“Did seeing me covered in blood scare her?” Peter asked.
“Very much. She told me that she had this same demon inside of her, and explained how difficult it had been for her to keep it contained all her life. It upset her that the demon had come out in you at such a tender age. She was fearful it might take control of your soul.”
“Is that what she said?”
“In so many words, yes.”
But it hadn’t taken control of my soul, Peter thought. The demon went back to its dark hiding place, and he’d gotten on with his life. End of story.
“Your father viewed the matter differently,” Sierra continued. “He was fearful that if doctors started examining you, the demon would be unleashed, and never go away. He wanted to treat you with tender loving care, which he said was the only cure.”
“Who won out?” Peter asked.
“I did, actually,” Sierra said.
“How so?”
“Your parents brought you in, and I examined you. I tested your reflexes to make sure you didn’t have any neurological damage, which is not uncommon in violent children. You know when a doctor hits a patient in the knee with a rubber hammer? Well, I struck you in the knee with my hammer, and the next thing I knew, I was lying on the floor in a pool of blood.”
“I hit you?” Peter asked incredulously.
“Knocked me right across the room. I never saw the blow. To be honest, I’m not certain you actually threw one. You did it with your mind. That’s when I convinced your parents that Richard needed to be brought in.”
Peter looked across the table at the sickly man dressed in black. “You’re an exorcist.”
“I am a priest who on occasion practices exorcisms,” Hunsinger replied.
“Same difference. Did you perform an exorcism on me?”
“Yes, I did.”
Peter took a deep breath. “And?”
“Nothing happened,” the priest confessed. “We performed the exorcism in my chambers at the church. You lay on a couch with your parents sitting to either side of you. I wore an alb, a purple stole, as prescribed in the Old Testament. I made the sign of the cross over you, doused your body with holy water, and invoked the words ‘Ecce crucem Domini! Fugite, partes adversae’ while placing my right hand on your forehead in the same manner in which Jesus healed the sick. I followed the procedure exactly as it was written.”
“How did I react?”
“You looked up at me and let out a little laugh.”
“I laughed?”
“Yes.”
“Was it demonic?”
“Not at all. It was a little boy’s laugh. The demon inside of you had receded. I don’t know if I sent it away, or if it left on its own accord, but it was gone. What remained was a precious seven-year-old boy.”
Liza squeezed his hand as this last sentence was spoken. It made Peter feel like there was still hope. “Thanks,” he whispered.
“Anytime,” she whispered back.
“Now you understand why Dr. Sierra and I wanted to see you,” Hunsinger said. “We wanted to know what had become of you. To see how you turned out, if you will.”
“You wanted to know what had happened to my demon,” Peter said.
“That, too,” the priest admitted.
“Yes, that, too,” Sierra echoed.
Peter drummed the table. The phrase “troubled childhood” was taking on a whole new meaning. But he still wasn’t sure why Sierra and Hunsinger had gone to such great pains to seek him out. Both men had seen scores of troubled people during their careers. So why had they worried about him? Because he was a child when this had occurred? That was one explanation, although he was quite certain both men had seen scores of troubled children during their careers. There had to be another reason.
His drumming grew louder. So loud that he could hardly hear himself think. Out of frustration, he attempted to read both men’s brains to see what they were up to.
It didn’t work. Both men were cutting him off by thinking about the lunch they’d shared a few hours ago. It was almost as if they’d planned it.
He gave Liza a look and whispered, “We need to talk.” She rose from her chair the same time he did, said, “Please excuse us,” and followed Peter out of the room.
Huddled in the hallway, Peter spoke in a hushed tone. “They know something they’re not telling me.”
Liza gave him a quizzical look. “What more is there to know?”
“That’s a good question. I keep thinking back to Sierra asking me if the demon had come out the night my parents died. I think he already knew the answer and just wanted confirmation that it had.”
“How would he have known if it had?”
“My parents’ murders made the front page of the New York newspapers. Maybe I did something horrible that night that also made the newspapers, and Sierra and Hunsinger read about it, and made the connection.”
“Did you?” Liza asked.
“Not that I remember.”
“But you don’t remember hurting the burglar in your apartment either.”
Liza was right. Was this dark spirit inside of him so powerful that he couldn’t control it, much less remember when it took over his body? It scared him to think it might be true. Grabbing his leather jacket off a peg, he gave Liza a kiss.
“I need to talk to the police. They’ll know what happened that night,” he said.
“What about Dr. Sierra and Hunsinger? What should I tell them?”
That was a good question. Sierra and Hunsinger had opened Pandora’s box, and Peter didn’t think he’d ever get it closed. But why had they done that? Out of an insatiable curiosity, or was something else in play here? Peter was determined to find out the answer.
“Thank them for dropping by,” he said, and flew out the door.
36
He hurried uptown.
Soon he was standing outside the 19th Precinct on East 67th Street. Did he really want to know the truth about himself? Could he handle the truth? He was about to find out.
He went inside. The lobby reminded him of the Port Authority bus terminal and was just as noisy. He sifted through the crowd, picking up people’s thoughts. When he was under stress, his psychic powers got the better of him, and he heard things without meaning to.
He waited dutifully in line to talk to the female desk sergeant working reception. In front of him, a Puerto Rican man was trying to determine how he was going to tell his brother-who’d beat up someone over a girl-that he didn’t have the money to bail him out of jail. Behind him, a distraught mother was wondering if the police had any fresh information about her runaway teenage daughter. Their thoughts were incredibly loud, as most stressful thoughts were, and bounced around him like so many echoes.
Finally his turn came, and he approached the desk.
“Hey, magic man, long time no see,” the desk sergeant said. “How’s tricks?”
He’d helped the police solve a murder not long ago, and was surprised she remembered him. “I’ve been good. I’d like to see Detective Schoch.”
“Do some magic first. I want to be amazed.”
He searched his pockets for something to fool her with. He’d left the house without so much as a deck of cards. Normally in situations like this, he would have read her mind, but the desk sergeant was one of those rare birds whose minds could not be read. He pointed at the notepad lying on the desk.
“Pick up that pad and draw something on it. Don’t let me see it,” he said.
“You gonna read my mind?”
“I’m going to try.”
“Cool.” The desk sergeant picked up the pad and a pencil. “Turn around, I don’t trust you.”
“Come on, I’m one of the good guys.”
“I still don’t trust you. Now turn around.”
Peter obeyed, and found himself staring at a scummy-looking character standing where the distraught mother had been. Day-old stubble, rheumy eyes, and lifeless blond hair made up the picture. The man’s dark thoughts invaded Peter’s head. He was a cold-blooded murderer.