One to Go (31 page)

After making a feeble, bullshit excuse—he had a headache, he had a stomachache, he couldn't recall which—he'd left Zig at the bar and jogged home, making it in under ten minutes. Having pushed for this time to come, he now felt hesitant, maybe a little scared. Maybe a lot scared.

His only understanding of the exorcism rite came from an old movie. The previous night, when Zig asked him if he had any flick requests, he'd mentioned
The Exorcist
as casually as he could.

Though he'd seen the movie a number of times, it still scared the crap out of him. The sight of Linda Blair's head swiveling 360 degrees, spewing green vomit, the vile profanity coming from her young character's mouth, the rising bed, the screams.

Matthew had said a true exorcism was nothing like the depiction in the movie, but Tom was skeptical. The goal of the rite was to force Satan or his demons from their warm nesting place inside a human body. If Chad and Brit were indeed camping out in his soul, then evicting them would be no walk in the park.

Tom sat at his small table and watched the clock on the kitchen wall. Forty more minutes. His eyes fell on his bed. Would he be lying down? Standing? Sitting at the kitchen table chatting with the priest? He realized his bed was in its usual state of unmadeness, which probably wasn't a word. He knew very few men who made their beds unless their wives or girlfriends told them to do it, or if mixed company were expected. Why make a bed when you're just going to mess it up again in sixteen hours? But a priest was not like a regular guy, so he probably ought to make the bed.

He took his time, carefully folding each corner of each sheet and each blanket. He fluffed up the pillows, then concluded it was probably time to change the pillow cases, actually, long past time. When he was finished, he figured he'd probably set a record for
the amount of time a heterosexual male took to make a bed. Then he wondered if there was a bed-making category in the
Guinness Book of Records
. Then he wondered if the Guinness book guy was the same as the Guinness beer guy? If so, there probably was a bed-making category, male division. Then he wondered if he were going mad.

Then there was a knock on the door.

Tom jumped to answer it. The priest entered along with a woman. Like the priest, she was dressed in black.

“We're early,” said Matthew. Tom immediately saw that he was carrying a large black satchel.

“No problem,” responded Tom. “Actually glad. I've been getting a little stir crazy waiting around.”

“This is Sister Irene,” said Matthew.

Probably only a few years older than Tom, Irene would've been generally considered attractive with even a modicum of makeup. As it was, she came across as a warm, wholesome woman, with clear eyes and a disarming smile. Her garb consisted of a long black skirt and a plain white blouse. No white apron and nothing on her head.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Booker.” She smiled, no doubt reading his thoughts. “I teach at Georgetown, where more contemporary clothing is permitted.”

“The rite requires two participants other than the afflicted,” said Matthew.

Tom remembered the last scenes of the movie, where Father Karras assisted the exorcist, Father Merrin, when he performed the rite on Linda Blair.

“Sister Irene is fully aware of the nature of your affliction,” added the priest.

“Sure, great, good to meet you. The more the merrier.” Should he offer them a beverage? Probably not. They weren't here to—

“You by any chance have a Coke?” asked the nun. “My throat's a little dry.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Make that two,” said Matthew.

Tom performed his host duties while Matthew talked.

“First, as I told you, I've never done this before. But I checked with the diocese, and, while I will concede they weren't overly thrilled, they advised me to proceed. Sister Irene and I have been going over the liturgy, rehearsing if you will, and I think we're ready.”

“As ready as we'll ever be,” said the sister.

Tom handed each of them a glass of Coke on ice. “So, do I lie down on the bed for this, like in the movie?”

Matthew hesitated only for a moment. “If you wish.” He glanced at Sister Irene. “There's another less comfortable alternative, maybe a bit more radical, but possibly more effective.”

“I'll do whatever it takes to increase the chances of success.”

“The idea would be to place you in the same position as Christ when he died for our sins.”

Tom stood against the wall with his arms outstretched. “No problem.”

“Your arms will tire, and no one really knows what to expect. Chances are, absolutely nothing will happen. But if something does occur, you might decide it safer for yourself and us if passive restraints were employed.”

“Passive restraints? Sounds so…passive.” Tom figured if the demons were indeed inside him, they might become royally pissed if they were evicted. “Sure, why not?”

Matthew surveyed the room until his eyes fell on the double casement windows behind the kitchen table. With Irene's help, he moved the table aside. The casements were only half windows—the sill looked to be about shoulder height. At the base of each window, a brass handle used to crank the window open protruded out from the sill. Matthew opened his satchel and removed two red silk scarves. He wrapped one of them around a crank handle and pulled hard, testing the handle's strength. The handle appeared solid.

“Do you need to use the restroom first?” asked Sister Irene. “I'm afraid once we start, there won't be an opportunity.”

“I'm good.”

Tom stood in front of the double windows, spread his arms, and allowed Irene to tie his wrists to the crank handles. She moved quickly, like an experienced nurse preparing a patient for surgery. He tugged against the silk, testing it. “You learn how to tie those knots in Girl Scouts?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” She must have noticed his quizzical expression. “Nuns don't descend from Mars, Mr. Booker. We all have had lives prior to entering our chosen work, lives that for the most part were pretty normal.”

Tom wondered if “pretty normal” meant she wasn't a virgin.

Her eyes twinkled. “And the answer to the question that's popped into your head is ‘yes.'”

She stepped back and removed a white surplice from the satchel, then helped the priest don the tunic. Matthew withdrew a purple stole and draped the scarf around his neck. He pulled a black case about the size of a large coffee mug from the satchel, unzipped it, and removed a silver flask.

“Holy water?” asked Tom.

The priest barely nodded. Irene closed the blinds on the windows and turned out all the lights except a single reading lamp next to the couch. Matthew withdrew two black prayer books from the satchel and handed one to Irene. Bookmarks allowed each of them to find the appropriate page. They positioned themselves ten feet away from Tom.

Matthew took a deep breath and glanced at Irene, who responded with a reassuring smile. They closed their eyes in silent prayer, and the only sound Tom could hear was his own breathing.

Hail to the Redskins, Hail Victory
—

“Jesus Christ,” exclaimed Tom and Matthew, almost in unison.

Braves on the war path
—

It was his damn cell phone. Irene reached into his jeans pocket.

Fight for old DC
—

“Other pocket!”

Run or pass and score
—

Sister Irene yanked out the phone and turned it off, then set it on the table.

“Uh, sorry.”

The priest didn't look amused. He and the nun reopened their prayer books.

The priest had barely begun, and Tom felt the sweat dampening his clothing. He wondered if he should keep his eyes closed, like praying in church. He kept them open.

The priest intoned, “Our Father, Who art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name…”

The nun, reading, responded, “
Deliver us from evil
…”

“Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven…”

“
Deliver us from evil
…”

“Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us…”

“
Deliver us from evil
…”

“All holy saints of God…”

“
Intercede for us
…”

“Save your servant…”

As the priest and nun continued the rite, Tom tried hard to feel something, but so far, nothing stirred inside him.

The priest continued, “I command you, unclean spirit, whoever you are, along with all your minions now attacking this servant of God, by the mysteries of the incarnation, passion, resurrection, and ascension of our Lord Jesus Christ, by the descent of the Holy Spirit…”

As Matthew read from the holy book, he made the sign of the cross on his own chest, then stepped forward and repeated it on Tom's brow, lips, and breast.

The nun opened the silver flask and handed it to the priest. He stepped back and sprinkled water from the flask the length of his body.

“God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, I appeal to your holy name, humbly begging your kindness, that you graciously grant me help against this and every unclean spirit now tormenting this creature of yours, through Christ our Lord.”

Tom couldn't feel a thing. The priest stepped forward again, made the sign of the cross over himself and Tom, then draped one end of the purple stole around Tom's neck. He rested his right hand on Tom's head.

The priest raised his voice. “I cast you out, unclean spirit, along with every Satanic power of the enemy, every spectre from hell, and all your fell companions, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. Begone and stay far from this creature of God. For it is He who commands you, He who—”

Tom didn't know whether he was supposed to say anything, but he interrupted anyway. “Uh, Father, not really feeling anything.” Both the priest and nun acted as though they hadn't heard him.

“I adjure you, ancient serpent, by the judge of the living and the dead, by your Creator, by the Creator of the whole universe, by Him who has the power to consign you to hell, to depart forthwith in fear, along with your savage minions, from this servant of God—”

“Father? Matt?”

The priest returned to his position across the room from Tom. “Tremble before that mighty arm that broke asunder the dark prison walls and led souls forth to light—”

Tom figured the priest was so deep into the ritual that he didn't hear him. Tom raised his voice. “Matt—” His lips felt dry, and he extended his tongue to moisten them.

Except his tongue didn't extend. And his lips didn't move. He shouted, but he knew his mouth remained closed. They couldn't hear him.

“Depart, then, transgressor—”

Suddenly, Tom heard clapping.

He turned his head to see Chad and Brit, dressed as Redskins cheerleaders, sitting at his kitchen table watching the exorcism. Each ate from a bag of popcorn.

“It's them! They're right here!”

Neither the priest not the nun could hear him.

Matthew continued the ritual. “Give place, abominable creature, give way, you monster, give way to Christ—”

Tom struggled with the bindings, twisting back and forth. He lifted his feet off the ground, sagging against the restraints with his full weight. The restraints held. Tom noticed Matthew's eyes widen, and the priest exchange glances with Sister Irene.
They think it's working, that I'm possessed
.

“Depart, seducer, full of lies and cunning, foe of virtue, persecutor of the innocent—”

Tom hears a high-pitched screech, and, for a moment, the demons' images faded to near nothing—little more than a shadow. Was it working?
Oh, God, thank
—

The images returned.

“Almost had us there,” said Chad. “Great show. Don't you agree, Brit?”

She applauded. “Excellent. Three stars.”

“Only three?”

“Love the writing, but I wonder if the performance wouldn't benefit from a few special effects.”

Chad said, “Why don't we give them what they're expecting? After all, Matt and Irene have gone to a great deal of trouble on Tom's behalf.”

The priest continued, “Therefore, I adjure you, profligate dragon, in the name of the spotless Lamb, who has trodden down the asp and the basilisk, and overcome the lion and the dragon—”

Tom felt his stomach wrench. He gagged, his mouth opened wide, and green vomit dribbled out onto his shirt. The
only time he could remember anything smelling so vile was when he and his dad had found a dead cat under the front porch that had been there for weeks.

“Love it,” said Chad, clapping like a child.

Matthew and Irene froze, unable to take their eyes from the vomit.

“More, more!” exclaimed Chad.

Brit giggled, gargled a popcorn kernel in her mouth, then spit it toward Tom, hitting him in the gut. Suddenly, Tom felt the surge from his stomach. When the viscous liquid rose, it scorched his throat. He opened his mouth to scream and rid his body of the vile invader; the contents shot out like a fire hose, spraying green slime across the priest's vestments.

Matthew stood his ground, and Tom could see the fear on his face, on both of their faces. The priest's words increased in their urgency. “Tremble and flee, as we call on the name of the Lord, before whom the denizens of hell cower, to whom the heavenly Virtues and Powers and Dominations are subject, whom the Cherubim and Seraphim praise with unending cries—”

Chad clapped even louder. “Yes, yes!” He turned to Brit. “I'm getting very excited.” He extended his tongue; it split at the end and each prong encircled toward Tom's face. Tom tried to scream, but no one could hear him. The tongue prongs tightened around his neck.

“Please, I can't breathe.” No one heard him. He struggled violently against the restraints, using all of his weight and power in an attempt to rip loose the crank handles, but to no avail.