Chapter 1
As Father Nathaniel Kerrigan sat on the half-rotten wooden bench overlooking the natural pond in front of him, a smoldering Marlboro cigarette he’d forgotten about burnt the tips of his fingers and fell to the ground. Kerrigan, a sixty-five-year-old Catholic priest and Vietnam War veteran, quickly stomped out the cigarette with his foot. He removed a white handkerchief from the inside pocket of his dark overcoat and used it to pick up the cigarette butt, depositing it carefully into the wire trash receptacle next to the bench he was sitting on. He went back to staring out into the sky, past the ducks floating on the pond and the children chasing them with their radio-controlled model boats, his thoughts lost in the dark gray clouds, which were hovering in the distance like harbingers.
Though at sixty-five Kerrigan was beginning to feel his age, a life of discipline and restraint kept him strong and healthy. He made every effort to eat well, he trained with weights and ran for miles, and he seldom consumed alcohol. Kerrigan’s discipline, a practice he learned from the Marine Corp and honed through the priesthood, influenced all aspects of his busy life. It showed in his physical appearance—his short and silvering goatee always well-kept and immaculate, for example—and in his judicious use of time. An early riser, Kerrigan’s mornings and afternoons were spent tending to mass, confessions, and other pastoral duties. The hours in between were for volunteer work at local VAs and children’s hospitals. An hour each night was reserved for exercise, another for prayer. If there was any time left before Kerrigan retired for the evening, he might watch that night’s episode of Jeopardy on playback. That program had grown on him years earlier when he spent his evenings tending to his cancer-stricken father, who would hurl insults at Mr. Trebek from his sofa-chair when he got the answers wrong.
If Kerrigan had one vice, it was the cigarettes. He picked them up again only weeks earlier, after a twenty-year hiatus. He mulled lighting another, but the minute-hand on his wristwatch showed five-to-eight, which meant the man he was there to meet would soon arrive. That he was smoking again was a fact he wished to keep to himself, so he double-checked that his pack of Marlboro Reds was tucked safely inside his overcoat, and spritzed himself with aftershave. Then he went back to thinking, and waiting.
Kerrigan had been sitting on the bench for over an hour, at times rehearsing in his mind the conversation he was about to have, and others staring thoughtlessly into the cool autumn sky. Though he was there to meet his trusted mentor, a man he’d known since he joined the seminary nearly forty years earlier and with whom he’dconfided many things, Kerrigan was terribly nervous. Somehow, he’d become so wrapped up in his own affairs he hadn’t called or written to his old friend in over two years. And now here Kerrigan was, out of the blue, about to ask favors.
That thought continued to swirl in Kerrigan’s mind as a gust of wind rustled the leaves hanging from the towering trees above his head. A black bird fluttered down from one of the treesand landed next to Kerrigan on the bench, startling him so badly he jumped in his seat. As the bird took to the sky, Kerrigan noticed a dark figure approaching from one of the dirt trails converging on the pond. He stood up and squinted through his reading glasses—at first, he wasn’t sure he was looking at the right man. But when it was clear he was, Kerrigan felt awash with concern. The man, hunched inside a dark overcoat similar to Kerrigan’s, had aged significantly since Kerrigan saw him last. Though the man was nearing seventy-seven, after all, he’d always been strong and healthy. A seasoned boxer, the old man could be found in Catholic school gymnasiums jumping rope with students just two years ago.Yet now he approached with the assistance of a cane and an obvious limp, and he looked several shades grayer. As the distance between the two priests narrowed, Kerrigan made a conscious effort not to let the worry show in his face.
“Monsignor Carmichael!”
“Father Kerrigan.” The Monsignor bore a wide smile that stretched the many more lines showing on his weathered face. “It’s
good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you too, Monsignor.”
Kerrigan leaned in and hugged Carmichael, mindful not to interfere with his cane. From up close it was even more apparent Carmichael lost serious ground—his thin, silver hair had receded even further, and Kerrigan could feel through Carmichael’s bulky overcoat that he’d lost a good deal of weight. Kerrigan also noticed a small patch of razor stubble sprouting from Carmichael’s pointed chin, which was uncharacteristic. Carmichael was always dutiful about keeping a clean shave. The two priests embraced each other for several moments before separating.
“Shall we walk and talk?” Carmichael asked.
“Are you sure?” Kerrigan didn’t realize it, but his gaze was trained squarely on Carmichael’s cane.
“What, this?” Carmichael raised his cane off of the ground for Kerrigan to examine.
“Since when did you start using a—”
“Don’t worry.” Carmichael thumped the cane back into the soft earth beneath their feet. “I’ve had it a couple of months now. The doctors keep telling me I need hip surgery, and I keep telling them I do not.”
Kerrigan smiled a hesitant smile. While Carmichael’s aversion to doctors and medical advice didn’t surprise him, he knew there was more going on than a bum hip. He also recalled hearing through the grapevine that Carmichael recently cancelled a trip to Spain, one he discussed making for years.
“Come on,” Carmichael insisted. “Let’s walk. I have a feeling it will do us both good.”
“Where?” Kerrigan looked at the pond just in front of them and into the surrounding trees. Another gust of wind ruffled the trees, sprinkling golden-brown leaves into the pond. Kerrigan eyed the various trails. They seemed to burrow infinitely into the woods. Kerrigan had never visited that particular nature preserve and had no idea where they led. He’d had a hard enough time finding the pond. It was Carmichael who had chosen the preserve for the meeting.
“Let’s do one of the trails.” Carmichael nodded toward a trail just behind Kerrigan. “How about that one? Looks as good as any.”
Kerrigan twisted around. The trail stretched further into the woods than he could see. “You know the way?”
“No. Not really. Haven’t been here in years, actually.”
“What if we get lost? These trails probably go on for miles and end up who knows where.”
Carmichael leaned into his cane with one hand and waved dismissively with the other. “Don’t worry. We can always turn back. Besides, I’m told there are beautiful live oaks for us to see. I’ve always liked live oaks.”
Kerrigan only nodded. Though he felt compelled to yield to Carmichael’s wishes since he was the one taking the elder priest’s time, the prospect of losing hours in the woods made him nervous. He didn’t have hours to lose. Kerrigan hesitantly followed Carmichael’s lead.
“I’m sorry to trouble you on such short notice, Monsignor.”
“There’s no trouble here, Nathan. None at all.”
Leaves crunched beneath Kerrigan’s feet. Though it was barely September, the dirt trail was covered by a layer of brittle leaves. It seemed the trees inside the nature preserve were further along in their shedding than elsewhere. Kerrigan could feel the cooler air.
“Listen, Monsignor, I know I haven’t called in a while . . . I just—”
Carmichael grabbed Kerrigan’s forearm and stopped him in place. “Never mind all that. Something troubles you. Something serious. What is it?”
Kerrigan paused. “Is it that obvious?”
Carmichael chuckled. “Well, aside from the fact that you reek of cigarettes, I knew something was off the moment you called and asked to meet in private, away from both our parishes.”
Kerrigan blushed, then sniffed his overcoat. He really thought the aftershave would do the trick. Carmichael tugged on his arm and eased him forward again.
“Ah, Nathan. You should know by now that all the perfumein the world can’t cover up that stench. Besides, how long have we known each other now, thirty years?”
“Almost forty, believe it or not. That’s how long ago I was in the seminary. You know, even after all this time, sometimes it’s
still hard to believe I’m a priest at all. I just—”
“Nathan—” Carmichael tugged once more on Kerrigan’s arm. “What’s really on your mind, hmm? What’s got you all twisted inside? That’s why we're here, isn’t it?” Carmichael looked up toward the sky. “Among the trees?”
Kerrigan stood silent a few moments while Carmichael waited with watchful eyes. “I need to ask you a favor. I hate to ask, I really do, but I don’t, I just—”
“What is it?”
Kerrigan hesitated again. He looked once more into Carmichael’s greenish-blue eyes and was overwhelmed with shame. Two whole years, and he hadn’t once thought to call. Not even a lousy text message. He took in a breath and sighed.
“The bishop—he wants me to do something. Something I cannot do.”
“Bishop Gailey?”
Kerrigan nodded.
“Believe it or not, I’ve known him longer than I’ve known you. We spent time in the seminary together.”
“I know.”
“Which is why I know once he’s made up his mind there’s nearly nothing anyone can do to change it. Myron Gailey is a stubborn man.”
“I know he is, Monsignor. But if there’s anyone he might listen to, it’s you.”
Carmichael leaned into his cane, one hand on top of the other, and stared out into the trail, contemplating. Even his hands looked older, arthritic even. “What is it he wants you to do?”
Kerrigan opened his mouth to speak but quickly closed it. Though he’d gone over this many times during the hour he’d spent on the bench, it seemed no easier. He retreated toward an edge of the trail and gazed for a moment into the trees. Birds cawed in the distance. When he returned to Carmichael, he leaned in close so strangers wouldn’t overhear. The two priests were far enough along the trail that the pond was no longer in sight, but they could still hear children giggling in the distance.
“He wants me to perform an exorcism.” Kerrigan shuddered. He shook his head in disbelief. Despite everything, it was
still difficult to accept this was happening to him.
Thunder suddenly cracked, startling Kerrigan nearly off his feet. The roaring sound reminded him of the bombs he heard in the jungles of Vietnam. It sounded like the sky was splitting open. Yet, even as rain began to fall, Carmichael remained stoic, unfazed.
“I’m sorry, Monsignor. I didn’t think to bring an umbrella. It wasn’t supposed to rain today. I checked.”
Carmichael reached into his overcoat. “Here, hold my cane.”
Kerrigan took the cane and immediately noticed it was far heavier than it appeared. He watched anxiously as Carmichael removed a small extendable umbrella, held it up, and fidgeted with the button. “Now, if I could only get the blessed thing open.”
The umbrella blew open with a whooshing sound that startled Kerrigan a second time. After what he’d seen and experienced these past few weeks, he was particularly jumpy.
Carmichael held up the umbrella, but his arm buckled under the weight.
“Here, let me,” Kerrigan said. He took the umbrella from Carmichael and held it over both of their heads.
“Over there,” Carmichael said, his eyes focused toward another wooden bench a few yards up the trail, just beneath one of the live oak trees he’d spoken of only moments earlier. Kerrigan held the umbrella as the two priests shuffled their way over to the bench.
“Wait!” Kerrigan shouted. Before Carmichael sat down, Kerrigan took out his white handkerchief and wiped the bench dry. When he was finished, the two priests sat next to each other under the cover of the umbrella, the raindrops pattering above their heads.
“An exorcism?” Carmichael asked. “Myron Gailey wants you to perform an exorcism?”
Kerrigan nodded. He was staring into a puddle just in front of his feet. The splashes from the raindrops were so large it looked as if small pebbles were falling into the water.
Carmichael sighed. “Oh my, Nathan. Oh my. I didn’t quite know what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t this.”
“Well, he wants me to assist, anyway. Whatever that means. Someone else will lead the ritual.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know yet, the bishop’s still looking for an experienced exorcist who’s available as far as I—”
“No,” Carmichael interrupted. “Who needs the exorcism?”
“Oh. She’s just a kid, Monsignor. Barely fourteen years old. Armenian. Lives with her mother and brother in one of those old section eight buildings downtown.”
“What’s her name?”
“Her name is Marianna. Marianna Petrosian.”
Kerrigan felt a twinge of doubt. Just mentioning the girl’s name stirred up painful memories.
“You know her?”
“Actually, I haven’t spoken a word to her. She’s a . . . she’s gravely ill. She’s been confined to her bed since the beginning. Since before I got involved, anyway.”
“I see. And that’s why the bishop wants you to assist? Because you’re involved? Familiar with the case?”
“I suppose. I really don’t know what he’s thinking.”
“I see. So why can’t you?”
Kerrigan’s eyes widened. He knew the question would come, but he hadn’t expected it so quickly. “Why can’t I?”
“That’s right. Why can’t you?”
Kerrigan hesitated, his tongue twisted. “I’m . . . I’m just not right for it.”
“What makes one right or wrong for an exorcism? The question isn’t rhetorical, Nathan. I ask because I don’t know.”
“Well, that’s just it. I don’t know any more than you do. I don’t know the first thing about performing an exorcism. I have no experience with the supernatural, whatsoever. Before all this, I hadn’t crossed paths with a black cat let alone a demon. I’ve never even met a priest who’s been anywhere near an exorcism. Have you?”
Carmichael’s brow wrinkled. “Me? Hell no. I’ve managed to steer clear of such things. But I’ve heard stories, stories that make my skin crawl when I’m reminded of them. Like now. Didn’t you say Bishop Gailey only wants you to assist? That someone experienced will lead the ritual?”
Kerrigan shook his head. He was frustrated—not with the Monsignor but with the situation. “Yes, but . . . these priests, these exorcists . . . it’s like they are born for it. Hand-picked by God himself. Many of them attest to having a strong intuition that they were being called upon to do it. They don’t just get pulled in as a matter of happenstance.”
“Is that what happened, Nathan? You were pulled in as a matter of happenstance?”
“Yes . . . I suppose.” Kerrigan shifted in his seat. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t sound so sure. Maybe God is calling you.”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because . . . it would be a mistake. God doesn’t make mistakes.”
Carmichael leaned back slowly into the bench, a pensive look on his face. “I’m not following you.”
Kerrigan mumbled. “I know. I know.”
Carmichael chuckled. “Well, it’s good that you know. But if I’m going to help you, to guide you, if that’s why you called me here—”
“I’m not asking for guidance. Not this time.”
Carmichael, his arms crossed, leaned forward again. “Oh. I see. Just the favor, then?”
Kerrigan, feeling even more ashamed now, stared back down at the ground. Water was pooling beneath his feet now, too.
“I’m sorry, Monsignor. I mean no disrespect. I’m just in a bind and I don’t know any other way out.”
“Do you realize what you’re asking of me?”
“I know you and Bishop Gailey aren’t on good terms. If this wasn’t serious, I wouldn’t—”
Carmichael shook his head. “Oh, I don’t give a damn about any of that. Sure, we have disagreements from time to time, but it’s been that way since the beginning. He’s a good man, but also an asshole. Suppose I do go talk to him. What do you think his first question will be, the one after he asks me how this is any of my fucking business?”
“He’ll ask why.”
Carmichael nodded. “Bingo. And what will I tell him?”
“That I’m unfit. That I don’t have—”
“And you think that’s going to cut it? Hasn’t so far, has it?”
Kerrigan turned away, before looking up into the sky. The raindrops were still falling, but they were lighter now.
“Come on. Let’s walk,” Carmichael said. He pressed his cane into the ground and stood back up. Kerrigan could see that it took some effort. “The rain’s letting up.”
Kerrigan remained seated a while. The clouds seemed to be growing darker. He thought about how far his car was from where they were standing. It was parked in a small lot a ways from the pond. And now Carmichael wanted to burrow deeper into the woods. “Maybe we should go back. It doesn’t look so good out here.”
“Ah, we’ll be alright. Come on.”
Reluctantly, Kerrigan stood up and took his place alongside Carmichael. As the two priests walked, Carmichael placed his free hand against the small of Kerrigan’s back.
“You understand that if I were to talk to Myron, you’ll have to give me more to work with, hmm? Talk to me, Nathan. It’s just you, me, and the trees.”
Kerrigan stopped in place. His hands trembled. His heart pounded against his breastbone. His breaths shortened. He felt dizzy and unsteady on his feet. He spotted a tall cypress tree along the side of the path and headed toward it. His legs shaking, he leaned against the cypress for support.
“Are you alright?” Carmichael asked. The alarm was evident in his voice. As he approached from behind, Kerrigan raised his hand as a signal for Carmichael to give him some space.
“I’m okay . . . I just need . . . I just need a cigarette.”
Leaning against the tree with one arm, Kerrigan fumbled inside his jacket pocket with the other. He dug out his pack of Marlboro Reds and a book of matches from a fancy steakhouse a parishioner had taken him to. He backed off the tree just enough to free both hands and tried to light a cigarette. He tried several times, but his hands were too shaky, and the rain kept on extinguishing the flame.
“Here,” Carmichael said. He took the matchbook from Kerrigan and huddled up against him to block the wind. He lit a match and lifted it toward the fresh cigarette hanging from Kerrigan’s lips. When it was lit, Kerrigan immediately took in several deep drags and breathed thick plumes of smoke out into the trees. After seven or eight repetitions, his hands and legs settled. ...
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