JOHN CALVIN SMILED and said goodbye to Sally Rosenthal and her twinkling toe ring as he made his way up the aisle of the airplane. She smiled back, a little sad that he hadn’t asked for her number, but such was life. She supposed she could have asked for his, but Sally was headed through to New York and he obviously had business here in Detroit. She looked out the window, the worn tarmac and the local weather were a uniform gray.
Interesting guy, Lucas Johnson, him and his hot-shit computer. He’d been so cryptic with his description of what he’d been working on. Most people were more than happy to detail what they were up to. Perhaps explaining one’s job to a stranger made it feel less like work or more important. Who knew? But not him. How do you keep a genie in the bottle and still get your wish? She looked at the span of Lucas Johnson’s shoulders as he walked toward the exit, swaying, taking small airplane aisle steps. She tracked down to his behind as he nudged past the flight attendant and her Thanks-for-flying-get-the-hell-off-the-plane smile. Sally’s mother began to cluck in her mind, chiding her daughter for staring at that strange man’s derriere. Sally just smirked and watched him leave. Shut up, mom. She sighed and looked back at her laptop. Such was life.
Calvin emerged into the throng of an airport in full afternoon swing. Vegas had been slow in waking up, but Detroit, it seemed, was all business. Men and women in dark suits with umbrellas tucked under their arms like folded dragon wings hurried past. They sprayed loud conversation into cell phones that in turn sprayed their brains with radiation. Calvin didn’t like cell phones. Aside from the fact that any jackass with thirty bucks and access to Radio Shack could hack into your conversation, he couldn’t get past the more intimate privacy issues. He didn’t mind it so much when cell phone users spoke too loudly in crowds or restaurants. It was more a dislike of people having access to him no matter where he went. He knew only too well what it was like to have a disembodied voice in his head. He didn’t need to simulate that with an overpriced walkie-talkie.
The flowing crowd seemed to run dry for a moment, revealing a man like a boulder in a stream. He was pale with enormous sloping shoulders in a suit that managed to betray piles of money and a simultaneous lack of taste. Big guy, expensive suit, no neck. Calvin moved toward him, noting the man’s red-rimmed eyes as they scanned the deplaning passengers. This guy was either allergic to something or he’d been crying. Calvin allowed the crowd to swell around him, washing him around behind the man.
Calvin scanned his contact. The guy stood just like you were supposed to if your purpose was to be intimidating and little else. He hulked. Calvin could imagine him standing behind his employer, grunting to punctuate his boss’s jokes or threats. Calvin looked him up and down, recording the man’s lack of balance, his weight, on which side he wore his gun. Not at the moment, of course, but it was all over the slant of his shoulders. Cheap Suit was a south paw and had probably wrestled in high school.
Calvin suppressed an impish smile and said, “You looking for someone?”
“Fuck off,” Finch said without taking his eyes from the stream of passengers.
“I was on that flight,” Calvin continued. “Maybe I can help.”
Finch glanced at the smiling moron distracting him from his job. Probably a fag. “You can help yourself get the fuck outta’ my face.”
Calvin took a step back, fear and sadness washing his face. “I was only trying to help.”
“Yeah? Well, like I said, fuck off.”
Calvin dropped the surprised bit and sighed. “I’ll pray for you, my son.” He nodded and turned. Calvin got three steps, wondering if this guy’s brain would actually make clicking noises as he got around to it. Then from behind, “Hey, wait a minute!”
Calvin spun around, his face opening. “Yes?”
“You a priest?”
“What gave me away?”
“I was looking for a guy in a, ya’ know, a collar.” Finch made a slashing motion at his throat.
In a different context, a move like that from a guy like Cheap Suit would definitely require defensive action. Calvin stepped closer. “In this type of situation—working for someone who likes to keep a low profile—I like to do the same.” He stuck out a hand. “Father John Calvin,” he said and watched as Finch’s face broke out into a sweat and a smile at the same time.
“You’re?”
Finch grabbed Calvin’s hand and mashed it, pumping up and down. “Ian Finch. Sorry ‘bout that other shit, father. Been goin’ through some rough times lately.” It was like shaking hands with a Disney monster. “You got bags or anything?”
“Just this,” Calvin indicated the battered carry-on strapped over his shoulder.
AS THEY DROVE through a curtain of smokey mist, Finch tried to keep the conversation light, chatting about the crappy weather and asking if Calvin had ever been to Detroit. Mr. Mason had ordered him to just pick up the priest. He didn’t say anything about bringing the Father up to speed on the brat. If he was here for the reason Finch thought, he’d find out soon enough on his own. Jesus, what the fuck did you call a priest for anyway, right? It was either for a wedding, a funeral, or…
“So the kid possessed or what?” Calvin asked.
Okay, so the padre was already up to speed. “I, ah,” Finch didn’t know how to answer. It was so easy in the movies. A person starts speaking in a voice that isn’t his, starts throwing up and pissing all the over place, maybe bites a dead guy’s cock off, and all without any kind of medical or head-shrinker reason, you pretty much come out with it and say the person’s possessed. That was in the movies. In real life Finch heard himself say, “Yeah, I guess he probably could be,” and wondered if he was the one who’d gone crazy.
Calvin watched the highway slide by through the armored window, the white line, white line, white line refracted and bent by the thickness of the glass. “You don’t believe in God,” he said.
“I, ah, I used to go to church when I was a kid.”
Calvin didn’t say anything. Just for kicks he theorized about what kind of charge it would take to get through a car like this. A one-inch thick brass plate on top of a box of C4 might do something interesting. Of course, you’d have to get the timing just so.
“I stopped going, though, after I left home.”
“Uh huh.” A red Cooper-Mini zipped by on the right. The candy apple paint job sang through the gray air. Calvin took a breath. “Listen,” he said, “Finch.”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve read some files. I know about Mason. Shit, I probably know as much if not more about your boss than you do. So, don’t be coy, okay? The more you level with me, the better the kid’s chances that he’ll come out of this relatively unscarred.”
Finch’s grip tightened on the wheel, ten jointed snakes squeezing. “Okay.”
“So, the kid possessed or what?” Calvin zeroed on the big man’s face, its stress points.
“Yes.” A tear popped over the inside corner of Finch’s right eye, ran down the side of his nose and sluiced into a laugh line. His expression didn’t change and he didn’t seem to be aware of it. “You know about all the tests and shit they did?” Finch asked.
“Yes.”
“You know about how the kid was before and how he is now?”
“Some.”
Another crystal welled at the rim of Finch’s eye, but this time he absently wiped it away before it could run. He put on a turn signal and sailed the Lincoln toward an exit, the tires hissing on the wet pavement. “You know about Sinclair?” he asked.
“The one the boy killed. Another bodyguard.” Calvin glanced away. “Like you.”
Finch’s voice was steady, maybe by force of will alone, but the tears came freely now. He didn’t even attempt to wipe them away. Twin lines of saltwater ran down his cheeks. “You know how he died?”
“Not all the details, no. I understand the boy did it. That it was bad.”
“I
’ve seen a lot of bad stuff, Father. I’ve done a lot of bad stuff… to people, you know?” Hell, the Father’d read some file, right? He knew what was up. Could be he was just bullshitting, but Finch didn’t get the idea that this priest was your normal everyday clergy. Matter of fact, Finch kind of got the feeling he was talking with another made guy when he was talking with the padre. Like he knew stuff about the hard parts of life that a normal priest wouldn’t know, shouldn’t know. Like from the vantage point of someone who made life hard instead of someone who listened to the poor saps with a bad time.
“I’ve messed some people up in real bad ways,” Finch said. “You follow me?”
“I follow.”
“I even helped torture a guy for somethin’ like three days. You couldn’t hardly tell it was him when we was all through. But I ain’t never, ever seen anything like the thing with Sinclair.”
Calvin turned to face Finch full on. “Listen up, man,” he said. “I don’t know exactly what you saw or what it did to you. I don’t think I even need to know, but I’m sure of one thing: you better get your shit together in a hurry.”
Finch lifted an eyebrow and threw a look at Calvin. Most people talked to him like this, they got a good smack upside the head. Minimum. In Calvin’s case Finch kept quiet.
“Everything you’ve seen,” Calvin sighed. He rubbed his eyes. “It’ll get worse.”
FORTY MINUTES SLID by under the Lincoln’s black wheels. Most of it in silence. Calvin gazed through the windshield as they pulled past the gates at the head of Mason’s driveway, the tires popping over gravel. The house loomed. They pulled up at the front door and Finch keyed off the engine. Calvin could hear it ticking behind the dashboard, powerful and hot. Finch stared out at a window on the upper floor of the east wing. Calvin dropped his head a little so he could look at what held Finch’s attention.
“That his room?” Calvin asked.
“Yeah.”
“How long have you known the boy, Mr. Finch?”
“Few years. Mr. Mason brought me on a while back. I used to be in trucking.”
“Driver?”
“Distribution.”
“Right,” Calvin sighed. “The kid, um, doing anything special?”
Finch turned. “You fuckin’ kiddin’ me?”
Calvin smiled. “I mean, other than the talking in strange voices and the messy bathroom stuff. Has he done anything that would count as…I don’t know, supernatural?”
“Does making stuff move without touching it count as supernatural?”
Calvin’s eyebrows lifted off. “Whew,” he whistled. “Yes, it does.”
“He’s strong, too.”
“That’s to be expected.”
“No,” Finch said, putting a damp hand on the seat between himself and Calvin. “I mean it. He’s really strong. Sinclair’s a—was a big guy. One time, before he, uh, died, the kid tossed him across the room like a stuffed animal or somethin’.”
“Drugs?”
“I don’t think he coulda’ been hopped on anything.”
“No, I mean has he been sedated since the aberrations began?”
“I don’t, uh…”
“Have they got him doped up, to quiet him?”
“Oh, yeah.” Finch said, his eyes growing. “They got him on all kinds of shit. Thorazine and somethin’ else, Emma said.”
“The nurse?”
“Yeah, she’s kept him doped to the gills, but it only works sometimes.”
Calvin watched Finch, nodded for him to continue.
“It’s like sometimes the kid’ll be asleep, or look like he’s sleepin’.”
“Faking it.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll watch myself.”
Finch looked at Calvin for a minute, running a scan of his own. “You’re not a regular priest, are you, Father?”
“If you mean, do I work in a big building with uncomfortable bench seating and candles? No.”
“So, you’re like a what, a missionary?”
Flash of the Ute boy in Calvin’s memory, the rattle of pit vipers. The dream. “In a sense, I guess you could call me that. I travel around and do special assignments.”
“So you ever do anything like this before?”
“Like what?” Calvin said quickly. “Save a kid?” He looked up at Jeremy’s window. The curtain was drawn, the glass threw a blank white reflection. “I have.”
That wasn’t what he meant, but Finch wasn’t sure how much he should ask. Most likely, he’d already gone too far and would hear about it from Mr. Mason later, but his curiosity was just too much. This priest, this special priest had something about him. Maybe they’d get through this. Maybe everything would go back to normal in a little while.
“C’mon, Father,” Finch said, popping the auto-locks. “Mr. Mason’s waitin’ for you.”
Finch offered to carry Calvin’s bag again and was again refused. He shrugged and led the way into the house. Calvin stepped into the slate foyer and stopped. He looked down at the hairs on his arm as they stood like grass shoots growing in a stop-motion film. The air was charged. Finch felt it too and both men stood, silent. Up the sweeping oak staircase, deep into the house, a monster waited. Calvin could feel its smile.
“It’s, uh, this way, Father,” Finch said and led Calvin toward what he guessed was the back of the house. They moved through a hallway, enclosed on one side with exposed brick and on the other with multi-paned glass. The windowed hall looked out on a private garden, complete with a bronze replica of the Venus di Milo. The damp clung to her skin and dripped like crystal milk from her tarnished nipples. Finch stopped at a wooden door that reminded Calvin of the men’s lounges you find in expensive country clubs.
“Go on in, father.”
Calvin stepped past and put a hand on the doorknob. “Mr. Finch,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “Answer me honestly. No bullshit. Can I count on your help through this?”
“Of course, Father,” Finch said.
Calvin nodded and turned away. He wasn’t so sure. He pushed open the door to the smell of rubber and bright fluorescent lights. Two men in white leggings and jackets faced off on a raised platform. The larger of the two men might have glanced at Calvin. It was difficult to tell as their faces were obscured by mesh helmets, but Calvin thought the big guy had automatically registered his presence. In the instant he did, the other man lunged forward and pressed a furious attack. The blades scraped and clicked, echoing in the vaulted space. Almost as soon as it began the larger man fell back a step and swore.
“That’s match, Horton.”
“Good hit, Mr. Mason.” Horton slipped off his helmet, his bald head gleaming with sweat. “Looks like your guest is here, sir.”
Frank Mason left his helmet on and turned toward Calvin. “Father Calvin,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”
“I go where I’m assigned, Mr. Mason.”
Mason said nothing. He let Calvin wonder what his face might be up to behind the mask for a moment, then asked, “You have any experience with this kind of thing?”
Calvin glanced at Horton, took in his stance, the distribution of his weight. He gave the impression of a fierce hawk tethered to his master by an invisible cord. This one was trained. Calvin looked back at Mason, the blank mask, and said, “The file said you’d been working with Doctor Riley.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Mason. I thought you knew.” Calvin frowned. “I guess you could consider me patient zero.”
Mason pulled off the helmet. His dark hair stood out in sweaty locks, but still managed to look styled. He hopped down off the runway and walked up to Calvin. “You’re the boy? From Riley’s story?”
Calvin made eye contact, held it. “I was.” Emptiness behind Mason’s eyes. Calvin had martyred a woman off Cape Town two years ago. About a minute after he’d dumped the body off the boat a Great Whi
te had broken the surface and ripped into the corpse. It’s eyes were like Mason’s, singular, robotic. “But that was a long time ago,” Calvin said.
“But you’re qualified to handle our problem.”
“That’s why they sent me.”
Mason smiled. “When this is over, you’ll have to give my regards to Thom Neary. It’s been a long time.”
Calvin also showed his teeth. He nearly asked how Mason and His Eminence knew each other but let it go. Some back alley dealing in which the Church required a certain touch, most likely. He’d get the details from Neary some other time if it came up. If there was another time.
“Mr. Mason,” Calvin said. “Before I take a look at Jeremy I’d like to talk with you about the boy, get some background.”
“That might be a problem right now,” Mason said. Using his teeth he stripped his fencing glove and shot his wrist out. He glanced at the revealed platinum Rolex. “I’ve got an appointment that can’t be missed.” Mason glanced backward over his shoulder. “Mr. Horton?”
“Sir.” Horton hopped down off the platform.
“Please make sure Father Calvin is set up in one of the guest rooms and then answer any questions he might have.”
“Certainly,” Horton said, registering the meaning underneath Mason’s expression. Don’t tell him anything he doesn’t need to know.
Mason turned back to Calvin. “Mr. Horton is in charge of security for my son. He can give you all the background you require. This little indulgence of mine,” he grinned and slashed the air with his foil, “has already cost me more time than I have, or I would see to you myself, of course.”
“Of course.”
Mason gave a sharp nod. “Right then.” He strode toward the door and stopped, turned. “You fence, Father?”
Images of his hand-to-hand and blade training flashed in Calvin’s memory. Insertion points for efficient killing, tactical moves. “Not with swords.”
“You have rapier wit, father.” Mason gave a chuckle that didn’t reach his eyes.
Calvin smiled. Rapier wit. Jesus.
Mason closed the door with a resounding bang. Calvin could almost feel the man receding into the house as if he put off some kind of field. Mason was a sociopath, pure and simple. The rest of the world and its inhabitants were little more than actors in his story, characters in an arcade game that only Mason could play.
Calvin had met his type before, but Mason stood out from the usual profile. He might be a dangerous psycho, but he was a highly functional dangerous psycho. Most sociopaths and their particular disconnect from reality fuck themselves in the end because the real world is not composed of hollow players but of willful individuals. Mason had survived a long time in a complicated and violent game. He might not have believed that the rest of humanity had any intrinsic value, but he wasn’t foolish enough to completely underestimate it either.
“Neither will I,” Calvin muttered.
“Scuse me, father?”
Calvin turned around, faced Horton. “Nothing, Mr.,” he stuck out his hand, “Horton, right?”
“S’right,” Horton said, giving Calvin’s hand a solid pump. “Would you like to follow me to your room?”
“Actually,” he said, “I’m a little thirsty. Can we hit the kitchen? Do a beer? ‘Less you wanna’ grab a shower after that workout with Mr. Mason.”
Horton smiled. This guy was good. He had altered his delivery to mimic Horton’s own personal style. It was something salesmen did. And cops. It was going to be interesting to see just who this Father Calvin turned out to be.
“Nah, I don’t need a shower.”
Calvin raised an eyebrow. “Not much of a workout to stand around and let the boss score off you, is it?”
Before he could stop it, Horton smiled again. The feel of those muscles and their particular pull on his face was noteworthy. It had been a while since he’d had reason to smile. “Even if I tried all that hard,” he said, “Mr. Mason’d still beat the pants offa’ me.”
“Yeah?”
“Hell, yeah. I know a thing or two about fighting...”
Calvin smiled, nodded.
“…and Mr. Mason’s no one you’d want to fuck with.” Horton’s bald dome flushed crimson. “Sorry, Father.”
“Doesn’t bother me. I’m gonna’ hear enough of it from Jeremy in the very near future I suspect.”
Horton shook his head. “You won’t believe some of the sh—stuff you hear comin’ from that kid these days. Blow your mind, Father.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Yeah?”
Calvin nodded, his smile fading. “Lets go get that beer.”
CALVIN AND HORTON sat at a butcher-block bar in the kitchen under bright, clean lights. There were plenty of spaces in the house more graciously appointed. Mason had a miniature cigar bar installed in the basement level, complete with walk-in humidor. While the kitchen stools might not be as sumptuous as the hand-tooled Italian leather arm chairs in the cigar bar, they were far more comfortable to men like Calvin and Horton.
Calvin took a sip of imported Hefeweissen and clunked the bottle down. “That’s damn good. Supposed to count as a lite beer in Europe.”
Horton took a hit himself, smacked his lips. “Not supposed to drink this from the bottle, I guess. Mr. Mason’s got special glasses just for beer.”
“It’s all glass, right?” Calvin said and took another drink. Thank Christ he was at least Catholic. A lot of the other faiths didn’t let clergy have a drop. Calvin put the bottle down and looked at Horton. “How long have you been Jeremy’s security?”
“’Bout a year,” Horton said. “Used to front for Mr. Mason, but I got hurt. When I healed up he asked me to watch the kid.”
Calvin watched a bead of water slide down the outside of his bottle. “Got hurt?”
Horton studied his own bottle, remembering. That red helmet, the pop-pop-pop. “Took a hit in the chest.”
“Nine milli?”
Horton’s head popped up. “What?”
“What gauge was the slug?”
“Nine millimeter, yeah.” Horton chuckled. “You, uh, into firearms, Padre?”
“Not usually, no. Too impersonal. Too hard to be sure.”
Horton sat up straight. What the hell kind of priest had they sent? “Why you tellin’ me this?”
Calvin sighed and took a swig of cold beer. The carbonation and liquid contrasted cold and hot in his throat. He looked at the label on the bottle, Ayinger, noted it, put it down.
“After three minutes of conversation with Mason,” Calvin said. “I could tell the man knows shit about his own son. Not anything past his own requirements of the kid, anyway. I need to know about Jeremy without any bullshit getting in the way.” He looked at Horton full on. “I’m dropping my own bullshit. I’m hoping you’ll do the same.”
Horton stared at Calvin for what would be longer than polite in an everyday conversation. The priest was young, early thirties, but much older underneath. He’d seen things, done things that most men hope only to have nightmares about. It was all over him now that he’d dropped the good salesman façade. Horton hoisted his beer and nodded for Calvin to do the same. Horton clicked his bottle against Calvin’s. “Deal,” he said, smiling. “You go first, though.”
“What do you want to know?”
“How ‘bout you clue me into how you know about ballistics? You sound like you maybe fired a shot or two in your time.”
“Not much anymore.”
“Too impersonal, right?”
Calvin’s right hand, resting on his thigh, twitched. “Yeah.”
Horton sat back on his stool, crossed his massive arms. “What the fuck kind of priest are you, Padre?”
Calvin sighed. How to explain himself to someone outside of the order? “I’m something of a problem solver for the corporate offices in Rome.”
/>
“Problem solver? You mean you’re a fuckin’ cleaner?”
“Yeah, pretty much.” A corner of Calvin’s mouth bent upward. “I’m a little better trained than most, though.”
Horton uncrossed his arms, leaned in. “What kinda training?”
Calvin felt strange, light-headed. He looked at this enormous thug, slouching at the kitchen table in white fencing gear, the track lighting reflected on his perfect head. Calvin got it. He felt unburdened. Forgive me, Horton, for I have sinned. Fuck it then, he let it go and opened up. “Military at first, but then more specialized stuff. Hand to hand, poisoning, blade work. You know, the personal touch.”
Horton grinned like a kid. “How long you been doin’ this?”
Calvin smiled at the excitement in Horton’s voice, his incredulity. “For about fifteen years.”
“How many problems you solved?”
“Enough. More than enough. In fact, I’ve been thinking about calling it a career.”
Horton got quiet for moment. “Back in the gym you said something about being ‘patient zero.’”
“Uh-huh.”
“So, like, this happened to you before? What’s happening to Jeremy. That’s why they called you in for this instead of a regular priest? ‘Cause you’ve been, uh…”
Calvin’s eyebrows lifted. “Host to a demon from hell?”
“Yeah.”
“That and your boss seems to be acquainted with my boss.”
Horton thought about that one for second. He didn’t pretend to know much about Mr. Mason’s affairs outside of his boy’s security, but he knew Mason was deep into a lot of heavy shit. Since he’d started watching over Jeremy full time, Horton was somewhat out of the loop, but he’d learned plenty during his tenure as Mason’s own bodyguard. He had accompanied Mason into more than a few corporate headquarters and even onto a military base a few years back. The man was into everything. He made the usual over-boss look like a pickpocket. It wasn’t hard to believe that he would be in bed with the Vatican as well. Horton shook his head slowly. “Quite a life we lead ain’t it, Father?”
Calvin smiled. “That it is, Mr. Horton.” He took a sip of beer, a little sad now that the bottle was growing light. He wanted another one, but needed to stay frosty for now. “Your turn. How’d you get into this life we lead?”
Horton had more questions, but the good father was finished with his limited biography. “I was a cop if you can believe it,” Horton said.
“I can.”
“Yeah? What gave me away?”
“Way you stand,” Calvin said, waving a hand up and down. “I figured you had some sort of martial training. Thought you might be military.”
Horton nodded. “Hmm.” He’d have to remember that one, the way he stood. “Anyway, I was summarily dismissed.”
Calvin waited for it.
“I was on the take. Kickbacks from corner pushers.” Horton’s eyes went far away and he shook his head. “Long damn time ago.”
“How’d they bust you?”
“I was already under investigation on a brutality deal, so I.A. already had a wild hair up their asses for me. Thought I knew where all my tails were, but I missed one and he got pics of me doin’ a hand-off.”
“Do any time?”
“Not much. Plea bargained my way out of it. I rolled over on a few mid-level dealers and three other cops who were in it with me.” Horton sighed. “I was in for eighteen months.”
“Hard time?”
Horton thought of a rival from inside and his unfortunate end brought on by a sudden hemorrhage at the end of a shiv. “Not for me.”
Calvin smiled. He wasn’t in the business of liking people as a general practice. It just wasn’t practical, but he liked Horton. “How’d you end up working for Mason? One of his boys inside with you or what?”
“Nope.” Horton took a long drink. “Few months after I got out,” he smiled, “—good behavior—one of the street punks I’d testified against got it in his head that it would be a good idea to step up with a little payback.”
“He was apparently unsuccessful.”
Horton rolled up his sleeve, revealing a cord of shining scar tissue along his forearm. “It always blows me away how many guys’ll just freeze up if you block a blade with your arm.” He rolled his sleeve down. “Anyway, I got it away from him and showed him how to block a knife with his fuckin’ eyeball. Turns out he worked for one of Mr. Mason’s distributors. Word got back about who I was and what I’d done.”
“And Mason offered you a job?”
Horton smiled and spread his palms face up. Voila.
“So you started out as his personal security?”
“Hell no,” Horton said. “Had to prove myself first. Solve a problem.” He winked. “Punk who gave me this,” he slapped his forearm. “Looked like a pirate when I met up with him again, eye-patch an’ all. He was sSeungming. I mean, no big deal right? Everybody sSeungs, but this moron was way over the top.”
Calvin leaned in. “How’d you do it?”
“I got a bigger knife and put it through his other eye. Just pushed a little harder.”
Okay, Calvin definitely liked Horton.
“Mr. Mason gave me a few more jobs and I took care of ‘em well enough to get promoted, I guess you’d call it.” He rubbed his chest absently. “The rest you know. I took a hit and Mr. Mason decided he wanted me to look after the kid.” Horton’s smile faded.
They were quiet for a while, each man’s thoughts roaming over private oceans. Calvin lowered his voice. “He a good kid?”
Horton looked at Calvin. “The best. If my life had gone different, you know? I’d a been a happy man to have kid like Jeremy. He’s amazing.”
“You miss him, don’t you.”
Horton looked away. It was funny, he spent most of his time sitting at the bedside of what everyone still called “Jeremy,” but he hadn’t seen the real boy in weeks. “I really do, Father. I mean, I know that I haven’t done enough good in this life to deserve it, but I wonder if I was some kinda’ saint in another life to get to be with this kid now.”
“I’ll be straight with you, Horton,” Calvin said. “I don’t know if I can get him back.”
Horton looked at the table. “I don’t like hearin’ that.”
“I don’t like saying it, man. But we’re not bullshitting, right?”
Horton nodded. “Yeah, okay. Whaddya need to know, you know, to increase the chances?” Horton balled his fists. “I mean, how is this shit supposed to work? I can’t believe I’m even havin’ this fucking conversation, you know? I can’t believe I’m talking to a fucking exorcist for chrissake.” He rubbed his eyes, his voice growing low and soft. “Feels like I’m going crazy sometimes in this house.”
“How long since you got any decent sleep?”
“Dunno’. Two or three days.” He looked at Calvin, his eyes large. “Last time I really crashed hard, fuckin’ Sinclair got gutted. I just…” He trailed off.
Calvin gave him a minute to get it together. Horton was going to be his main line of information on the boy, Calvin needed to be on his good side. He wasn’t going to get there by psychologically smacking him around like he had Finch. After it appeared Horton had shaken off the worst of it, Calvin asked, “You okay to keep talking about this?”
“Yeah,” Horton sniffed. “I’m good. Mr. Mason said you got some kind of file on everything, right? You already know all the basic stuff, I guess?”
“What I really need to know is something about Jeremy that he’ll respond to.”
“Jeremy, the real Jeremy, won’t respond to shit,” Horton said. “He’s just gone.”
“No he’s not,” Calvin said quietly. “He’s in there.”
Horton didn’t want to think about what that meant.
Calvin sat up straight at the table. ??
?Hell with it,” he said with a smile that was a little too bright for Horton’s liking. “Let’s just go get acquainted.”