Carpe Demon: Adventures of a Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom (26 page)

“No,”
he howled. “No school. No, no school. Go home. Go.
Home
.” Big tears rolled down his cheeks, and I tried to get a grip, reminding myself that this was for his own good—without day care, demons might take over the town, and then where would we be?

I felt my cheeks flame, embarrassment battling with an almost physical need to pick up my child and cuddle him. Nadine, of course, had seen this before, and she passed Tim a toy truck from her desk, at the same time offering me a reassuring smile. “He’ll be in the Explorers classroom with Miss Sally. They’re on the playground right now. I bet that will help Tim get over his first-day jitters.”

As it turned out, she was right. After a few more minutes of clinging and shouting “No, Momma, no!” at the top of his lungs, Tim discovered the sandbox and soon settled in to shovel a beach worth’s of sand next to a little boy in Bob the Builder overalls.

Nadine tapped my arm. “We should head back inside while he’s occupied.” I nodded, but didn’t move. My heart was all twisted in my chest, and my stomach hurt. How could I leave? What kind of a mother was I?

A mother who needs to stop a High Demon from raising an army and killing off the population of San Diablo
, I answered myself.

At the moment, though, as I left my baby in the care of strangers, that really didn’t seem good enough.

 

 

I worked off my guilt
sparring with Cutter. We started with a few basic stretches, but quickly moved on to the full meal deal, focusing on jabs and crosses, parrying kicks and quartering, and my favorite—spinning back kicks.

This time Cutter was ready for me, and I had to work my tail off just to keep from getting pummeled. I still fully intended to nail him. I just needed to find the right opportunity.

“You’re good,” I said, parrying an expertly executed cross-behind side kick. “I came to the right place.”

“I’m motivated,” he said. “Can’t get shown up by a skirt twice.”

“A skirt? Who are you, Phillip Marlowe?”

“Think of me as your worst nightmare, sweetheart,” he said, in a full-on Humphrey Bogart voice. I laughed, and he used my distraction to lash out and send me sprawling. “Concentration, Connor. Gotta work on concentration.”

I glared at him from my ignominious position on the mat. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. I reached a hand up, and he took it, more than happy to help me to my feet.
Sucker.
I yanked him down, leaping up as he took my place on the floor.

“Not bad,” he said from his new perspective.

“I’ve still got a few tricks.”

He climbed to his feet and looked me up and down. “Yeah, I think you do.”

I tried to stand there under his scrutiny without wincing. Not easy. I’m pretty sure every inch of my body was bruised (all the more reason to avoid romantic encounters with my husband, at least during the daylight hours) and I hated feeling on display. “We’ve still got a good forty-five minutes,” I said. “You aren’t quitting on me yet, are you?”

His grin was slow and confident. “You’re not getting off that easy, Connor.” He held his arm out, wrist bent, as he waggled his fingers, Matrix style. “You ready?”

“Always,” I said.

We covered the basic territory for the rest of the hour, giving me the chance to practice a variety of moves, both offensive and defensive. By the time we finished, I was wishing I’d let Stuart talk me into putting a hot tub in our backyard. But sore as I was, I felt pretty damn cocky. Even after all these years I still had some pretty good moves.

Breathless, I dug a towel out of my duffel bag and draped it around my neck.

“You done good,” Cutter said. “I guess I’ll see you and your kid tomorrow.” He took a gulp of Gatorade and wiped his mouth. “It’ll be a trip showing the class what you’ve got.”

I shook my head. “Tomorrow, you’re going to find a significantly less skilled Kate. Blow my cover, and I promise you’ll pay for it the next morning.”

“I consider myself warned.” He stared at me for a moment, and in his eyes I saw a hint of the naval officer he used to be. “You ever going to tell me your story?” he asked.

“Don’t hold your breath,” I said. And when he smiled, I knew that Cutter wouldn’t hold my secrets against me. I also knew that he’d keep trying to figure me out.

 

 

The idea of
sitting in the cathedral basement with hundreds of pages still to review lacked appeal, but I knew I had to do it. At the same time I was curious about Eddie, even though Larson had assured me the retired Hunter wouldn’t be an asset. In the end, procrastination and curiosity won out over bugs and responsibility, and I called Larson’s chambers from the car to let him know I was coming.

Since his clerk told me he’d be on the bench for at least another hour, I decided to use that time to run errands, pretending all the while that my life was just as normal and mundane as it had always been. I hit the dry cleaners, bank, and post office, then decided to go ahead and buy Allie’s cell phone before heading toward the government complex.

By the time I parked, I felt good. Centered. My Hunter life had snuck back up on me, true, but that didn’t mean my family wouldn’t have cash, stamps, or freshly pressed clothes.

I’ve been to the complex dozens of times to meet Stuart for lunch, but he worked in the county attorney’s office, and Judge Larson was in the courthouse. I got a bit turned around, and ended up in Stuart’s part of the complex.

I was just about to pop my head into an office and ask directions when I heard Stuart’s voice. I froze.

“I have the proposed zoning changes on my desk,” he was saying, his voice growing louder as he approached the corner. I darted into the first office I saw, my heart pounding wildly. I had no reason to be down there. What would I tell Stuart if I saw him? I hadn’t even told him about Timmy’s day care yet. I could hardly explain a lunchtime encounter with Judge Larson.

I kept my ear pressed to the closed door, listening as footsteps approached, then receded. Only when I could hear nothing did I let myself breathe again.

“Excuse me?” a voice behind me asked. “May I help you?”

I spun around, feeling incredibly foolish, even more so when I saw the woman behind the reception desk staring at me, concern all over her face.

“Are you okay?” From her tone, I think she thought I was running from a deranged killer. Either that, or I was the deranged killer and I was running from the cops.

“Sorry,” I said. “My boss. I’m not supposed to be taking a break. I didn’t want him to see me.”

Considering I was wearing stretchy yoga pants, sneakers, and a plain blue T-shirt, I’m surprised this approach worked. The girl didn’t question me, though (perhaps she simply wanted me gone), and I slipped back out the door and into the hall. It was only after I’d gone five paces that I realized I still had no idea where to find Larson.

After a few more false starts, I found someone to ask, and arrived at Larson’s courtroom just as he was finishing up a bunch of pretrial rigmarole. I went and sat on the wooden seats in the galleys, watching him rule on the various motions and objections. Hard to believe the same man was my
alimentatore
. That just last night he’d destroyed a demon.

The last pair of attorneys finished battling it out (metaphorically speaking), and the bailiff did the “all rise” thing. I caught Larson’s eye as he stood to leave, and he nodded at me, the movement almost imperceptible. As soon as he’d disappeared into his chamber, I approached the bailiff. Less than a minute later I was escorted back into the hallway.

Compared to the pristine, awe-inspiring federal courtroom, the backroom area was downright bland. Larson’s office kicked it up a notch—a huge mahogany desk, matching credenza, framed gold photos, and even a Water-ford dish filled with hard candy—but even that room was so piled with papers and briefs that he had to clear a chair off just so I had someplace to sit. At least now I knew why he had no time to schlep through buggy boxes with me.

“You want to know more about Eddie,” he said, a small smile playing around his mouth.

I shrugged. “What can I say? I’m persistent.”

“One of your finest qualities,” he said. “I told you he was infirm, but the more I think about it, the more I think you may as well talk to him. It certainly can’t hurt, and you being a Hunter might bring him out of his funk.” He spread his hands. “Perhaps Eddie will have insight, perhaps he won’t. But it can’t hurt to try, right?”

“Sure,” I said. From the way he described the old man, I wasn’t going to get my hopes up.

Larson moved around his desk to lean against it in front of me, his forehead creased. “By the way, how is Stuart?”

“He’s fine. Wasn’t crazy about being nursemaided to death, but he’ll survive. Once I washed away all the dried blood, there really wasn’t much under there except a few nicks and scratches.”

“When he drove up, you were on the verge of telling me what you’d discovered in the archives.”

I stifled a snort of derisive laughter. “You mean what I didn’t find. There are eighty million boxes down there, all crammed full of paper and uncataloged gifts. There’s a tiny bit of organization, but it’s going to take me a while to get my bearings.” I gave him the rundown of what I’d done so far, such that it was. I almost told him I was going to let Laura help me out, too, but in the end I held my tongue. I’d broken rules by dragging her in, and I didn’t really want to admit my guilt. If Laura discovered something amazing, then I’d tell him. In the meantime, I figured ignorance was bliss.

Larson rubbed his chin, obviously processing the information. “I see your problem. The IRS lists provide some help, but the playing field is still large.”

“And teeming with bugs,” I added.

“I can’t do anything about the vermin, but I’ve been doing some research on my end, and I think I may be able to narrow your search.”

“Great,” I said. “How?”

“Apparently, the monk whose cell was the most destroyed was Brother Michael.”

“Should that mean something to me?”

“No, but Brother Michael is the monk who committed suicide.”

“That
is
interesting,” I said. “I still can’t figure out why a monk would commit suicide.” I was talking more to myself than Larson, and I answered myself, too. “He wouldn’t. Not unless he’d lost his faith or believed it was for the greater glory of God. Or if the death was indirect and he wasn’t really looking to kill himself. Like someone running into a burning building to save a baby, even though he knows he probably won’t get out.” I met Larson’s eyes. “Or someone running who leaps from a building to escape demons, perhaps?”

“Most likely,” he agreed.

“Or maybe it was more proactive,” I said. “What if the thing Goramesh was looking for wasn’t in his cell? And what if the monk was afraid he’d reveal the location if he were tortured?”

“And so he killed himself rather than reveal it?” Larson frowned thoughtfully. “Possible. Definitely possible.”

“Yeah,” I said, warming to the idea. “The demon tortured him, and Brother Michael broke, revealing San Diablo. But rather than spill the rest of it, he threw himself from the window.”

“Very good,” Larson said, nodding slowly. “Yes, yes, I believe you’re on to something.”

I sighed, proud and frustrated all at the same time. “Not enough. We already knew it was in San Diablo, and we’re not any closer to knowing what
it
is.”

“Patience, Kate. When you next review the archives, keep an eye out for donations from Italy. Or anything that could have a connection to Brother Michael.”

“Right,” I said, making a mental list. Benedictine, Florence, monasteries. I’d try to find out the monk’s family name, and Laura could try to track down relatives in California, or see if Brother Michael had any connection to Larnaca, or that cathedral in Mexico. You never knew. “At least we have a little bit more of a plan.” I still didn’t relish the detective end, but at least I could see some tiny bit of progress.

He glanced at his watch. “We should wrap this up. I have a status conference in a criminal case schedule in fifteen minutes.”

“Sure,” I said. “No problem. But you haven’t told me where Eddie is yet.”

“Of course, of course,” he said. “He’s currently living out his days at the Coastal Mists Nursing Home.” Something flashed across his face. Worry, perhaps? “I hope he’ll be of some help, but we shouldn’t get our hopes up. My understanding is that on a bad day he makes no sense, and on a good day he rattles on about decapitating demons in his youth. The staff thinks he’s crazy.” Larson met my eyes. “I’m more inclined to think he has Alzheimer’s and is reliving his glory days.”

I didn’t say anything, but I felt oddly defeated. Larson had already told me Eddie was feeble, so nothing had changed in that regard, but now another worry nagged at me—would that be me one day? Alone at the end of my days, senile and yammering on about my escapades with Eric?

No
. I had a family. I had kids. I had a husband who loved me. Unlike Eddie Lohmann, I wasn’t alone. I closed my eyes then and said a silent prayer for Eddie. I’d never met the man, but still we shared a bond.

I’d pay him a visit. It was, after all, the least I could do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I stopped by
Laura’s before heading to Coastal Mists and found her perched at her kitchen table, her laptop open, her fingers tapping at her keyboard. I moved to stand behind her and found myself looking down at the Web site for the Larnaca tourist bureau.

“I’m trying to impress you with my resourcefulness,” she said. “How am I doing so far?”

“Not bad.”

“Good. Because the only location you told me about was Larnaca, so after this, I’m stumped. Although I did do some research on the cathedral earlier this morning.”