The Reality Conspiracy (43 page)

Karen looked at Jeff. He shrugged almost invisibly and asked,

"What really happened here?"

"Who knows? Far as I can tell, there's no official record. That's unusual. Notes are always taken in a church-sanctioned exorcism. Nowadays the proceedings are even recorded on tape. But there was a witness. He's now confined to a mental institution, diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic. Just yesterday I visited him, but he wouldn't—or possibly couldn't—tell me what happened.

"Yet there was something about that man that I can't put my finger on. He seemed to understand what I needed, seemed to know . . . something. Still, he was unwilling to speak. All he told me was, 'Father Mosely always said, if you have questions, look in the Bible.' Rather a cryptic answer. Too pat, you know? Too Bible-thumping. But when I thought about it . . . Well, the fact is, I knew Father Mosely. Like most Catholic priests, he never encouraged Bible reading. See the contradiction? So the more I thought about it, the more I realized that this poor man had given me useful information."

Sullivan pulled open the drawer of his desk and took out a black leather book with gold lettering on the cover, the Holy Bible.

"I found this just this morning. It's Father Mosely's Bible. He hid it in the bottom drawer of this desk, along with a vial of holy water. Whoever cleaned out the desk missed it because Father Mosely had fashioned a false back to the drawer, concealing its contents very thoroughly."

Sullivan opened the book as he continued. "See, he actually wrote right in the Bible. Used a heavy felt-tipped pen so he could write directly over the existing print."

Karen could see heavy script covering the two-columned text. As Sullivan riffled the pages, it appeared much of the book was filled with Father Mosely's notes.

"I gather Father Mosely believed something evil was loose in the rectory. Apparently he thought his journal would be safe if it were written in a Bible. Just to be sure, he placed the book under an additional protective barrier of holy water."

"A demon?" Jeff sounded skeptical.

Sullivan looked directly at Jeff. "That's what Father Mosely believed—"

"And do you believe that?"

Father Sullivan's chest rose and fell with a deep sigh. "As a Roman Catholic priest, I believe that spirit is real. In fact, I believe spirit is the basis, the actual foundation, for all reality. I also believe evil spirit is real and very much a part of our lives."

Sullivan said it as matter-of-factly as if he'd stated, "I believe whales live in the ocean, although I've never seen one."

Jeff's expression gave Karen no insight into what he might be thinking. But she could guess.

Noticing this silent exchange, Father Sullivan said, "Do you believe in God, Mr. Chandler?"

Jeff paled. "I . . . I . . ."

"Is something wrong?"

"No. Ah . . . it's just that McCurdy once asked me the same question."

"And what did you tell him?"

"Father, if I believed in God, I think I would be praying right now."

"Yes. Of course." Sullivan cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair. He took another cigarette from the pocket of his sweatshirt and lighted it'. "Then perhaps in your mind, my belief in the reality of spirit seems at odds with my scientific education and my profession as a psychologist. Culturally, we try very hard to see religion and science as two distinct and separate paths. But the fact is, they can be reconciled. I believe those paths have merged quite convincingly here in Father Mosely's notes." He patted the Bible. "In our Roman Catholic belief system, we call evil spirit 'preternatural.' By that we mean that it is present here, with us, in our material world. Yet it is not of this material world."

Karen shook her head, "I don't understand."

"Okay. You, and I, and the world around us—we all have this in common: we are material things. Our actions are governed by natural law."

Karen nodded.

"Now," the priest continued, "see if you can imagine a preposterous situation in which all material things suddenly cease to exist. At that instant, you and I and our entire physical environment would no longer be. We are God's creations, true, but we are undeniably, at least in part, material. If the material world were suddenly to cease, spirit would continue to be. It was here before the world began; it'll be here after the world ends. But right now, it—like you and me—is present in this world. Yet it is not of this world. Do you see?"

"I'm not sure," said Karen. "What I think you're leading up to is that these . . . demons can influence our behavior. They can change us, maybe even possess us? Our physical bodies are not a barrier for them?"

"Right. But I didn't say 'demons.' I'm just talking about spirit. But let's back up. The Roman Catholic Church believes . . . I . . . believe, that there are invisible powers that we call spirits. Like us, spirits were made by God. He designed them to be in an intimate relationship with matter—place, objects, and humans. Spirits are bodiless, like God, but they are also creatures—like humans. God gave them functions we can only guess at.

"All spirits, good or evil, have these things in common: they are not fixed in time the way we are; they relate to matter in an entirely different way; and they apparently have the power to know without reasoning.

"Man is never in conflict with the spirit of good. But evil spirit, quite simply, is contrary to man. It's older, much more powerful, and far more cunning. It can—for reasons we cannot begin to fathom—influence the human environment. So you're right, Karen, spirit can interact with human beings. Occasionally, it can even take possession of them."

Karen felt herself growing strangely tense. "But as a clinician, as a practicing psychologist, don't you think—"

"—that what appears to be demonic possession is simply some form of mental or physical illness?"

Karen nodded her head vigorously, trying to restore the conversation to safer ground.

"Of course. But not in every case. That's the point. In the past, a victim of disseminated sclerosis might have been judged possessed. Same for Huntington's chorea, Parkinson's disease, even dyslexia. More recently, paranoia, MPD, and especially Tourette's syndrome were thought to manifest characteristics similar to demonic possession. Maybe we still don't know the organic causes of these afflictions, but we know they do not conform completely to legitimate symptoms of possession."

"Symptoms of possession?" Karen struggled to keep her features free of her building skepticism. For the first time she considered that coming here had been a big mistake. She had promised Jeff a reality-based, down-to-earth clergyman. Instead, they were getting a theological lecture in medieval demonology. Still, the man's earnestness was compelling, his sincerity convincing.

"Yes, Dr. Bradley, symptoms. Just like symptoms of a disease. There are observable signs of an evil presence. The most obvious can be mistaken for something we're far more comfortable discussing: psychic phenomena. Objects flying around, glass breaking, wallpaper peeling off the walls, dramatic drops in temperature, nauseating odors, noises that come from nowhere . . . All these fascinating effects can be the product of preternatural power intruding on our human fields of perception. But we have at least one power on which evil spirit cannot intrude: the power of the human will. They may be able to produce a pile of gold by any number of means—but they can't force a person to take it. . . ."

"But all those things, those symptoms—"

"Yes, Jeff, those can be the result of natural phenomena. Or they can exist as legitimate physical mysteries without the involvement of preternatural forces. The most important fact to remember about evil spirits is that none of their faculties are divine. This simple truth allows one surefire test: the most telling, in fact the only infallible indication of a demonic presence is its obvious repugnance to the touch, the sight—even the mention—of anything holy: signs, symbols, objects, even places, people, or ceremonies. For example—he held up the small silver vial—"a demonic presence cannot tolerate the tiniest drop of holy water. It's a fact."

"So you're saying that Father Mosely tried to exorcise a demon from this rectory?"

"No, Dr. Bradley. The application of holy water is how Father Mosely finally determined that the thing in his rectory was not a demon."

"Was
not
a demon?" Jeff stared in disbelief, his confusion obvious'. "Then what was it?"

Father Sullivan shrugged and shook his head. "I spent most of this afternoon reading his notes and I still can't decide. He called it a demon as a matter of convenience, but he also made it clear that it did not conform to the laws of religious demonology. Father Mosely's tragedy is that he never found out what was attacking him. The final face-off apparently occurred in the church. You see, a demon could never have followed him there."

"What happened in the church?" Karen asked.

"We'll never know. Even after Father Mosely concluded it wasn't a demon, he fought it as he would fight a demon. What else could he do? And once begun, the exorcism can't be stopped. There is no making peace with evil, there is no compromise, no friendly coexistence. There must always be a victor. And a vanquished."

The three sat in silence for a few moments.

"Father Sullivan," Karen began slowly, "if multiple personality disorder can sometimes be misperceived as demonic possession, can the reverse also be true?"'

"That legitimate possession is mistaken for MPD?"

"Right."

"Of course. But what mainstream therapist will say he believes in demons? That's why I'm afraid some dangerous cases of possession never come to the attention of the church. But I'll tell you this: while the church is trying to diagnose or verify possession, we do extremely thorough physical and psychological evaluations. We have to eliminate the natural before we can attack the preternatural. Why do you ask?"

"Because I'm beginning to see why Dr. Gudhausen wanted to discuss my patient with you. My gosh, looking back on it, I suspect he thought we had a case of possession on our hands."

"Stan was pretty open-minded that way—"

"So he believed in demonic possession?"

"He didn't disbelieve it. He was unbiased, far more so than most of our colleagues."

"Did he ever come across a case of real possession?"

Sullivan tipped back in his chair. He squinted at the ceiling as if gazing through some invisible window into the past. "He considered it in at least one case I know of. A few years ago he talked to me about a man he was treating, a very complex case. One of the patient's several alters was decidedly satanic—physical features, vocabulary, knowledge of Satanism and occult belief, the whole works. You see, Stan thought people with a weakened sense of personal identity—and MPDs would be a perfect example—might be especially vulnerable to demonic possession."

Karen knew she was staring wide-eyed. "So he must have thought Lucy might really be possessed?"

"It's a possibility."

"Father Sullivan, I realize patient confidentially is an issue for both of us, but please, could you tell me the name of Dr. Gudhausen's patient?"

Sullivan leaned forward again. "Karen, I understand the urgency of the situation. And I have the utmost confidence that if you ask me a question like that, it must have an important bearing on this situation. But it was a long time ago; I simply can't remember the man's name."

"If I said it, would you remember?"

"Try me."

"I think the patient's name was Gold. Herbert Gold, from Andover, Massachusetts."

"That's it!" Sullivan smacked his desktop. "Herb Gold! Stan liked him a lot."

"I thought so," said Karen. "Now wait'll you hear this—!"

"Damn it!" Jeff sprang to his feet. "All this talk isn't getting us anywhere!" He stomped to the window and stared out at the dark main street.

Karen rose and went to him. She rested her hand on his arm. Looking at their reflections in the dark glass, she spoke. "Jeff—?"

"Casey's out there somewhere, and all we can do is sit here talking about magic and demons and MPD. This is crazy. We've got to do something."

"What, Jeff? What can we do?"

"I don't know! God, I've never felt so helpless in my life. I can't leave for fear of missing a phone call; if I sit still I'll go crazy."

He turned slowly to face Karen. She opened her arms and they embraced. She could feel Jeff's heart pounding against her chest. His breath was warm on her neck.

"A
t least I don't have to tie you up," the man said as he removed the blindfold from her eyes. "You aren't going to run off." He smiled at her expectantly, as if he'd made a joke that demanded appreciative laughter.

Casey Chandler stared at him, unresponsive, her icy fingers tightening on the tires of her wheelchair. Though fear knotted her stomach, she refused to let on. The man had seemed so nice at first. So normal. He still hadn't lost his congenial air, but now he seemed so . . . maniacal.

He turned away, started doing something with a black briefcase,

Casey looked around, trying to determine exactly where she was. The dull, peeling wallpaper, the faded nylon curtains covering dirty windows, the old bedroom furniture made her think they were in some deserted farmhouse. The bed itself was covered with a stained chenille bedspread. That one detail suggested the house wasn't truly abandoned.