The ringing continued.
His dashboard clock read 12:45.
He disconnected.
And shivered.
Traffic began moving again. Curran shot down Commonwealth Avenue and then halted by the Burger King that stayed open later than any other in the city. More traffic.
He sighed.
Lauren.
She’d been amazing in bed this morning. Curran almost grinned. If she’d been holding anything back, it sure hadn’t seemed like it. Her appetite was voracious. They’d sweated their way through at least an hour of non-stop sticky aerobics.
I wouldn’t mind a repeat of that performance, he thought.
But would she?
Something about the way she seemed to give herself so totally to him this morning stuck in his head. Was that the only time she would do so? Would she leave him when this was all over? Would she go back to what she’d originally planned to do?
Would she become a nun after all?
Curran glanced down at the hair on his forearms. They still stood straight up.
He rubbed them down absently but they jumped back to life as if the entire car was surrounded by an electrical field.
Lauren.
His mind kept going to her.
He frowned again.
It got colder in the car.
Curran turned the heater on. But only cold air came out.
“What the hell-?”
Lauren.
He kept saying her name in his head. Why? Or was he really saying it at all? Curran got through two more traffic lights until he came to another stop. Another red light.
And still it remained cold inside his car.
And her name kept repeating in his mind.
Lauren.
Lauren.
Lauren.
Curran glanced down at the portable blue light, most of the unmarked BPD units used. It fed right into the cigarette lighter.
He looked back at the slow traffic. And glanced at the clock.
12:55pm.
It would take him easily another twenty minutes to reach Father Jim’s house in this traffic.
Lauren.
Curran sighed. “Hell with it.”
He jammed the end of the blue light into the cigarette lighter plug and slapped the light on his rearview mirror. He switched on the light and the siren wired into the car already. Instantly cars began parting, and more horns wailed as people tried to get out of his way.
“C’mon,” said Curran. “Move, move, move.”
More cars slid right. A minivan blocked his way. Curran cranked up the volume of the siren and at last the van moved. He shot through, slowed by the intersection by the grocery store and then shot up Commonwealth Avenue into Allston.
At Harvard Avenue, he hesitated but then kept going straight on. It would be easier to get to her by taking a left off of Commonwealth Avenue than trying to snake his way through the neighborhoods.
At last, he broke into the neighborhood where Father Jim lived. Curran switched off the siren as he drew up by the house.
Somehow in the daylight, it looked simply like another house.
There seemed nothing holy about it.
He hopped out, running for her front door.
Reached the door and yanked hard.
Stopped — locked.
“Crap!”
He stooped and examined the lock. It was a serious caliber deadbolt that would take too long to pick.
Curran frowned.
Time’s up.
He turned sideways and used his right elbow to bust through the pane of glass directly next to the lock. The glass shattered and sprinkled the inside floor.
So much for surprise, he thought.
He snaked his hand in and found the lock’s knob — turned it — and tore the door open.
Curran balled himself up and then crashed through the open doorway.
He brought the gun up and moved fast and carefully, bracing himself at doorways as he worked through the house.
He moved down the hall, checked out the living room.
Nothing.
He sidestepped toward the kitchen.
Empty.
Likewise for the bathroom.
He eased to the left side of the house.
Toward the bedroom.
His mind briefly filled with images of this early morning, of the incredible passion he’d shared with Lauren in there.
The door to the bedroom was closed.
Curran frowned.
He hugged the doorway.
Again, with one hand he gripped the doorknob.
And turned.
It was locked.
He bent again, trying to see through the keyhole. He couldn’t see through it in the fading daylight.
He stood back up.
Was she inside?
Was someone else in there with her?
No time left.
Curran placed himself opposite the door across the hallway. He clasped his gun in both hands by his chest, the muzzle leaning off toward his left.
He took a deep breath in.
And aimed a front stomp kick at the area just above the doorknob.
Kicked.
Crashed.
The door flung open.
Curran moved in.
Saw the bed.
Saw the sheets.
Sniffed Lauren’s perfume.
And then,
Saw nothing else in the room.
She wasn’t there.
He exhaled.
On the table next to the bed, he saw the leather-bound journal of Graham Westerly and grabbed it. He could feel the age of the journal, enclosed by the stiffened leather.
But where was Lauren?
“Can I help you?”
Curran spun and brought the gun up — aiming.
The priest jumped back raising his hands quickly. “Good Lord!”
Curran felt everything bleed out of him and he slumped back. “Sorry.”
“Who are you?”
“My name’s Curran. I’m a cop. Where’s Lauren?”
The priest lowered his hands. “You’re a friend of Lauren’s?”
Curran nodded. “You must be Father Jim.”
“That’s right.”
“Sorry about the gun.”
“This is something of a holy home, Detective. I’d hope you try not to draw your weapon too often in the house of God.”
“Never do,” said Curran. Because I’m never there. “Have you seen Lauren?”
Father Jim shook his head. “No. No I haven’t.”
“She said she’d be back by noon. She’s not here.”
“Where was she coming from?”
Curran frowned. “The divinity school, but she should have left there ages ago.”
“Well, she never returned here.”
The divinity school.
Damn.
His heart sank. Part of him knew he was already too late. He knew — somehow — that Darius already had her.
Curran ran from the house.
And behind him, he could hear Father Jim ask, “Who’s going to pay for my front door?”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Darkness bled across the sky by the time Curran finally reached Darius’ house back in Chestnut Hill. He gazed at it through the bug-splattered windshield, wondering what exactly was going on inside.
He would have rushed over this afternoon straightaway, but for reading the journal he’d found in Lauren’s room that urged him to wait.
Apparently, the Soul Eater’s quest cannot begin until after the moon
has risen on the night of its full waxing. It is at this time that the
Soul Eater is at once his most potent and most vulnerable.
Unfortunately, the journal failed to mention what the demon’s weaknesses were. Curran sighed and glanced at the house again. Overhead, the dark sky was bloated with angry rain clouds that threatened imminent downpours.
Or hail.
And maybe much worse.
His dashboard clock read 6pm.
I can’t wait any longer, thought Curran. Besides, who knew what calendar the demon operated on? By his calculations, it might be time to start things up right now.
Curran slid his pistol of if his shoulder holster and checked the chamber. He had two magazines as back-up, as well as a small.380 pistol strapped to his ankle holster. That only held six rounds. And he secretly doubted their effectiveness if three mags of 10mm stopping power couldn’t halt Darius’ advance.