I wanted to stay behind the wheel and drive away. Instead, I got out, popped the trunk, and thumbed open the clasps on my scene recovery kit. I dug out two vials, took one tablet from each, placed both in an empty spray bottle, added the remains of my drinking water, and shook. The mixture went into my purse, along with a small flash and a UV penlight. I lowered the trunk cover and, after skimming my surroundings, started toward the church.
The nearer I got, the more the temperature seemed to drop. Which was ridiculous. The sun, though a hair closer to the ridgeline, was as bright as when I’d arrived.
I stopped at the foot of the steps. Then, heart thudding like hoofbeats, I climbed and put my ear to the door.
My nose registered sunbaked wood, dust, polyurethane sealer. My ears registered absolute silence. I tried the handle. Of course it was locked.
While crossing the lawn, I’d noted two north-side windows. I rounded the corner. Both were too high for a view of the church’s interior. And shuttered. I moved to the back of the building.
And came face-to-face with the muzzle of a Browning semiautomatic shotgun.
I froze. The best thing to do when looking down the barrel of a twenty-gauge.
Hoke was by a stand of fir five feet beyond the back wall of the church. He was wearing a black shirt, black pants, and a white clerical collar. Spiky shadows dappled his face and shoe-polish hair.
Though I couldn’t see Hoke’s expression, there was no mistaking his mood. He was coiled, elbows winging, shotgun pointed straight at my chest.
“Father Hoke,” I said.
“Father G. Raise your hands.”
I did.
“You’re trespassing.”
“Isn’t everyone welcome in the Lord’s house?”
“You’ve no business here.”
“Deputy Ramsey will be arriving shortly.” I couldn’t tell what impact my bluff had. If any. “We’d like to talk to you.”
“Again you would disrupt our Sabbath?”
“I’m sorry for that.”
“Your business couldn’t wait one day?”
“Deputy Ramsey and I were concerned. Are concerned. We won’t let it drop.”
Hoke’s grip tightened on the gun.
“There’s no need for firepower.” Fighting to quell the adrenaline roaring through me.
“I don’t want to hurt you. I’m a man of God.”
“Nothing says God like a loaded Browning.”
“You blaspheme.”
“The gun’s not loaded?”
Hoke stepped forward out of the shadows, barrel still level on my sternum. “What do you want?”
“We know about Cora Teague.” Confrontational. But the best my sleep-deprived-adrenaline-pumped brain could provide.
“You know nothing.”
“Inform me.”
“Leave it alone. You will only cause pain.”
“Like the pain you caused Cora?”
No response.
“And Mason Gulley?”
“You have it all wrong.”
“I also know about the little girl in Elkhart.”
“You’ve done your homework.”
“I have. I learned that you are no longer a priest. That the church rejects your fire-and-brimstone brand of Catholicism. Your demons and—”
“Satan exists.”
“So does Lady Gaga.”
“Do you find this amusing?”
“Definitely not.”
“Your attitude reflects everything wrong with modern society.”
“What’s wrong with modern society?”
“This country has spiraled into total cultural desolation.”
“Are we back to rocker chicks?” I knew goading him was dangerous, couldn’t help myself. Blame it on a combo of fear and fatigue.
“You mock. But Satan is at work in the world.”
“Headquartered on Brown Mountain?”
“Again, you make fun.”
“Most people view the devil as allegory.”
“A by-product of mankind’s free will.” Hoke snorted, a bristly little explosion of air. “Satan is real. And he will not stop until he has delivered mankind unto damnation.”
“By setting up shop in kids like Cora and Mason.”
“The climate has never been more favorable for Satan and his minions.”
“Why is that?”
“Today’s young people are being raised in a time when criticism is out of fashion. Can’t be too hard on their fragile little egos. Morality is off the curriculum. Can’t be prejudiced or politically incorrect. Youth are forced to swim through a daily sea of pornography and greed, to function in an atmosphere ruled by what’s in it for me.”
“Your critique is a bit harsh.” I felt vibration in my purse. Ramsey? Slidell? I couldn’t risk lowering my arms to dig for my phone.
“We were a nation built on a Christian God. People went to Mass. Listened to the clergy.”
“Not all Christians are Catholic.” Stalling. Looking for that moment.
“Methodist. Baptist. Catholic. Denomination doesn’t matter. Worship is out of style. No one cares about the Bible, the sacraments, the Ten Commandments.”
“Millions of Americans still attend church.”
Hoke wasn’t listening. He was rolling up his sleeves for a sermon he’d undoubtedly delivered ad nauseam.
“Even mother church has watered down her mainstream teachings. Today’s clergy mustn’t emphasize hell or purgatory. Mustn’t encourage confession. Talk of sin is a downer. We mustn’t induce guilt trips. Angels? Forget it. Far too mystical.”
“What does this have to do with Cora and Mason?”
“People are floundering. With no moral code, the vulnerable haven’t the capacity to resist. The weak are fertile ground for Satan.”
“Targets for demonic possession.”
“Exactly.” Said with such vehemence, I flinched. “And once possessed, there is no remedy.”
“That’s where you come in.”
“The victims of Satan have nowhere to turn.”
“The church supports the concept of exorcism. The Vatican just held a conference on the topic. Some two hundred nuns and priests attended. The pope praised the work of the International Association of Exorcists.” The few tidbits I could recall from my online searches.
“The Holy Father is isolated in the Vatican, surrounded by cardinals. He is no longer effective.” Hoke’s eyes flicked to the church building, came back to me, flaring with anger, maybe fear. “Out here, in the trenches, most priests and bishops don’t listen. They think exorcism makes the church look foolish and anachronistic. They are wrong. The devil is real. Demonic forces are real. The Bible says so in passage after passage. Ephesians six, eleven: ‘Put on the whole armor of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.’ ”
Again my cell vibrated. I was picking up signal, though sporadic. Good. I could be located.
I spoke to cover the sound. “The church says an exorcism should be performed only after extensive medical and psychiatric evaluation.”
“Psychiatrists. With their fancy jargon and therapy and bottles of pills.” Again the nasty expulsion of air. “A lot of good psychiatry did the woman who drowned her five kids. Or the teen who shot up a school full of children. Or the man who killed boys and buried them under his house.”
“What qualifies you to distinguish between psychosis and possession?”
“The Holy Spirit gives me the power of divination.”
“And what if you and the HS guess wrong? What if your subject is actually epileptic? You throw water at her and wave a crucifix in her face?” I knew I should tamp it down. But I was viciously tired and making poor decisions. “Do you consider what harm you might be causing?”
“I can sense when someone is afflicted with a demon.”
“Even if you can, the church requires that an exorcism be performed by a properly trained priest.”
“Deep down my fellow clergy are skeptics.”