Sam Harlan (Book 3): Damned Cold (3 page)

“I don’t understand that,” I said. “I was underneath the Cathedral Basilica in St. Louis. They’ve practically got a dungeon under there.”

Callie started to speak, but the old man hushed her. “You have to understand, Samuel. The modern age has washed away much of the Church’s ancient ways, but there are still things the Church must do. Functions the Church must perform. Patrick was … training.”

“For what?” I asked.

“You have seen much since September,” Lewinheim said. “There is much you have
not
seen. How much do you know about demons?”

“Demons?” I asked. “You’re kidding.”

The old man frowned. “Patrick was a young man and strong in his faith. He was training as an exorcist.”

I looked to Callie for confirmation, but she just bit her lip. I wasn’t ready to let it go. “You’re serious. Exorcism? Like in that movie?”

“A shameful spectacle,” the old man said through pursed lips. “An exaggeration of certain aspects and a glamorization of others. Demons exist. They are
very
real.”

I was rendered speechless. Just when it seemed I had come to grips with the dangers lurking around every corner, a fresh new monstrosity exposed itself. I looked from Lewinheim to Callie, but I couldn’t even formulate a basic question.

“Demons are those angels God tested and found wanting,” Callie said. “They were cast out from God’s presence.”

“Demons are real,” I finally managed. “They exist? They walk the earth?”

“Not in the physical sense,” Callie said. “They are spirits of intellect. They think and reason and try to prove to God how fallible humans are. They possess people so that they might experience a physical body, and so they might tempt mankind away from God’s love.”

“And Jameson was training to exorcise them?”

Lewinheim nodded. “Anyone can exorcise a demon if they have a sufficient amount of faith. The stronger the faith, the easier the exorcism. The young train with older priests so they might be prepared, so that their faith won’t waver. Demons are cowards.”

“How does that work?” I asked. “How can the Church acknowledge demons and exorcisms, but vampires are kept quiet?”

“No one knows where vampires come from,” Lewinheim said. “They are not fallen angels. They are … something else. Demons are as interested in vampires as they are in humanity. Nothing would suit the demons’ purpose better than to use the knowledge of vampires to corrupt humanity’s faith in God.”

“So how did Jameson wind up fighting vampires?” I asked.

Lewinheim sighed heavily, then raised a coffee mug from the small table next to his recliner and took a sip. “Patrick’s success came at a high price. The eighties were a difficult time. The Church had almost abandoned exorcisms after a … series of accidental deaths. That movie did not help. As the older priests retired, there were so very few who still believed. Patrick’s work was in demand, and it led to—”

“He burned out,” I finished for him.

Lewinheim took another sip from his mug. “His faith was still strong, but he suffered from stress.”

“Post-traumatic stress disorder,” Callie said quietly.

Lewinheim nodded. “It wasn’t called that, but yes, he had panic attacks. Nightmares. He had seizures. I thought he might lose his mind if he continued. Demons are infinite. They have forever to tempt humanity. Our lives are but a flicker of a candle to them.”

I guessed what was coming next. “Someone was attacked by a vampire. Someone he knew.”

“Yes,” Lewinheim said. “A parishioner was attacked and left for dead. Father Frank Ford, a dear friend of mine, was called in to try and cleanse the woman. He asked Patrick for help.” The old man’s eyes filled with tears, and he wiped at them with the back of his hand. “The woman turned and slaughtered Frank before he could finish the ceremony. Patrick managed to stab her with Frank’s crucifix. It was made of silver, you see, and set fire to the woman. She burned, and Patrick saw for himself what so few of us knew. He came to me, then, and I taught him as best I could. I introduced him to Jack. It was so long ago…”

“Father?” Callie asked. “Are you okay?”

Lewinheim blinked. “I … don’t know where the years went. I remember the look on Patrick’s face. He didn’t want to believe, but he saw it with his own eyes. I remember it as if it were yesterday. Where have all the years gone?”

The old man was tired. I caught Callie’s eye and nodded at the door. “We have to go, Father. We have a job to do.”

Callie leaned in and hugged the old man. “Thank you, Father. For everything.”

“Of course, my girl. Be safe.” Lewinheim turned to me. “Be good, Samuel. Don’t lose your faith. I believe God works through us. Through you.”

Before I could stop myself, I said, “God needs to start pulling His weight.”

We made our
way down the stairs and to the vestibule where Sister Beulah waited. She glanced up from her desk and nodded at Callie before fixing me with an icy glare.

I stopped and bowed my head. “Thanks for letting me pass, Sister. I’m sorry about earlier.”

Sister Beulah harrumphed, but she relaxed a bit and said, “Be on your way, Harlan, and keep Callie safe.”

I nodded. “As if my life depended on it.”

There was steel in the old nun’s eyes. “It just might, boy. It just might.”

Callie grabbed my arm and hustled me out through the front door. “Come, Sam. We’re running late.”

We were crossing the street when I finally asked, “What’s up with Sister Beulah?”

Callie glanced down the now-darkened street and pointed to a gap in the heavy traffic. We hurried across the street, and Callie said, “Sister Beulah protects the rectory. I thought you knew that.”

In fact, I had not known that. “Why does she keep giving me the stink eye?”

Callie was opening the passenger door when she finally spoke. “The Sister can … look into people.”

I slid behind the wheel, digesting that. “She sees something in me she doesn’t like. Doesn’t that concern you? Because it’s freaking me the hell out.”

“Language, Sam,” Callie said sharply.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. “Heck. It’s freaking me the heck out.”

Callie spoke slowly, as if to a child. “You’re a good man, Sam Harlan. You’ll get through these changes. Jack survived them. You will, too.”

I stuck the key in the ignition and fired up the Chevy. “Do I have to remind you what happened to Jack?”

Before Callie could speak, I threw the truck into reverse, backed out of the parking space, and headed for I-74.

We had crossed the Illinois River and were headed up a hill when I heard Callie finally murmur, “I haven’t forgotten.”

I didn’t have a comeback, so I focused on brooding while I drove. We headed east to Bloomington, then south to Decatur. Small town after small town whizzed by, little Podunk out-of-the-way places that were little more than a gas station, a small school, a few houses, and a fast-food joint if they were lucky.

We roared through the darkness. The empty fields outside were an endless sea of grayish black with no evidence of the snow we had left in Iowa. I took the I-72 exit on the north side of Decatur, and we were almost past the edge of the city when I said, “Do you want to see where Katie died?”

Callie had been staring into the darkness, but she turned and frowned. “What did you say?”

“Warren’s house is just a few miles south of here,” I said, “along the lake. That’s where Pearl killed her.”

Callie shuddered and turned to stare out the window at an oil rig slowly pumping away in the middle of a nearby cornfield. “No,” she finally said. “I don’t want to see where Katie died. No more than you want to go back to Arcanum.”

I sighed. She was right.

What’s done is done.

We reached Monticello, a small community halfway between the cities of Decatur and Champaign, around seven. I took the first exit, drove over the Sangamon Creek and past the sewage treatment plant, and stopped at a four-way light next to the Super Pantry gas station.

“Father Jameson is meeting us at Hardee’s,” Callie said, pointing at the garish building to our right.

The light turned, and I made the right and then a sharp left into the parking lot and parked near the back, well away from the few cars in the lot. “Is Jameson inside?” I asked.

“Yes,” Callie said. “He said there’s nowhere to get coffee in Bement.”

“Every town should have a good coffee joint,” I grumbled, then pointed to the restaurant. “When this becomes your best coffee bet, it spells doom.”

Callie offered a rare smile, and it warmed me to my toes. I immediately felt guilty. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Callie as a person, but I still had mixed feelings about her sister.

Sometimes when we were preparing to go to sleep for the night, me with my Kimber in Jack’s old room and Callie with her Bible in the spare bedroom she had claimed as her own, I could almost imagine she was Katie.

Then I would blame myself for letting her sister die at the hands of Pearl Mills. And, after that, I would feel even worse as I remembered how I had loved my wife, Stacie, and how my feelings for Katie had risen before Stacie was even dead.

Completely dead, anyway.

I shivered, even though the cold air no longer bothered me.

* * *

Father Jameson sat with another priest at a corner booth. They were the only customers in the place. Normally I have found the greasy smell repellent, but it made my stomach growl with a hunger that went all the way to my core. I motioned for Callie to join them as I made my way to the counter and placed my order.

I paid the plump woman in the red shirt and took my bags and my large coffee and headed to join them. Father Jameson looked exactly as I remembered—a medium-sized man in his late fifties, with broad shoulders, short sandy-blond hair, and wrinkles around his hazel eyes deep enough that they wouldn’t be considered laugh lines anymore.

The man next to him was six inches shorter than me and in his late twenties. He had close-cropped black hair, brown eyes that looked abnormally large thanks to his black horn-rimmed glasses, and a neatly trimmed goatee that matched my own. Jameson wore jeans and a dress shirt while the young man was dressed completely in black.

Both wore the white priest’s collar. Neither looked thrilled to see me.

“Samuel,” Jameson said, starting to rise from the orange booth.

I waved him back down and sat across from him, next to Callie. “Father.” I opened one of the paper bags and yanked out a hamburger, one-half pound of beef on a thick bun. I bit into it and barely chewed, then swallowed and took another bite.

They watched me eat. Callie displayed no emotion, but the young man watched me with skepticism. Jameson frowned and started to speak, but I glared at him until he stopped. I continued until the hamburger was gone, then drank half my coffee in one long swig.

The hamburger tasted good, much better than it had any right to. There was a part deep inside of me that wanted the hamburger to be less well-done and more bloody, but I tamped that part down and withdrew another hamburger. I took a big bite, chewed a little, then tipped the hamburger to the other priest. “Who’s the kid?”

The young man started to speak but Jameson raised a hand and stopped him. “This is Ethan Mosley. He’s the priest at Saint Michael in Bement and the one who called for help.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, then slurped more coffee to wash down the burger. “The kid calls you and you call me.”

Jameson had a pained look on his face. “I’m sorry about Jack.”

“You heard,” I said. “Why am I not surprised?”

“I talked to Edmund shortly after,” Jameson said. “He told me what happened.”

“Uh-huh,” I repeated. “Lewinheim’s a good man. But that’s not what you need, is it? You don’t need a
good
man.”

Father Mosley shook his head. “I’m afraid we’ve made a mistake.” He turned to Jameson and said, “He’s no older than me. Surely there is someone else.”

“You should be thanking God that he sent you Samuel,” Callie said, her soft voice carrying the hint of anger. “If the situation is as you fear, you’ll be
begging
for his help.”

Jameson’s face softened. “I tried to warn you, Samuel. I told you what Jack might become.”

I polished off the second hamburger and belched. “You did, Father. You surely did.”

I drained the last of the coffee. It was bitter but not disagreeable. The change had messed with my sense of taste; a fact I had realized since September. I opened the second bag and took the last hamburger, then shoved the bag to Callie. She removed a chicken sandwich and fries and nodded gratefully.

The two priests waited for us to finish. Mosley started to speak, but Callie would take another bite of her chicken sandwich and glare at him just as I had.

Finally, I asked, “What makes you think you have a problem?”

Father Mosley glanced at Father Jameson. “Are you sure about this?”

Jameson ignored him, leaning forward and putting his hands on the table. “A woman is missing.”

Before he could continue, I said, “Somebody’s
always
missing.”

I saw Callie out of the corner of my eye. She didn’t speak, but I could tell she was waiting for me to continue. I sighed. “Tell me about it.”

“Her name is Dorothy Hamm,” Jameson said. He eased back against the seat. “She’s been missing for two days. Her daughter contacted Ethan. No one has seen her. Neither friends nor family. Her sister doesn’t seem concerned, but the daughter is quite distraught.”

“The sister isn’t worried, but the daughter is,” I said. I thought about it for a second. “What makes you think it’s … you know…?”

There was a flicker of something on Father Mosley’s face. Fear, maybe, or disgust.

“I felt something unholy,” Mosley said. “Something that goes against God.”

I bit back an urge to laugh in the young man’s face. “Lots of that going ‘round, I’m afraid. How do you know it’s the thing I deal with?”

Mosley’s face reddened. “I’ve felt it before. I was a priest in Chicago. A young boy was taken from outside my church. I saw the thing that did it. I
felt
the thing that did it.”