The Case Against Satan (12 page)

Berardi frowned. “I don't know. It sounds bad. Sounds crazy. But, Mr. Glencannon, a
priest
—”

“Look, you and I aren't kids. We know priests are men, flesh and blood just like anybody else. They have hankerings—and those hankerings can get out of control. Why, a priest can go insane! What then? He might do anything. And a drunk besides? Oh—and wait a minute. Have you seen this?” He reached for a
magazine and handed it to Berardi. “Article in there all about ecstasy, of all things, all about how sex and religion are really
the same thing
. Can you beat that? And take a look at who wrote it.”

“Well,” Berardi started to say, “this doesn't mean—”

“Nothing by itself means anything,” Glencannon cut in. “But all of them added up
do
mean something. All this preoccupation with ecstasy . . . the drinking . . . the lewd woman in the rectory . . . the wild laughing and screaming at night . . . How can you ignore it?”

“Look, Mr. Glencannon,” said Berardi, ashtraying his now dead cigar, “even if it's true—
if!
—it's something the Church authorities should look into. Not laymen. Certainly not the Homicide Department!”

“How do you know?”

“What?”

“How do you know it's not a matter for Homicide? How do you know some of those shrieks aren't the shrieks of someone being murdered, tortured?”

“Mr. Glencannon, a drunken priest, even a lecherous priest, is one thing, but how does that add up to murder and torture?”

“I don't know. But there's such a thing as priests turned inside out, priests who officiate at altars made of a woman's flesh, priests who recite the
Our Father
backward, priests who offer living sacrifices to the Devil—”

“I think you
are
a pretty imaginative man, Mr. Glencannon . . .”

“No I'm not! I don't make anything up. Sure, Talbot originally put the bug in my ear with his silly pamphlets, I admit it, but I went further than that. I did a little reading. I did a little asking.
It exists,
that kind of filthy service. It's existed for hundreds of years. It has a name. You want to know what they call it?”

Berardi let Glencannon tell him.

“They call it The Black Mass.”

And a chink of doubt opened in Berardi's armor.

“I know it's a lie,” said Gregory. He was standing with the Bishop in the hall outside the spare bedroom where Susan lay. “I know it wasn't Father Halloran.”

“How do you know?” asked the Bishop.

“Call it a hunch.”

“I can't accept your hunches, Gregory, as much as I would like to accept this one—because you also seem to doubt the very existence of Satan on a hunch.”

“But you yourself called her a liar.”

The Bishop corrected Gregory. “Him. I called
him
a liar. But it was just a reaction, a spasm. I'm not really as sure as all that.”

“But it's impossible!” Gregory insisted.

“Impossible?” The Bishop shook his head. “No. Shocking, yes. Hard to believe. Highly improbable. But not impossible. Few things are. And if it
is
true—what a man to be put in charge of helpless orphans!”

Gregory sighed. “Your Excellency,” he said, “let me concede for the moment that we
have
been talking to Satan—”

“That's good of you, Gregory,” the Bishop interjected, not without ironic intent.

“—Do you put stock in something uttered by the Father of Lies? Do you take him at his word, do you
believe
him?”

“No,” said the Bishop. “Not necessarily. Neither do I disbelieve him. That is his most fiendish trick—to weave truth and falsehood together into a single texture so that one is indistinguishable from the other.”

“But the whole
thing
may be a cock and bull story. There may never have been an attempt to rape her at all! She spouts
sensational accusations left and right, like buckshot. Look at what she said about my relations with Mrs. Farley, and about Garth murdering his wife, and about you—”

“True,” said the Bishop. “Let's go back and see if we can poke some holes in the story.”

“Gladly.”

Susan's eyes were open, but she was relatively calm. Mrs. Farley was sitting quietly in a corner of the room. Gregory sat down next to the naked bed to which the girl was tied.

“Tell me more about Father Halloran,” he said.

“That wasn't enough?” asked the girl. “Not horrible enough to satisfy your curiosity?”

“I want to know more,” explained Gregory. “Details. The time. The place.”

“But why? Why should these trivial things interest you?”

“Never mind—”

“I'll tell you why!” she offered, with glee. “Because your interest is not legitimate, it is not priestly—it is lascivious! Details, you say you want. Oh, and how you will lick your lips over those details, won't you?”

Ignoring her, Gregory asked, “When and where did Father Halloran make these advances?”

“I've told you enough,” she said, turning her face to the wall.

“When and where?”

“Downstairs.”

“Where downstairs?”

“The study.”

“When?”

“Oh, a long time ago . . .”

“When?”

She tried to shrug, but the ropes prevented her. “Half a year ago, at least. Maybe more. I don't know.”

“You don't know? Aren't all things known to you? All things of an evil nature, at least?”

“That,” she said, “is a fallacy.” The Bishop listened more closely.

“A fallacy?” said Gregory, seizing upon this as a wedge that would make her talk, talk about anything.

She said, “One category of thing I may never know: those deeds which are confessed.”

Gregory knew this as folk-belief among many members of the Catholic laity, a legend not as yet substantiated by theology. In fact, in some versions, Satan was believed to know every deed
and thought
of men, with the exceptions of those revealed in the confessional; but this was directly contradicted by the
Summa Theologica:
“The demons know what happens outwardly among men; but the inward disposition of man God alone knows . . .”

“Then,” asked Gregory, “how did you know about Father Halloran's advances toward the girl?”

“He never confessed. He was too ashamed.”

Gregory scoffed. “A priest too ashamed to confess? Your reason is beginning to desert you. And what about Susan—didn't she confess?”

“She, confess?” The creature on the bed laughed scornfully. “When she cannot even enter the church?
Your
reason is beginning to desert you, Father Sargent! Just as your faith has already deserted you, just as your parishioners will desert you, one by one, then in droves—”

Gregory, by now, was trembling with frustration and anger. “You liar,” he said. “Everything you've been saying is a lie. Not just about Father Halloran. Everything. Every word, from start to finish. You're just a nasty little girl—an insane degenerate.” His voice rose sharply. “Admit it!”

Susan said nothing.

“Admit it!”
His hand shot out and fiercely slapped her face.

“Gregory!” cried the Bishop, shocked.

“Admit it!”
The back of his hand swung back and delivered a powerful blow to her other cheek, whipping her head to one side.
“Admit it, you wretch!”

“GREGORY, STOP IT!”

Except for the thunder and rain raging outside, there was no sound now; neither was there motion. The little spare bedroom was like a photograph.

Then, finally, there was sound again, from Gregory. Not words. Sobs. His body was shaken with them, throbbing rhythmically
with them. Gradually, he folded like a jack-knife and collapsed to the floor, and his sobbing became more strident. The Bishop stood helplessly over him, muttering fragmentary phrases of unsuccessful solace.

Through his tears, his voice twisted out of shape, Gregory made words. “Oh dear Jesus.
Why?
Why to
me?
Why did this have to happen to
me?
What did I do? What did I do that was so terrible, so unforgivable? What?
What?
”

“Gregory . . . my son . . .”

“Because I had doubts? Is that it? Is that why? Is it? Other men have had doubts . . . disciples, apostles,
saints!
Is it such a sin? Such a sin to have a
mind?
”

The Bishop fell to his knees beside the prostrate, weeping priest. He prayed. “Dear Jesus, come to the aid of this boy . . . this devout man . . . and in Your infinite mercy reveal to him Your wisdom. Let him know that, even as You appeared to Thomas the Doubter to quell his doubts, so even now Your Hand is here, quelling the doubts of Your son Gregory, that he too may come to the shelter of Your Almighty Arms . . .”

The weeping in the room now was Mrs. Farley's, not Gregory's. As the Bishop crossed himself, Gregory rose slowly from the floor, speaking brokenly as he rose. “No more lying . . . no more equivocation and deceit and double meaning and artful twisting of truth . . .”

He stood over Susan, his swollen eyes blazing into hers.
“You!”
he shouted. “Whoever you are! I don't
care
who you are! But whoever you are—girl or demon—listen to me. I'll have no more of your lies, no more of them, do you understand? I'm tired of them and sick of them, sick to death of them, and whoever you are I want the truth from you. I want it and I will get it because I
command
it! I command it by the power vested in me as a priest of the Lord—”

Mrs. Farley said: “Listen.”

Gregory stopped speaking. “What?”

Mrs. Farley opened the bedroom door. A pounding reverberated throughout the building. “Someone's knocking at the front door,” she announced.

The Bishop said, “Let them knock . . .”

“They're knocking pretty hard,” said Mrs. Farley, “and they're not stopping . . .”

“Never mind. Gregory, go on.”

“In the name of Christ crucified,” said Gregory, “I command you to answer truthfully all questions I put to you.”

The knocking continued.

“Did someone really attempt to rape Susan Garth?” asked Gregory. “The truth!”

The girl on the bed said, “Yes!”

“And was this someone Father Halloran?”

“I have already said—”

“You have already said
‘What if I told you
it was Father Halloran?' Now I require a definite statement—the truth!”

“Fool!” yowled the girl. “How can you tell truth from falsehood?”

“The truth!”

“How do you know I have not
told
you the truth?”

The pounding on the front door increased. He who knocked made no sign of giving up.

“The man who tried to rape her—” Gregory held up the crucifix. “Tell me his name!”

Sweating and writhing on the bed, the girl cried, “I will not!”

“Tell me!”

“No!”

“His name!”

Her words came from between clenched teeth: “Why will you not believe it was Father Halloran?”

“Because you did not definitely say it was!”

“I did!”

“You did not!”

“I did! It was only a manner of speaking . . . I had to say it that way . . . to stop the pain . . . don't make me say it again . . . you don't know what it costs me . . .”

“I don't care what it costs you! I don't care if it splits you in two! Tell me definitely! Was it Father Halloran?”

“If I tell you . . .” Her face was a putty mask being stretched and kneaded grotesquely by an unseen hand. “If I tell you the truth now, will you believe me?”

She had confused him. Would he believe a demented girl? Would he believe the Father of Lies? And why believe one statement and not others? The pounding at the door was now a steady hysterical tempo.

“Will—you—believe me?!”
The question was torn from her bowels.

Not wanting to stop at this stage, playing along with her, Gregory said, “Yes, yes. Was it Father Halloran? Speak!”

The girl's eyes opened wide, loomed from their sockets in an expression of rising agony; and her cry of pain lanced through the house.

Gregory watched with horror as the girl's own teeth became her enemy and clamped down upon her own tongue, sinking into the red flesh.

“In the name of Mary the Immaculate,” he said softly, “speak.”

The teeth slowly released the mutilated tongue. Blood welled up from the wounds and trickled out the side of her mouth. Over the rising, unreasoning tattoo that was being beat on the outside door, words were yanked one by one from her:

“This is the truth. It was he—he who knocks—”

“What?”

“He who pounds so long and hard on your door,” she groaned. “He it is—whose name—you desire.”

They were her last words before her body went limp with unconsciousness.

The pounding on the door had not diminished. It had become a jungle drum, echoing through the rectory with insane frenzy. Gregory stood transfixed, part of his attention riveted to the unconscious, bloodied girl, the other part pulling him to the sound of the mad knocking downstairs.

Hoarsely, he said, “Answer the door, Mrs. Farley.”

“Wait,” said the Bishop. “I think you had better answer it yourself, Gregory.”

“Yes,” said Gregory. “Yes, I will.”

He left the bedroom and walked down the stairs, not exactly with haste, even though the knocking grew oppressively louder as he drew nearer to it. Who dared pound so on the door of the rectory? And whose voice—now he began to hear it—demanded entry with shouts of “Let me in! Open this door!” in tones which hysteria had distorted out of all recognition? It is not Father Halloran, Gregory told himself; Father Halloran is miles away; it cannot be he who knocks . . .

Gregory slid back the heavy bolt of the door with a sharp
click
that put a stop to the pounding. The rectory was grave-quiet except for the sound of the rain. “Please, God,” Gregory prayed in a desperate whisper, “let it not be Father Halloran.”

He opened the door.

“About
time!
” roared Robert Garth. He wore no outer coat, and his clothes were heavy with rain. Water ran in rivulets down his face. “Get out of my way!” Garth pushed himself past Gregory, and dashed into the living room of the rectory. Gregory closed the door and followed him.

“Where is she?” Garth rasped, glancing about, breathing heavily.

“She's upstairs and she's perfectly all right,” said Gregory. “Now please listen to me—”

“I'll listen to you all right. Here. Explain
this.”
Garth pulled a rain-soaked sheet of paper from his pocket and thrust it at Gregory. The wet had made holes in the paper and the ink was smeared, sometimes so badly as to render the words illegible, but Gregory could make out the blaring title, CATHOLIC SEX RITES, and certain isolated phrases:
strange sounds in Catholic rectories . . . the screams of poor girls in mortal agony . . .

Gregory looked up from the paper. “I'm familiar with the work of Mr. John Talbot,” he said. “Father Halloran told me all about him. There's nothing new in this.”

“Nothing new?” said Garth. “That thing was shoved under my door just this morning, and the ink was still wet. It's just been printed. Talbot isn't talking about something that happened a long time ago. Something's happening right
now
that made him print this. What rectory is he talking about, Father? What rectory does Talbot know besides St. Michael's? And who's the poor girl, the girl who screams in pain?
It's Susie, isn't it?”

“Good Lord, man,” cried Gregory, “you're a Catholic and you believe Talbot's ravings?”

“A Catholic . . .” Garth said it bitterly. “Yeah, I'm a Catholic. I can't help myself. Born and raised a Catholic until it's part of my blood. When my wife died . . .”

“Yes, Mr. Garth?” Gregory said gently.

“. . . I ripped the cross off the wall of our bedroom. I don't know why. I just did. But it's funny—I still went to Mass every Sunday because I've never missed a Sunday since as far back as I can remember. I go to Mass like I go to the bathroom, because that's the way I'm made and I can't do anything else. I'm a Catholic, all right, but I don't have to like it.”

Gregory said, with understanding, “Have you ever confessed this? Would you like to?”

“Confession!” Garth scoffed. “What good does that do? You ought to hear what Talbot says about confession!”

“I'm sure I know—”

“Listen, this guy Talbot may not be the crackpot you think he is. I've talked to him now and then, off and on for years. He wanted to, like, convert me over. At first, I used to make fun of him. But now I don't know. He's no dumbie. He's a hell of a sight smarter than I am! He's educated. He's read a lot of books, has a lot of ideas. Why, you know what he says about Christ?”

“I know,” said Gregory patiently. “He was just a crazy Jew. They nailed Him to a piece of wood and suddenly He became a god. A crazy Jew god who's been pulling the wool over our eyes for a couple of thousand years.”

“That's it,” said Garth. “And when you stop to think about it, it makes a lot of sense. Those Jews—”

“May God forgive you, Garth,” said Gregory.

“I don't need anybody to forgive me for anything. All I need is for you to take me to Susie.”

“Why?”

“I'm her
father,
that's why!”

Her father.
He it is whose name you desire.
Could that be believed? Which was worse, Father Halloran or Garth? The girl's spiritual father or her fleshly father?

“All right,” said Gregory. “Follow me.” They walked upstairs.

“If any harm has come to her,” panted Garth as they walked, “if you've hurt her in any way . . .”

They had reached the door of the spare bedroom. Gregory knew what to expect when Garth saw his daughter in clothes not her own, tied to a bed, unconscious, with blood trickling from her mouth. With reluctance, he opened the door.

The Bishop stood there, blocking the way. Mrs. Farley stood in a corner. Both were clearly shocked at the sight of Garth. “Ah,” the Bishop said softly, “that was you knocking at the door . . .”

“Yes, it was me.” Garth looked past the Bishop and saw Susan. With a croak of anger he rushed to her side. “Baby! What are they doing to you?” There was no response. “Honey, can't you hear me? It's me, Dad!” With fury, he turned upon the priests. “What's going on here?
What have you done to he
r?
”

“Mr. Garth—” Gregory began.

“Got her
drugged
or something! . . .”

The Bishop assured him, “Susan has not been drugged. She has not taken so much as an aspirin.”

“No? Then what the hell's wrong with her, why the hell—”

“Please remember,” said the Bishop, “that you are in the rectory of the church. Control your language.”

“Don't pull that stuff with me!” yelled Garth. “Talbot was right—and I've been right for listening to him—you priests are nothing but a bunch of—” He broke off, red-faced and short-winded. “You two have a lot of explaining to do,” he finished.

“Yes, that's true,” said the Bishop, coolly. “And perhaps we are not the only ones who have some explaining to do . . .”

“What's
that
supposed to mean?”

“Oh . . . nothing in particular. Do you always knock on doors so hard? You seem exhausted. Wouldn't you like to go downstairs and sit down while we—”

“No, I would not,” said Garth. “I'm taking Susie home.”

“We can talk about that,” said Gregory, “after His Excellency and I discuss the matter. Will you excuse us for a moment, Mr. Garth? Your Excellency, will you step into the hall with me, please? . . .”

Out in the hall, Gregory whispered, “What should we do? Should we tell him?”

“Tell him what?”

“What we're doing, of course.”

“Don't you think he
knows?
”

“How?”

“Perhaps the same way that thing on the bed knew who was knocking at the door. There is a bond, a link between the Devil and his own . . .”

“She said no name! Anyone could have said what she said—it means nothing!”

“This is getting us nowhere,” said the Bishop. “You ask what we should do and I think we should try to get rid of him.”

“That may take some doing,” said Gregory. “He's stubborn. Right now, he's probably wondering what we're plotting out here. When we get back in there, I'm going to try to get to the bottom of all this business. Will you just follow my lead, Your Excellency?”

“As you say.”

Inside the bedroom again, Garth immediately confronted them. “OK, now suppose you tell me exactly what's been going on here. There's been some pretty strange talk going around, talk about draped windows and locked doors and people turned away when they come to visit the rectory. Talk about horrible sounds coming out of here—any time of the day or night. All night long. Screams—like someone was being hurt, hurt real bad . . . yelling . . . laughing . . . things being thrown around, things being broken, somebody sobbing and begging and being sick. Then I come here and I see my daughter—who you said you were going to
help!
—out cold, tied up, blood all over her face.
And I don't like it!
You two start talking or else I'm the one who'll start talking—to the newspapers and the police. I'll split this place wide open and tell the
world
the filth that goes on here! So,” he concluded, running out of breath, “you better tell me something that makes sense . . .”

“All right,” said Gregory. “But I wonder if you don't have something to tell us first?”

Garth's eyes narrowed. “That's the second time you two have been hinting around about
me
telling
you
something. Something about what?”

“About you,” said Gregory. “About you and Susan. About you and your dead wife. About what happened six years ago on the day your wife died. How she died. And why.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” snarled Garth. “And you don't either.”

“Come now, Mr. Garth,” said Gregory. “Suppose we take this slowly. Suppose we just return to that day six years ago, and reconstruct it. And since I don't know what I'm talking about, suppose you do the talking. You were there, weren't you?”

“Yeah, sure I was there . . .”

“Then suppose you tell us just what happened. Let's hear
your
story.”

“My story? What, am I on trial or something?”

“No,” said Gregory. “Not yet.”

“You trying to frame me or something? What are you up to?”

“Stop stalling!”
snapped Gregory. “It's only because I'm a
fair man that I haven't called the police before hearing your side of the thing.”

Garth's rough voice squeaked in outrage. “Police? My side of what? What
is
this?”

“There's a phone just a few steps down the hall,” Gregory said. “You prefer me to call the police now?”

“Go ahead! You're out of your mind!”

Gregory opened the bedroom door.

“Wait a minute,” said Garth. Gregory looked back at him, his hand still on the knob. Sighing with exasperation, Garth asked, “What is it you want to know?”

Gregory closed the door. “I just want you to tell me—in your own words—the circumstances surrounding the death of your wife six years ago.”

“There's nothing to tell,” said Garth, shrugging, “nothing everybody doesn't know. It was a Sunday. We went on a picnic, me and my wife and Susie. Susie was only ten. This place where we went, a few miles out of town, it was like a park. And we ate our lunch on the grass, and then we decided to go for a little boat ride in the lagoon they had there. You could rent boats—little rowboats. So we rented one and all three of us got in it and I started rowing. Rowed way out, out of sight of the boathouse. Susie loved it—but she wouldn't sit still. Kept standing up, walking back and forth in the boat, stuff like that. I kept telling her to sit down, but it didn't do much good. I told her something bad would happen.” Garth swallowed. “And it did. She lost her balance and fell in the water.”

“Could she swim?” asked Gregory.

“Not a stroke. Right away I dropped the oars and jumped in after her. But when I jumped, I must have turned the boat over. I'm pretty heavy, and I moved so quick I guess I wasn't very careful. Next thing I knew, my wife was in the water, too. The boat was overturned. Susie was throwing herself around in my arms and screaming—I almost went under myself—she wouldn't let me swim—I tried to reach my wife—she kept calling to me—but I couldn't let Susie go—and—” Garth dropped his head.

“And your wife drowned,” said Gregory.

Garth nodded. “So did I, almost. But I managed to grab hold of the overturned boat and pull Susie and me onto it. By that time, a
powerboat from the boathouse got to us. I guess they must have heard the screaming. But they were too late to save my wife.”

Gregory watched the Bishop. The older man returned his glance, then, entering into the spirit of Gregory's hunch, said to Garth: “Tell us about the insurance.”

“What are you getting at?” Garth demanded.

“Now don't tell me,” scoffed the Bishop, “that the death of Mrs. Garth didn't bring in some insurance money.”

“Listen,” said Garth, indignantly, “I'm not the first person in the world who ever collected an insurance policy . . .”

“No indeed,” replied the Bishop, with a slight smile of triumph, “nor the last.” His voice dropped as he tried a new tack. “But you got more than money.”

“No I didn't,” Garth protested. “The policy—”

“You got Susan.”

“What??”

Picking up the Bishop's thread, Gregory closed in on Garth, saying, “Susan. You got Susan. All alone in the house with you. With no mother to interfere. Even when she was only ten years old, Susan was a pretty little girl, wasn't she? You liked to bring candy home to her, and toys, and take her to the movies—just you and Susan—and dandle her on your knee . . .”

“Sure I did!” said Garth. “If a father can't—”

“But with you,” Gregory went on, “it was always a little more than just a father, wasn't it? There was another feeling . . . a feeling you couldn't express with her mother around . . .”