Dark Debts (47 page)

Michael could feel the intense heat of the flames as they moved quickly toward him.

He had lost. He could stay in the room and burn to death, or he could jump out the window and fall to his death like his parents before him. He made one last attempt at the
Roman Ritual
, in between coughs.

“I adjure you . . . every unclean spirt . . . every specter from Hell . . .”

The entire room filled with the sound of the demon's laughter, rising over the loud crackling of the flames. This had never worked, Michael thought. It was never going to work. There was nothing left but to choose his mode of death.

He decided on the window. At least he'd have fresh air on the way down. He quickly began the Act of Contrition as the flames roared closer.

“Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry . . .”

A thought struck him and he stopped.

Is this suicide?

“Go on, Padre,” the demon said. “Speaking from experience, you don't want to burn.”

Michael looked at the window. If jumping constituted suicide, the demon would get exactly what it wanted. This battle had never been about his
body
.

“If you want me out the window,” Michael managed to cough out, “then push me.”

For the first time Michael could see something different in those eyes. Disappointment? Trepidation?

Michael grabbed another breath from the window, then faced the demon again.

“It will not be my choice,” he declared.

“We'll see.”

The heat had become unbearable and the flames were right on him. Was there anything he could still do?

Pray.

He closed his eyes and tried to envision the cool shade of the pine tree and the guy in the flannel shirt. The picture appeared in his mind, as clear as a photograph. He felt the heat of the flames leave. He opened his eyes and the picture was real. The flannel shirt was gone, and the man standing before him was dressed in full regalia: flowing white robe with a bright red sash. A picture from somebody's grandmother's house.

“What can I do?” Michael pleaded.

“
You
can do nothing.”

Michael suddenly remembered something Bob had said, before Danny's exorcism.
“Only God can save Danny. We're just the hired help.”

I can only do it through
His
authority. And I have rejected every part of it that I don't like. Which means I have rejected it all. He either has all authority or He doesn't.

He thought back to his ordination, when he had lain facedown on the floor in complete and utter submission. He immediately prostrated himself, arms out at his sides and face planted in the grass. He could feel and smell the ground under him.

“Please take me back.”

He immediately felt a warmth rush over him. He looked up. The guy in the robe was once again the guy in the flannel shirt and he was smiling—beaming at Michael.

“Shall we?” he asked.

Before Michael could determine what he meant, the scene dissolved and Michael was back in the room, surrounded by flames, gasping for breath. The heat was brutal, but he was no longer afraid.

“Evil Spirit, in the name of Jesus Christ and by His authority, I command you to come out of him, return to the pit from which you were summoned, and return no more.”

A horrible, brain-splitting howl filled the room. The demon was writhing, backing into the corner, battling an unseen enemy, putting up one last fight, and losing. When the howl finally ended, there was an enormous
boom
, and the fire was gone as if it had never been there. The room was a smoldering shell and the air was heavy with the smell of smoke and burnt wood. In the one unscathed corner, Jack collapsed to the floor, exhausted. He looked around, trying to get his bearings.

“It's over,” Michael said. Jack stared at him, trying to take it in.

There were loud footsteps on the stairs, then Randa appeared at the door, gaping at the damage the fire had done.

“What happened?” she asked, but before Michael could answer, she had turned her attention to Jack.

“Jack?”

“It's okay,” Michael told her. “It's over.”

“Where am I?” Jack asked.

Randa ran to the corner and sank to the floor next to him. She took him into her arms.

“It doesn't matter,” she said. “You're okay.” She was crying as she said it. She buried her face in Jack's shoulder.

“Michael,” Jack asked, “are you all right?”

Michael nodded. He looked out the window and took a deep breath.

Thank you.

I
t was well past midnight when Michael returned to the villa. He was surprised to find Gabe lying on the sofa in the library. There was a compress on his forehead and his eyes were closed. He opened an eye when he sensed Michael's presence.

Gabe sat up and Michael noticed the rosary in his hand. He also noticed he felt no irritation about it.

“Are you okay?” Michael asked.

“Of course,” Gabe said. He put the rosary down on the coffee table.

“It's over,” Michael said.

“Thank God.”

“Amen,” Michael replied. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the light, he could see a sizable knot above Gabe's left eye.

“Are you sure you're okay? You might have a concussion.”

Gabe shrugged. “I boxed for six years. My head is used to concussions.”

“Now I
know
you have one.”

“I'll go to a doctor tomorrow,” Gabe said, relenting, and then changed the subject. “Where are Jack and Randa?”

“I took them home. I tried to explain it all, but . . .”

“But?”

“What we believe is insane.”

Gabe nodded. “That's why it takes guts to not give a damn what anyone thinks.”

I want that
, Michael thought. And then realized he was wishing to be more like Gabe.

“Does the piranha club need another member?”

Gabe smiled. “Come on in,” he said. “The water's nasty, but you'll be fine.”

J
ack was gone when Randa woke up. It was their second day back in Barton, and they had barely spoken in the last forty-eight hours. She didn't know what to make of it, except that they were both paralyzed by the giant
“What now?”
hanging over them.

She was on her second cup of coffee when the door opened and he entered. She watched in silence as he hung his jacket on the back of the desk chair and finally looked up to face her.

“Where've you been?” She tried not to sound accusatory, but was pretty sure she'd failed.

“Cathy's grave,” he said, quietly.

“Was that a smart idea?”

“What do you mean?”

“The cops might have it staked out. I'm not sure what they'd make of you being there.”

“I don't care what they make of it,” he said. He didn't sound angry, or resigned. It was merely a statement. Before she had time to analyze it, he made it irrelevant with “I've been thinking.”

Nothing good ever came from a conversation that started with “I've been thinking.” Randa braced herself. “And?”

“We don't really know each other,” he said. “And I don't know who I am, apart from . . .” He stopped. Neither of them had been willing, yet, to say the word “demon” without Michael in the room.

“It's a lot,” Randa agreed. She'd been thinking, too. If she admitted she believed in a demon, wouldn't she then have to admit she believed in God?

“What we should do, if we're going to be adults about it, is return to our lives and figure it out independently.”

He was right, Randa knew. Maybe, in a few years, they could get in touch and give it another shot. For now, everything was too close and too chaotic. Maybe Michael would spend some time with Jack and the two of them could figure out how to deal with the aftermath of . . . whatever. She was not really a part of this. She had interjected herself. It was time to go away and leave it to the people who were actually involved.

“Okay, then,” she said.
You can do this. Don't fall apart
. “I'm going to go to the hotel and pack, Then I'll take a cab back to my rental car. . .”

She was half-waiting for him to stop her, but he was completely stoic.

She opened the door and he said nothing as she started out. Then, without even realizing what she was doing, she stepped back inside and slammed the door behind her.

“I
hate
this plan!” she barked at him.

“Oh?” he said.

“We're a couple. Even if we've only been one for a week. And after what we've been through, that week should count for three years. You don't get to unilaterally dictate the future.”

Jack stared at her for a moment, then cracked a tiny smile. “I didn't say we had to do it. I just said it would be the ‘adult thing' to do. You're the one heading out the door.”

“Never mind that. What's Plan B?”

“It's your turn to have a plan.”

“How about I stay here indefinitely and we figure out a better ‘grown-up' plan?”

He laughed, then reached out and pulled her into his arms. They stood there for a long moment. Finally he spoke. “Your plan is better.”

Was it?
Randa wondered. There was no maturity to it. No logic. Only hope. But something had shifted, and hope no longer felt like a punishable offense.

T
o all the people who were thanked in the 1996 edition of
Dark Debts
: you remain thanked, and just as enthusiastically, but for present purposes I am going to limit myself to the people who are specific to this version of the book. First on that list is my editor, Jon Karp, who has endured my lack of writing (for him, anyway) for decades and who said “yes” immediately when I approached him with the idea of a new version of my novel for its twentieth anniversary. That is the kind of support he has always shown for
Dark Debts
, since the day it first crossed his door. My second phone call was to my literary agent, Bennett Ashley, who was thrilled with the idea of another go at it, and once again kept me from doubting myself at every turn.

There are new priests to thank this time around, who have spent a lot of time over the years helping me dissect Catholicism and put it back together again, and it is because of them that I now have (in my humble opinion) a more mature understanding of my faith. They are: Fr. Sean Raftis, Fr. John Brown, S.J., and Fr. Christopher Gober. There is one more priest who has helped me more than words could adequately describe and to whom I owe a tremendous debt, both personally and professionally. He wishes to be thanked cryptically. There you go, Father. My friend Joe Garcia should also be thanked under this heading, even if he missed his calling. And thank you to my dear friends Barbara Nicolosi-Harrington and Norris Harrington, Steve Skojec, and the others (you know who you are) who are helping me survive the daily insanity of this age.

I have more family members to thank this time around: I am always grateful to Brian and Christine Walker, for taking me in as family when I showed up out of nowhere. I would never be able to accomplish anything without the love of my life, my husband Chris, taking up the slack and offering his much-valued (even if I don't always show it) opinions. Our son, Caleb, put up with a lot of being chased out of the room while I was working under a tight deadline. And, as my daughter Julianne Marie Bull would no doubt love to tell you, I ignored way too many of her phone calls from three thousand miles away, in order to get the book done on time.

I am grateful to everyone at Simon & Schuster for their hard work and the beautiful results. I spent the most time with Megan Hogan, publishing assistant, who is an incredibly patient and kind person. Laura Cherkas, my copy editor, did an amazing job.
Nothing
got by her. I am also grateful to: Cary Goldstein, VP and Director of Publicity; Anne Tate Pearce, publicist; Richard Rhorer, VP and Associate Publisher; Ebony LaDelle, Marketing Manager; Kristen Lemire, Managing Editor; Lisa Erwin, Senior Production Manager; Ciara Robinson, Senior Production Editor; Jackie Seow, VP and Executive Art Director; Alison Forner, Associate Art Director. I am often asked why writers need publishers in the year 2016. I offer this work as an answer.

And, one more time, I am grateful to my sister, writer extraordinaire Barbara Hall, for the day she said, “Just shut up and write the damned thing.”

In her career as a writer, producer, and creative consultant, Karen Hall has worked on numerous series, including
M*A*S*H
,
Hill Street Blues
,
Moonlighting
,
Judging Amy
,
Northern Exposure
, and
The Good Wife
. She has received seven Emmy Award nominations, as well as the Humanitas Prize, the Women in Film Luminas Award, and the Writers Guild of America Award. Her first and only novel,
Dark Debts
, was a Book of the Month Club main selection when first published in 1996 and has been translated into French, German, and Japanese. She continues to work in show business. She is an adjunct professor at Appalachian State University. She and her husband own Black Bear Books, an independent bookstore in Boone, North Carolina.

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authors.simonandschuster.com/Karen-Hall