and in Griffin for a peach milk shake. Neither pause weakened her resolve, now that it had a life of its own. It was a little past nine o'clock when she drove into Barton.

She didn't give herself time to think about what she was doing. She parked in front of the boardinghouse, walked determinedly straight to his door, and knocked. She prayed to anyone who might be listening that he was there. She didn't want to have this confrontation at Tillie's—though why she cared what the good citizens of Barton thought about her was beyond her comprehension.

The door opened and Jack stared at her; his eyes had a glazed look and she wondered if he was on something. He didn't speak, forcing her to take the offensive.

“What did you think?” she asked. “That I'd wake up, see you were gone, and just nonchalantly hop a plane back to LA?”

“You should have.”

His voice was different now, in some way she couldn't pinpoint. He turned and walked away, leaving her at the door. She followed.

Everything in the formerly immaculate apartment was askew. The air was stale and smelled of cigarettes and cheap whiskey. There were dirty clothes lying across the unmade bed. His nice clothes from the Ritz-Carlton night were thrown haphazardly across the back of the sofa.

Jack looked worse than the apartment. He obviously hadn't shaved since she'd last seen him. His eyes were bloodshot. He was wearing khaki pants and a denim shirt, the latter unbuttoned and both as wrinkled as if he'd slept in them. Which couldn't be true, since he looked like he hadn't slept in a decade.

He picked up a pack of cigarettes from the desk, lit one, blew smoke toward the kitchen.

“Jack, the James Dean act is cute, but can we cut the—”

“Look, you knew who I was!” It was loud. Randa felt herself jump. “I didn't want to go in the first place!” he said. “It was your brainstorm!”

“Well, that night you seemed to think it was a good brainstorm,” Randa offered feebly, trying to maintain what little composure she still possessed.

“Yeah? So what? When have you ever met a guy who complained about getting laid? You think that proves something? Is that your big accomplishment?”

Randa felt as if someone were scraping her throat with hot sandpaper. She didn't even try to speak.

He walked into the kitchen and dumped ashes in the sink. She watched and wondered what to do. He came back, looking no less angry. Stood and stared at her. She searched his eyes for any sign of compassion and found none.

“Randa, go home,” he said. “You're all out of brothers.” As soon as she could force her legs to move, she turned and left. He was standing in the same spot when she slammed the door.

M
ichael and Barbara had finished the first round of cleaning out Vincent's house by midafternoon. Barbara waited for the St. Vincent de Paul truck while Michael drove the forty-five minutes to the Jesuit villa with a large box of books that Vincent had asked be donated to the library there. Michael had a key to the villa and spent much of the way semi-praying he'd be able to drop them off without encountering Gabe Novak.

Michael turned down the long driveway, which was lined with enormous oak trees on either side, planted when the driveway was just a gravel-strewn path of red clay traveled only by horse and carriage. The villa itself was a beautiful Greek Revival antebellum plantation house, with large white columns and a porch surrounded by crape myrtle. Due north of Atlanta, it sat on an eleven-acre lake just off the Etowah River basin. It had been in shambles when Vincent had bought it with the intention of restoring it and donating it to the Society of Jesus to use as a villa, so that Michael and other Jesuits within driving distance could have it as a getaway. Vincent had done his usual immaculate job, but Michael had transferred to the New York province to take the job at the magazine, and hadn't seen the place in years.

He saw only one other car when he parked out front. The villa tended to stay empty during the weekdays, which was fine with Michael. He unlocked the door and stepped inside. The library was immediately on the left, an oak-paneled room with large curtained windows and three walls of bookshelves, floor to ceiling. On a coffee table in front of the sofa, a chess board had been set up. Someone was in the middle of a game. Had it been Gabe and Vincent?

Michael took the box of books to a window seat and set it down. He was debating leaving Gabe a note when, from behind him, a voice said, “Hi.” He turned to find Gabe coming through the library door. Dressed in clerics, of course. Michael wondered if the guy
slept
in clerics.

“Oh. Hi. I didn't know you were here. I'm Michael Kinney; I'm Vincent Kinney's grandson.”

Gabe nodded and extended his hand. “Gabe Novak.”

“Yes, I know. I brought the books that Vincent wanted to donate to the library. I'm told he discussed it with you.”

Gabe nodded. “I looked for you at the wake, but apparently you'd left for an emergency,” he said. “I'm very sorry for your loss.”

“I understand it was your loss, too,” Michael said, and hoped there was no edge in his voice.

Gabe nodded. “I was very fortunate to spend time with him the last few months. He was one of a kind.”

Michael decided to let that go. He nodded and refrained from comment, other than to tell Gabe he'd better be going. To his surprise and dismay, Gabe asked if he'd like to stay for a drink. Michael could think of little he would less rather do, and couldn't imagine why Gabe had offered, but he didn't want to seem like a jerk, so he accepted. Gabe grabbed a couple of glasses and a bottle of Maker's Mark and motioned for Michael to follow him out to the veranda. Michael tried to figure out how his affection for that particular spirit might have found its way into one of Vincent and Gabe's conversations. Maybe “Oh, you like bourbon? That might be the only thing that you and my grandson have in common.”

“I'm sorry about missing the funeral,” Gabe said as they sat. “I came down with this hell flu out of nowhere. It was gone the next morning, but the timing was lousy. I had planned to concelebrate, as I assume Tom told you.”

Tom had not. Barbara must have passed on Michael's feelings about Novak and Tom had kept silent, assuming Michael wouldn't make a scene at the church. That was an incorrect assumption, but God had swooped in with a well-timed stomach flu. Everyone wins! With the exception of Novak, and Michael was sure he had offered it up for the souls in purgatory.

“So I hear you're in Barton,” Gabe said.

Michael nodded. “Just for another month.”

Gabe poured the bourbon into two glasses and handed one to Michael. Then he lifted his and said, “To Vincent.” Michael could feel his teeth clench as their glasses clinked. As if this weren't bad enough, now the guy thought they'd bond over Vincent's ghost?

“Where to after that?” Gabe asked.

“You tell me,” Michael said, tired of playing nice. “I'm not up on where they send out-of-favor Jesuits.”

Gabe didn't flinch. “To the missions,” he said. “If they just want you out of sight. If they want you dead, they'll send you to the Middle East.”

“Have you been?”

Gabe nodded. “Couple of stints, but the terrorists disappointed them, so I ended up here.”

They small-talked about Atlanta while Michael took the chance to study Gabe. He was smaller than Michael had imagined, but still a powerful presence, with the jaw of a Marine and unnervingly inscrutable eyes the color of a blue heron.

After ten minutes of polite but innocuous chatter, Michael excused himself to leave. Gabe walked him to the door and Michael had almost escaped when Gabe said, “Don't worry about the gulags. They don't send enlightened thinkers there. You'll be back in Manhattan by Christmas.”

Really? You're going to throw that jab as I'm on my way out the door?

“Look. I know you and Vincent bonded because you're the priest he wanted
me
to be.”

“He would have preferred that you be faithful to the Magisterium,” Gabe corrected.

“Isn't that the same thing?”

“One is personal and the other is abstract.”

“Semantics.”

Gabe frowned. “Are we seriously doing ‘Grandpa liked you best?' ”

Michael wanted to slug the guy, but it was true. It really did boil down to that.

“You didn't really know Vincent,” Michael said.

“And you don't really know me,” Gabe fired back.

Michael had no response. “Thanks for the drink,” he said, and walked quickly back to his car.

M
ichael ignored the ringing phone. It was the public line, anyway, and Father was supposed to have a buffer zone between himself and the mere mortals. He tried to remember if he'd seen Annie when he came in this morning. He'd had no fifteen-minute conversation, so he must not have.

He was going through the
L
s in the Barton phone book one more time, as if
Landry
might have been misfiled somehow. He couldn't imagine why else he was unable to find a
Jackson
, a
Jack
, or even a
J. Landry.
No one in a small hick town (not even the brother of a mass murderer) would have an unlisted number; it wasn't like a person could hide, even if he wanted to. Still, there was no
Landry
, and no amount of staring at the page was going to make one appear.

Realizing that Annie wasn't going to answer the phone, and that the person on the other end wasn't going to give up, he reluctantly lifted the receiver.

“Saint Bernadette's,” he mumbled, hoping it was a wrong number.

“Michael?”

“Bob. Thank God. I've been trying to reach you.”

“Yes, I know. What are you into?”

“I don't know exactly,” Michael answered. “I think it's the same demon. Danny's. And I have reason to believe it's transgenerational.” No need to tell him yet
whose
generations.

“Michael, do
not
go near that alone,” Bob said.

“I know,” Michael said. “That's why I called you. And it's not just that, Bob.”

“What else?”

“It's me,” Michael said in a low voice, as if he could keep himself from hearing it out loud. “There's something happening to me. It might be . . . infestation.”

“What makes you think so—” More crackling, followed by a very loud snap. And then the line was dead. Michael hung up, then tried to get a dial tone to get Bob back. There was no dial tone. Only silence.

Annie entered the room with mail and set it on his desk.

“Annie, there's something wrong with the phone.”

“Then you should call the phone company.”

Michael ignored that. “Do you happen to know anyone in town named Jackson Landry?”

Dead silence as she stared at him.

“Annie?”

“Well, I don't know him. I know who he is. Why?”

“I need to talk to him about something and I don't know who he is.”

“Yes, you do, Father.”

“Excuse me?”

“I've seen you talking to him at the coffee shop. Because I was thinking I should tell you that you shouldn't do that. People will talk. It's bad enough being Catholic in this town.”

“You've seen me talking to him? When?”

“At the coffee shop, Father. You know who he is. The one that always wears those blue-jean clothes and sits by himself at the counter.” She lowered her voice. “He's the one whose brother killed all those people—”

The hermit? The hermit is Jackson Landry?

“—none of my business, but I think you should just leave him alone, like everybody else does. How do you know he won't kill somebody before it's over with? I don't know why he stays here. I wish he'd just move. I've got to go, I'm late for the hairdresser. Good-bye now,” she said, and she was gone.

Well, here was another stellar development.

Excuse me, I know you hate my guts, but I'm actually your first cousin and we need to have a conversation about our Satanic heritage, because evidently Great-Grandpa Kinney put a curse on us. Has anything strange been happening to you lately?