“But you feel the situation has been misrepresented by the media?” I didn’t like where this was going.
“Much of the coverage has been fair and justified. Some has not. All I am saying is that another scandal would be devastating to the church.”
Morris dropped the hand and lifted his mug. Didn’t drink.
“A few rogue priests do not define who we are. Deep in my soul I believe the clergy is made up of moral and honorable men. Men who love God and their fellow human beings and want to make a difference in this world.”
Morris looked past me for a moment. But I saw his face reflected in the secretary glass. In his eyes I saw pain, perhaps fear.
My mouth went dry. I braced myself, certain Morris was about to tell me Granger Hoke had sexually molested children.
I could not have been more wrong.
Morris turned back to me, face tired and sad.
“In 1998, Granger Hoke was defrocked for performing unauthorized exorcisms.”
“Exorcisms.” Not sure if the feeling washing through me was relief or shock.
“Yes.”
“As in driving out demons?”
“I suppose you could put it that way.”
“How would you put it?”
“As defined in the catechism of the Catholic Church, an exorcism is the public and authoritative demand, in the name of Jesus Christ, that a person, place, or object be protected against the power of the Evil One, and withdrawn from his dominion.”
“Satan.”
“He is real, in some form.”
“This isn’t the fifteenth century, Father.”
“No. It’s not.” Patient smile. “But evil still exists in this world and exorcisms are still performed. In fact, the Vatican reviewed the process and revised the rite in 1999, though use of the traditional Latin form is still permitted.”
“Performed under what circumstances?” I’d seen The Exorcist, The Rite, but that was Hollywood. I was having trouble wrapping my mind around the concept of Lucifer in America in the age of Silicon Valley and Twitter.
Morris sipped his tea before answering, perhaps compiling a list in his head.
“Indicators of demonic possession include supernatural abilities and strength, speaking in foreign or ancient languages not known to the subject, knowledge of hidden or remote things to which the subject cannot be privy on his or her own, aversion to holy objects, profuse blasphemy, sacrilege.”
I could only stare.
“The underlying assumption is that the subject retains his or her own free will, but the devil has taken control of his or her physical body. The ritual involves prayers, invocations, and blessings that—”
“Who can perform an exorcism?”
“Technically, anyone.”
“Technically?”
“Yes. But the church recognizes the dangers inherent in exorcisms conducted by untrained individuals. And the potential for charlatanism. So only an ordained priest is permitted to perform the rite. And only with the express permission of his bishop. Don’t misunderstand me, Tempe. Exorcisms occur extremely rarely, and only following careful medical and psychiatric evaluation.”
“Granger Hoke is an ordained priest.”
“Was.”
“Fine. What was the problem?”
Morris raised the mug to his lips, lowered it without drinking.
“At one time, the function of exorcist was part of the ordination of priests. In hierarchy, the office fell somewhere above deacon and below full priest. Few seminaries now train exorcists, and today any ordained priest may perform the rite. But only those appointed by the bishop or archbishop are allowed to do so with the blessing of the church.”
“Official exorcists.”
“Yes.”
“How many are there?”
“Typically, one per diocese or archdiocese.”
“And Hoke wasn’t one of those sanctioned.” I could see where this was going.
“No.”
“Yet he kept doing it.”
“Though reprimanded and told to desist. But unauthorized exorcism wasn’t the only issue. Hoke was eventually relocated from the Midwest to North Carolina. In the mid-nineties, while pastor of a small parish in Watauga County, he began deviating from traditional Catholic teachings, shifting toward a more fundamentalist, Pentecostal doctrine.”
Morris nodded to himself and looked down at his mug.
“Did you know that exorcisms are performed by charismatic, Pentecostal, and many other brands of Christianity? I read recently that, by conservative estimates, there are at least five or six hundred evangelical exorcism ministries in existence today, quite possibly far more.”
“Hoke put a hellfire spin on his preaching?”
“He did.”
“And it got him booted.”
“Defrocked. After that he vanished for a while, eventually reappeared in Avery County and established the Jesus Lord Holiness church. Though ordered not to do so, he calls himself a priest, wears a cassock and collar, says Mass, administers the sacraments, and preaches his own distorted version of Catholicism.”
“Which features a starring role for Satan.”
“Yes.”
Somewhere beyond the quiet of the study, a door closed.
“Are exorcisms legal?”
“As long as the subject agrees of his or her own free will.”
“So the church has no way to stop a rogue like Hoke.”
“Sadly, no.”
“Anything else?”
A second slipped by. When Morris answered, his voice had the same guarded tone I’d heard on the phone. “No.”
In that brief hesitation I knew he was lying. Or at least holding back.
“Thank you, Father.” I stood.
Morris walked me to the door. Said “God be with you.” Offered a blessing. I took a pass.
“Remember what I’ve said about honor among priests, Tempe. I believe in it. And I believe in the church.”
I didn’t respond, knowing my voice would betray my suspicion about his forthrightness. I started down the steps.
“Tempe.”
I turned.
“Be careful.”
I left him, bathed in lamplight, framed by the needlework woman in her halo and robes.
—
Back home, I hit the fridge, made myself a ham and salami sandwich, and popped a Diet Coke. My mind was snapping with a horrifying new solution to the puzzle. But there were still gaps.
Nerves humming, I booted my Mac, eager to dig up everything I could on Granger Hoke. To snug into place the last missing pieces.
And found zip.
But I learned volumes about exorcism.
Hours later, I slumped back in my chair. The room had darkened around me. The cold cuts and bread felt solid as a rock in my gut.
I knew the victims. The probable cause of death. The meaning of the trace.
Inexplicably, I felt an overpowering desire to talk to Ryan. More than a desire. A need.
I lit a lamp and relocated to the couch. Dialed.
Ryan answered sounding, well, nothing. When motivated, the man is a master at disguise.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” he said.
“Did you get my email?”
“Yeah.” Too flat.
“You do understand why I had to cancel?”
“It’s a mean business we’re in.” There was a nuance I couldn’t read low in his voice.
“Are you working something?” To avoid treading dangerous ground.
“Homicide. Farmer found facedown in his barn outside Saint-Amable. Jean-Guy Lessard.”
“Is it going well?”
“Not for the asshole I’ve got in the box.”
“What’s the story?” Barely interested. Wanting to get on with my own.
“Lessard feels sorry for the neighbor kid, hires him for odd jobs as an excuse to toss money his way.” I heard the flare of a match, a soft fizz, an expulsion of air. “T
uesday, Lessard goes into town, so the kid decides to check out the safe. Lessard returns early, surprises him. The kid panics, puts three slugs in his chest.”
“No good deed goes unpunished?”
“You’ve got it.”
“It’s a solve, Ryan. You did your job.”
“Pop the bubbly.” No masking now. Ryan sounded raw-edged and spent. “The poor schmuck leaves behind a wife, three kids, and a crappy ten acres.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t help. You at home?”
“I am. You?”
“Yeah.” Ryan took another deep pull on his cigarette.
“I had it all wrong,” I said.
A moment. Then, “The Teague thing?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t think the kid’s dead?”
“I do think she’s dead. And Mason Gulley.”
“I’m listening.”
I told him about my conversations with Susan Grace Gulley and Katalin Brice. About Mason Gulley’s head in the concrete. About Denver’s trace evidence report.
“What the hell’s boswellic acid?”
“A substance extracted from the resin of trees in the family Burseraceae. Most of it comes from the Arabian Peninsula, Somalia, India.”
“For what?”
“It’s an ingredient in a wide range of health and aromatherapy products. And a component in frankincense.”
“Wise men bearing gifts.”
“I think it was the three kings, but yes.” Birdie hopped onto the couch. I paused to allow him to curl beside me. Perhaps for melodrama. “Frankincense and olive oil are commonly used in the performance of exorcisms.”
“Exorcisms?”
“Yes.”
“Like vomit and levitation and rotating heads?”
“That’s movie bullshit.”
“What’s your point?”
“Millions of people still believe in evil spirits.”
A fractional pause. “You talking about Hoke and his holiness nut brigade?”
I provided a condensed version of what I’d learned from Morris. The unauthorized exorcisms. The shift toward a hellfire theology. The defrocking.
“Wait. Back up. What are you saying?”
“Mason’s grandmother referred to him as unnatural. Cora’s father called her a whore. Both are missing. The trace suggests Mason was exorcised.”
“Let me get this straight. You’re suggesting the priest killed Cora Teague, dismembered her, and tossed her body parts from overlooks surrounding Brown Mountain?”
“Ex-priest. And I’m not saying it was Hoke.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“And this unknown perp killed Mason Gulley following or during an exorcism, cut off his head, stashed it in concrete, then tossed his body parts from the same overlooks?” Ryan’s skepticism was thick as pea soup.
“Could you be a little more condescending?”
“Convince me.”
“Think about it. His own grandmother said he was evil made flesh.”
“What was her beef?”
“She thought he didn’t look or act like a boy should. Maybe it wasn’t just the NJF syndrome. Maybe Mason was gay.”
“Then why run off with Cora Teague?” That tone again.
“I’m just thinking out loud here, Ryan.”
“And Teague?”
“Ramsey and I talked to Cora’s physician, a buffoon who hasn’t updated his skills since the Bronze Age. He was treating Cora for epilepsy.”
“You’re suggesting Gulley was killed because of bad nails and bad teeth, and Teague was killed because she had seizures?”
“If she even had them. I think Cora’s issues were psychiatric.”
“Go on.”
I told him about River Brice, Eli Teague, and the puppy.
“Whoa. You’re saying the kid was homicidal?”
“I’m saying a lot of crap went down around her.”
I waited out another cigarette moment. Smoking meant Ryan was stressed. I was sorely regretting my impulse to share.
“Here’s my take. You have no positive ID on any of the Brown Mountain remains. No DNA. I’m guessing Larabee’s not signing off on Gulley based on a hunk of cement and oddball fingertips.”
“No.”
“You have no known victim, no primary scene, no weapon, no motive, no witnesses, no legit suspect. You don’t know for sure if Cora Teague is dead. Or even missing. Her mental state is mere speculation.”
My face felt like hot tin. Ryan was right. It was all conjecture.
I said nothing.
Ryan took another deep drag, then asked, “How does Hazel Strike fit in?”
“I’m not sure. Strike phoned me three times on Saturday. Maybe she’d uncovered something and told the wrong person.”
Because I’d ignored her. Again the guilt.
“Hoke?” Ryan said.
“I never said the killer was Hoke!” So sharp Birdie scrambled to his feet.
“Tabernac. Don’t bite my head off.”
“Sorry.”
“Have you rolled this past Slidell? He hasn’t mentioned it.”
“When did you talk to Slidell?”
“Couple times.”
“Why?”
“I wanted his take on something. Does that bother you?”
It bothered the hell out of me.
“Let’s talk about something else,” I said.
I heard the sound of Ryan’s phone switching ears. “How’s the weather down there?”
“The trees are in flower. It’s spring.”
“It’s snowing here.” On a very long breath. “The river is still frozen.”
“Try to stay warm.”
“I lit a fire.”
The melancholy in Ryan’s voice sent a million images flaring in my head. His face, which I knew by heart, down to the scar on his brow from a biker’s bottle. The tiny flecks of teal in the too-blue eyes.
I saw in detail the place he was sitting. Where I’d sat so many times. The stone hearth. The snowy river spreading out beyond the wide wall of glass. The leather couch, scratched by Birdie’s claws in an embarrassing rollover.
The guilt and anger morphed into a sudden aching. A hollowness, like a void calling out to be filled.
“Fly down for a visit,” I said softly.
“I’d like that.”
“Soon?”
A beat. Then Ryan sighed. “I didn’t mean to give pushback.”
“Just playing devil’s advocate?”
“Clever pun.”
“It’s what I do.”
I smiled. Wondered if Ryan was smiling a thousand miles to the north.
The moment, if it was one, ended quickly.
“Lay out your scenario for Slidell. See what he thinks.”
“Does Skinny think?”
“He’s a good cop.”
I fell asleep wondering at Ryan’s newborn appreciation of Skinny Slidell.
I woke feeling edgy and out of sorts, as though my skin was no longer large enough for my body. Small wonder, given the stalled progress on the investigation. And the sterling state of my personal life.
It was raining like hell, which ruled out a jog. And I was too bummed to suit up and drive to the gym.
After a bagel and coffee, dressed in baggy sweats and bunny slippers, I settled at the dining room table, determined to stay put until I’d eyeballed every goddamn receipt in the box. At least I’d get Allan Fink off my back.
By four I’d pretty much decided that rolling the dice on a tax audit was preferable to the paperwork hell in which I was stuck. I was deciphering an illegible bill from a restaurant I’d never heard of when a sharp knock rattled the back door. Delighted to escape, I headed to the kitchen.
And froze before clearing the swinging door.
Through the window I could see a figure standing on the back stoop. Tall. Male. Wearing jeans and a weathered brown leather jacket.
; A knot twisted my stomach. I was still feeling off, actually worse than earlier due to the added joy of eyestrain. The last thing I needed was rancor or confrontation.
But something else was peeking around the foreboding that had ballooned in my chest. Something that fluttered softly, like a butterfly on a leaf.
I crossed to open the door. “Surprise, surprise!” A bit too cheery.
Ryan drew a bouquet from behind his back and held it out. “Supermarket special. Best my driver could do.”
“Thank you.” I took the flowers. “They’re lovely.”
“You’re lovely.”
“Right.”
For as long as I’ve known Ryan, he has possessed an uncanny knack for showing up when I look my worst. Self-conscious about the sweats, ratty hair, and absence of makeup, I stepped back.
Ryan entered the kitchen. We kissed. I gestured at the table. He removed his jacket and sat. I noted that he carried only a very small duffel.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” I said.
“Yeah. Took the dawn flight. Better than having to connect.”
He looked tired. I wondered where he’d been since landing at mid-morning.
“Would you like a beer? Something else?”
Ryan shook his head.
“Quite the covert op,” I said. “You never let on when we talked last night.”
“I didn’t know last night. Hope you’re okay with impulse.”
“Of course.” Actually, I was far from okay. Though happy he’d made the effort, I felt, what? Ambushed? Pressured? Definitely pressured.
Moving with fabricated composure, I got a vase from the pantry. Turned on the tap. Filled the vase with water.
“I thought it might help if we talked face-to-face.” Ryan spoke to my back.
I started to toss out a flippant remark. My usual reaction to anxiety. Instead, I unwrapped the flowers.
Ryan went straight for the kill.
“I wrote you a letter, Tempe. An old-fashioned, pen-and-ink communiqué meant to wing its way to you via stamps, aviation, and human sweat.”
I continued disentangling and arranging blossoms.
“I tore it up. They were just words on paper. And hardly expressive.”
“Don’t undersell yourself, Ryan. You’re an excellent writer.”
I heard him catch his breath as though to speak. A beat, then he let it out and the chair creaked softly.