Tangled Souls (26 page)

“I need to go home,” he said, trying to rise.

“No, no, you’ve had a major psychic experience. You need time to adjust to all this. Stay here for a while, let things settle down, then I’ll drive you home.”

“No, I need to go,” he insisted, lurching to his feet.

He heard a phone ring; Gavenia ignored it for a time, but finally rose. “Just stay put. I’ll explain everything in a moment.” She hurried out the door.

O’Fallon didn’t want an explanation. He wanted to be out of here, safe, where nothing would trigger the horrific visions.

“I have to get home,” he said, grabbing his jacket where it sat on the chair. He moved with great care, fearful of touching anything that wasn’t his.

As O’Fallon walked by the bookcase, Bastet meowed at him, but he shied away as if she was a threat, forgetting he’d petted her earlier. He paused in the hallway and stared toward the kitchen. Gavenia paced, phone to her ear, talking rapidly.

No, can’t stay.
He pulled open the front door and plunged outside into the chill evening air. It burrowed into his lungs, rapidly displacing the incense. His disorientation increased.

The moment he reached his car, he felt the panic rising in his gut, choking him, as his heartbeat sped up. His skin crawled, millions of unseen ants pricking at his flesh, slowly consuming him.

O’Fallon swung in an arc, hunting for the danger—no one near, no reason to feel threatened. Still, he felt vulnerable, as if surrounded by unseen predators. He unlocked the car door with a shaking hand.

He’d barely got the key into the ignition when the witch appeared at his door, knocking on the windshield. He locked the doors. He had to run away. The witch had planned this whole thing, suckered him inside her lair and then incapacitated him, just like a spider bound an insect before sucking it dry. Why hadn’t he seen it sooner? Why hadn’t he realized she was after his immortal soul?

“Don’t go!” Gavenia called. She sounded frantic, but that had to be an act. He turned the key. More knocking on the windshield.

“You don’t see them. It’s not safe! Stay here!” she insisted.

He threw the car into gear and veered into the roadway, narrowly missing his frantic hostess as she scurried out of his way. He heard her shouting a name as he gunned the motor. It sounded familiar, but it didn’t matter. Escape was the only word he understood.

“Dammit!” Gavenia swore, stamping her foot in frustration. She paced in the driveway in an erratic circle, her cane forgotten in the rush. Bart stood nearby, his arms folded over his chest, eyeing their surroundings warily. He glowed as if sending a warning of some sort.

“You saw them?” she asked.

Oh, yeah. Worse yet, they saw him.

“I think there were three, maybe four earthbounds.”

At least.

Gavenia rubbed the bridge of her nose in thought. “I’ll call him on his cell phone. Maybe he’ll settle down once he’s away from here. He’s got to go someplace safe.”

It’s time you went inside. He’s attracted too much interest
, Bart said, his arms dropping to his side in a defiant pose. His glow increased.

Her eyes scanned around them, picking out at least five entities hovering in the shadows waiting for her to lower her guard. Their brittle voices called to her, earthbound entities keen to feed on the Light. Gavenia ignored them and hurried back to the condo, murmuring a spell of protection.

Bart took one last look at the dark forms and followed his Shepherd.

Gee, General Custer, just how many Indians can there be?

* * *

When O’Fallon halted at a stoplight a few blocks away from the condo, he leaned his forehead against the cold steering wheel. A ringing sound assaulted his ears. In time, he realized it was his cell phone, so he dug into his jacket and squinted at the caller ID. It was
her
. He dropped the phone onto the seat next to him as the call rolled over to voice mail.

His obsessive need to get home had evaporated, shoved aside by thoughts that made no sense. Voices whispered on the edge of his hearing, their words overlapping one another. They called his name over and over, and each time felt like the blade of a razor dragging along his skin.

A man appeared in the road in front him. O’Fallon swung the steering wheel hard, narrowly missing him.

“Crazy bastard,” he growled. Again the man appeared, and O’Fallon swerved like a drunk, causing another car to honk at his erratic behavior. When the figure appeared once again, too quickly to avoid a collision, O’Fallon cried out as the Chevy ploughed through him. He waited for the scream of agony, the thump as the body impacted the grille. They never came. He’d struck a ghost.

“Oh dear God,” he said, and a coarse shiver shot through him. Shrill beeps bounced off the car’s interior. A new voice-mail message. “Go away! Leave me alone,” he shouted. “I’m not listening to you.”

The phantom chorus in his head rose in volume as if in response to his command. He hunched forward, his hands clawing into the steering wheel, his shirt soaked in sweat. In the car’s dark interior, the cell phone’s face ignited with an eerie glow, but it didn’t ring. Puzzled, he picked it up in a shaking hand. The text message said,
Go to your church.

“Saint Bridget’s.” Avery would know what to do. He tried to dial his old friend, but he couldn’t remember all the numbers. The cacophony in his head grew as if ten thousand demons were bellowing all at once. Oblivious to his driving, he blew through a stoplight, incurring the wrath of a taxi driver, who flipped him off.

“Go to the church,” he repeated like a mantra. O’Fallon dug in his pocket for his rosary, and when it emerged, he kissed it and wrapped it around his right hand.

“Sweet Saint Bridget, help me,” he prayed. The din in his mind retreated, like the tide flowing outward from the beach. The voices were still there, calling to him, and he swore he could feel flames dancing along his skin.

Then there was another voice, different from the dark ones. This one was calm, as if there was no threat it could not face. A soft glow filled the car. A glance at the passenger seat made him gasp: Benjamin Callendar sat next to him, powder-blue eyes etched with concern.

Go to Saint Bridget’s. Father Elliot will help you
, the spirit said.

O’Fallon screeched to a halt at a green light causing drivers to honk their horns behind him. He veered around the corner and stopped in a bus lane; a quick scan of his surroundings told him he was lost. Nothing looked familiar.

The voices rose again, taunting him.

“I don’t know how to get there,” he cried, wiping sweat from his forehead.

Go straight.

“What?”

Go straight. I’ll guide you.

He studied the ghostly face, fearing to trust the apparition. What if it was a spell?
The witch could do that, couldn’t she?

If you stay here, you are lost
, Benjamin’s shade replied. O’Fallon looked into the eyes, searching. In them he saw compassion, understanding. A desire to help him.

“God help me if I’m wrong.”

O’Fallon followed the dead man’s directions as if they’d come from the Almighty himself. By the time he turned in to the church parking lot and parked under one of the security lights, tears of relief bathed his cheeks and rolled under his shirt collar. He turned to thank his guide, but the ghost was gone.

The voices surged stronger now, no doubt realizing they might lose him once he stepped inside the sanctuary. O’Fallon heaved himself out of the car and sprinted for the church as if the devil’s hounds were on his heels, for indeed he felt they were. He skidded to a halt at the side door and hammered on it, then pushed the bell repeatedly. Shooting a panicked look over his shoulder, he swore he saw dark figures near his car, moving toward him across the parking lot.

The rectory door flung open with a crash.

“Oh, thank God,” Avery exclaimed, pulling him inside with a ferocious tug to his collar. The security door slammed behind them and then the priest bolted it.

The voices abruptly vanished, and O’Fallon heaved a body-trembling sigh of relief.

Avery swept his gaze over his old friend. “You look like hell.”

O’Fallon gave a short nod, trying to catch his breath.

They moved to the private chapel, where his friend set about lighting candles. As each one flamed into being, portions of the saint’s statue came into focus: first the right side of her benevolent face, then the left side, and finally her gentle hands. Her kind eyes called to O’Fallon, offering him solace, soothing away the nightmare that had encompassed him.

“Thank you, Bridget,” he whispered, crossing himself. “I knew you’d help me.”

Avery settled on the pew next to him, observing him with intense eyes.

“Gavenia called me,” he began.

“What? But she was . . .” O’Fallon’s mind cleared enough for him to remember her words.
Go to your church—
that’s what she’d shouted. He issued a long sigh. “She was trying to help me.”

Avery nodded. “She said you’d be safe here.” One of the candles sputtered and then flamed brighter. “What happened, Doug?”

O’Fallon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Now that his coat was off, his damp shirt felt clammy in the cool air of the chapel.

“I touched the Alliford kid’s penknife. I saw how he died. It wasn’t an accident. He was run down on purpose.”

“Oh, my God.” The priest crossed himself then placed a comforting hand on O’Fallon’s shoulder. “But why would someone kill the boy?”

“It was a botched kidnapping and Bradley knew the guy. I think the dog interfered, and that’s when things went wrong.”

“Oh, God, this is going to destroy what’s left of Gregory Alliford’s world.”

O’Fallon nodded. “There’s more. . . .” He kept his eyes on the rosary in his hands. “While I was driving, I heard voices. They were . . .” He shivered in remembrance. “They were so loud I couldn’t think. Then I saw the Callendar kid’s ghost.”

The priest rocked back in shock. “Ben?”

“I couldn’t remember how to get to the church; I couldn’t even remember your phone number. I wouldn’t have made it here if he hadn’t helped me.”

The priest rubbed his face in weariness and blew out a long breath. “It looks like God’s been working overtime tonight.”

O’Fallon allowed himself to smile. “Yes, He has. I thought the witch was trying to . . .” He hesitated—now it sounded silly. Why had it seemed so logical only a short time before? “I thought she was trying to put a spell on me.”

“No, I don’t think so. Gavenia was frightened; I could hear it in her voice. She said you were attracting . . . entities, whatever that means. It didn’t make much sense to me at the time, at least not until I saw you.”

“I look that bad?”

A solemn nod. “Stay here tonight. You can use the guest room.”

O’Fallon felt safe here, like he had in the witch’s house.

Why had he left? Why hadn’t he trusted her?

Too many questions.

Avery patted his shoulder and rose. “I’ll be in my office. You promise you’ll stay here tonight?”

“I promise.”

Weight seemed to fall from his friend’s shoulders.

The moment the priest’s footsteps echoed down the hallway, O’Fallon felt the presence. Benjamin Callendar’s ghost appeared in the pew next to him as if the young man were still alive and they were at mass.

He carries too much guilt for my death
, Ben said.

O’Fallon pushed his disbelief aside. “Why can I see you? I don’t see other . . . ghosts.”

The apparition pointed toward O’Fallon’s shirt pocket. “The medallion.”

O’Fallon had forgotten it was there.

We are very much alike. That’s why Father Elliot asked you to find my rosary.

“Why did you go to the Hotel LeClaire?” O’Fallon asked.

I didn’t want my family to find me. Down there, I’d be just another body. Nobody would care.

“Well, Bernie was upset you died.”

The young man looked puzzled and then appeared to connect the name.
He’s a nice old guy. We had pizza that night. He didn’t know I was going to kill myself.

“You said we are very much alike. How?”

We both resisted God’s gift.
The young man gave a gentle smile.
Or at least, I used to.