John Jordan05 - Blood Sacrifice (11 page)

The afternoon sun made it warm enough to take Father Thomas’s advice. Sitting in a wooden swing between two cypress trees near the lake, Tammy’s journal and the exorcism books beside me, I was working my way through the stack, the desultory sounds of the day far more distracting than I could’ve imagined they’d be.

The first book,
Psychiatry and Possession
, was by a psychiatrist, Dr. Samuel Peters, who after years of private practice had come to believe in something beyond human evil and mental illness—demonic possession. He was a respected doctor and best-selling author, and seemed to have academic clout and clinical credibility. During his later years of practice he worked with a patient he believed to be possessed, ultimately performing an exorcism on her, attempting to find empirical evidence of demonic possession.

In making his case for the reality of possession, Dr. Peters reported that during the ritual the following happened: The patient’s face altered extremely and dramatically into what he called “satanic facial expressions” during the manifestations of each of her demons, which a video camera was unable to capture onto tape; the emergence of four separate demonic personalities, which he believed to be impossible for the patient to create herself; the exhibiting of negative responses to holy water and the Book of Common Prayer; her inexplicable snake-like appearance, which was apparent to everyone present, but not captured on the video recording; and her display of superhuman strength in spite of being severely underweight, malnourished, and sleep deprived.

This singular experience led Peters to assert that he had answered four complex questions with a degree of scientific certainty: Yes, the devil or a demonic world exists; the phenomenon of the demonic possessions of human individuals also exists; the process of exorcism can, in certain seriously possessed patients, be either curative or strikingly beneficial beyond any other known remedies; and that it is only during the process of exorcism that the demonic possession is fully revealed.

Peters concluded the following: Possession is not an accident. In becoming possessed, the victim must cooperate with the devil in some way. Such cooperation can range from a conscious and deliberate pact with the devil to a child’s seemingly innocent denial of reality, choosing lies over the truth. He also believes that the initial cooperation is often made under great duress, and that thereafter possession is a gradually growing process. He defines an exorcism as a massive therapeutic intervention to liberate and support the victim to be able to choose to renounce the possession and reject the devil. Often the victim will not offer an explanation of why he or she became possessed until after the exorcism is concluded. The more recent the time of the onset of the possession, the more the exorcism is likely to be successful. Exorcisms of genuinely possessed people should be expected to be combative—some physical restraints are almost always necessary. Exorcisms should be conducted by a team, never an individual. He also highly recommends all exorcisms be videotaped—both for legal and educational purposes.

Though a non-denominational Protestant, Peters argues that the Catholic Church, through its rigorous hierarchical and authoritarian control, was a guardian of “correct” theology and practice for all of Christianity on several issues, including possession and exorcism. According to him, it has been the only church to have maintained over several centuries formal instructions concerning the diagnosis of possession and the ritual of exorcism.

I looked up and thought about what I’d read. Here was a doctor, a respected man of science, who had taken a scientific approach to the subject. He was rational, reasonable, and credible. I couldn’t easily dismiss him or what he was reporting. Much of what he described was similar to what Father Thomas was claiming happened with Tammy. Of course, Father Thomas had no doubt read this account. I remained skeptical, but not as incredulous. I could feel myself becoming more open to all possibilities—and not just as a commitment to the concept, but truly more curious and open. Putting aside the book on exorcism, I picked up Tammy’s journal and began to read.

Depressed. So down last night I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Up until three in the morning thinking about how different my life is than what I thought it would be.

Everything I’ve ever attempted has failed. Everyone around me seems to be succeeding at what they’re doing—their careers and businesses are not only going well, but bringing them fulfillment. Unlike me, most of the people I know are satisfied with their lives.

How can they be so damn content? They seem to be good at life—the little things of life that I abhor. I’m no good at living. At finding meaning in the mundane, at doing what needs to be done. I resent it.

I’ve never found a job completely satisfying, never not longed for something else. Maybe my restlessness is merely faithlessness, my avoidance of pain, of discomfort. Or maybe it’s just delusions of grandeur. I’m living a little life—obscure, anonymous, on the fringes, making no significant contribution to the world—and I loathe it.

Countless people have told me I’m special, beautiful, can do anything. They’ve said I’ll do great things, go places, succeed, and I’ve believed them. But so far I’ve done nothing, been nowhere to speak of, made no contribution, and I wonder whether I ever will.

Looking up from the page, I saw a young woman with badly cut short black hair coming toward me with a small brown paper bag. She was dressed plainly in worn, inexpensive clothes and walked like someone trying not to offend the ground she was stepping on.

When she reached me, she looked at me briefly, gave me a hesitant smile, then ducked her head and looked away.

“Keith said to bring this to you,” she said, holding up the bag. “It’s lunch.”

“Thank you,” I said. “And him.”

“It’s a couple of sandwiches, an apple, and a soda.”

“I don’t think we’ve met,” I said. “I’m John Jordan. I’m here for a visit.”

“I’m Amber,” she said. “I help out around here. I’ve been visiting my folks.”

“So you live here at the abbey?”

She nodded.

“When’d you get back?” I asked.

“Last night,” she said.

“What time?”

She shrugged. “I’m not sure. ‘Round eleven.”

“How’d you get in?”

She looked perplexed. “Nothing’s locked. I just walked in. This is a very open place. People come and go all the time. All of the homeless in the area know they can come out here any time of the day or night and find shelter and something to eat—same for teens.”

I realized how little we knew about who was actually at St. Ann’s last night, and how their reputation for openness would make it virtually impossible to ever know for sure. Could Tammy have been murdered by an opportunistic killer, someone who was just passing through? It was possible, but improbable, and it certainly didn’t feel like that type of murder to me.

“The front gate wasn’t locked?” I asked.

“Oh,” she said, “yeah, it was. I just had him drop me off at the gate and walked the rest of the way.”

“Him?”

“My boyfriend.”

“You’ve heard what happened?”

She nodded. “It’s so awful.”

“You see or hear anything?”

She shook her head. “No, I swear. I’d tell you if I knew anything.”

“How well’d you know Tammy?”

She glanced down at the book I was holding. “Is that her diary?”

I nodded.

“Then I’m sure you know,” she said.

“Actually, I’m just starting it. Haven’t read anything about you yet.”

“Well, let’s talk when you do. I need to get back to the kitchen right now.”

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks for the sandwiches.”

When she had gone, I withdrew one of the sandwiches and ate it as I read another entry.

Sometimes I really like the people here. Sometimes I think they’re all right. A little strange, but good people. Well-meaning. Sincere. Simple and honest.

Dull as debutantes, but not out to take advantage of you like most everybody else you meet. But other times all I can think about is how they stole my land. How I’d be set for life if they weren’t here. That’s taking advantage of people—even if they don’t know it, but somebody here does. I know it. Someone here orchestrated the whole thing. Why else would Uncle Floyd give them all this land? Of course, when he did it, it wasn’t nearly as valuable, but it was still one hell of a generous gift, though. And he wasn’t like that. He didn’t just give stuff away. Hell, his motto was ‘You can’t spend it and have it.’ And he wasn’t religious. Someone tricked him or bribed him into giving all this land and the old buildings and so many donations over the years. They may’ve fooled old Floyd, but they’re not gonna fool me.

So far I couldn’t see any reason to believe that Tammy Taylor was extremely disturbed, let alone possessed, and then I read an entry that gave me chills.

I fell like lightening. Cast down. Thrown out. Expelled. Now I wander the dry places looking for a new home. And I’ve found one in this hollow space inside this stupid bitch. She thinks she’s just tripping, but she’s not the only one living here anymore. And soon Tammy won’t live here at all. She’ll just be a shell—the body. I’ll be the soul. It feels good to be incarnated again. I so enjoy the corporeal. And oh the things I’m gonna do with this body. Fuckin’ wear this cunt out. Take my revenge. Blood will spill. Death will come. They won’t know what hit them until they’re dead. I AM GOD. I AM POWER. I AM FIRE. I AM HELL. Wait now. Be patient. Don’t get carried away just yet. The best attack is a surprise one. And boy is Father Fuckup and his little band of buttfucks in for the surprise of their pathetic little lives.

An icy wind blew in off the lake and right through me, the sound of a thousand whispered voices in it––taunting, mocking, harassing.

“Why didn’t you help me, John?” Tammy said softly.

It was as if her lips were at my left ear––nearly touching but not. Had I not seen that no one was there, I would’ve sworn there was.

In my right ear, the playfully demented voice of a wicked child said, “You’re going to die soon too. Ring-a-ring-a-roses. A pocket full of posies. Ashes. Ashes. John is a dead man.”

The laugh that followed was worse than anything said by the child, and Tammy began to cry.

“Shut up bitch or I’ll hurt you some more.”

She stopped.

I did too.

Refusing to give in to fear, I returned my attention to the journal, this time reading aloud.

I found myself wondering if what I was reading had even been written by Tammy. What if someone else had written it after her death and left it for me? I’d be more persuaded to believe it if there were more consistency––and if I weren’t hearing voices. The abrupt transition from Satan-like speak to typical teenage angst was jarring.

Will I ever find the right guy? Everyone says he’s out there, but… I don’t know. I thought it was Clyde. I guess it still could be, but he’s such a jerk. Sometimes I don’t think he even loves me at all. Others I think he does, but he just doesn’t know how to treat a woman. I am a woman. I have needs. I have desires. I need him to think about me for once. Consider what I want, what makes me happy. Maybe I should just dump Clyde and get busy finding Mr. Right. Can’t do it in here. I’ve got to finish up and get back out there. Of course, when I’ve finished what I’m doing, I bet I’ll have many more prospects. I’ll be able to take my pick. They’ll probably just want me for my money (and my honey hole, they always want that), but they won’t get much of either unless they convince me that they really love me. They’re gonna have to prove their love for me. Do what I tell them. Tommy Boy’ll do anything for me, and he doesn’t even know I’m about to be a very rich girl, but he’s too… I don’t know, he’s just not Mr. Right, but that doesn’t mean he can’t help me do what I need to do to get in a position to attract Mr. Right. And it’s not like I’m just using him. He gets what he wants. What every man wants. I’ll keep giving him pussy payments and he’ll think he’s been well rewarded. And he has. Mine’s no ordinary pussy. Sometimes I feel like I’ve got hell itself between my legs, sucking not just semen, but life out of the pricks that keep poking in there.

“What’re you reading?” Kathryn asked.

“You don’t want to know.”

“I’ve probably written much worse in my novels.”

“Did you write this?” I said.

“What?” she asked, sitting down on the swing beside me.

“To help Father Thomas.”

“John,” she said with a wry smile, “we can’t go on with suspicious minds.”

I smiled back at her.

“But seriously, there’s a few things I need to tell you, and I’ve got a few questions about the case.”

“Good,” I said, “because I have some for you too.”

“I stopped by your room before coming out here,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Not the neatest person in the world, are you?” she said. “Either that, or it’s been ransacked.”

“
Ransacked
? Who uses the word
ransacked
anymore?”

“I do. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever really gotten to use it before. I’m grateful for the opportunity.”

“Well, I’m pretty neat,” I said, “so evidently it
was
…”

“Ransacked?” she said.

“Yeah,” I said. “I was giving you another opportunity to say it.”

“You don’t seem too worried about your room.”

“Didn’t have much in it. Nothing of value. I’m sure they were looking for this,” I said, holding up Tammy’s journal.

“Who all’d you tell about it?” she asked.

We were still sitting on the swing, facing the small, bouncing waves on the surface of the lake. Even in the wind, I could smell a hint of her perfume—something I hadn’t smelled in our previous encounters, and I couldn’t help but wonder if she was wearing it for me.

“I’m sure most everybody knows by now,” I said. “But I think I only mentioned it to Father Thomas, Ralph Reid, Sister Abigail, Keith Richie, Brad Harrison, and Amber. Plus, there’s the person who put it there in the first place, but it’d be hard to see why they’d give it to me and then take it back.”

Her hair was like that of a little girl, thick and a light blond the color of straw. The brisk breeze blowing through it whipped it, giving it that sexy, just-out-of-bed look, and I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to wake up beside her.

“Wonder what they’re so anxious to keep hidden?” she said.

“Won’t know until I finish. May not then.”

Glancing down at the exorcism books between us, she said, “You reconsidering what happened?”

I thought about what I had read and its impact on me. I couldn’t easily dismiss the experiences and conclusions of Dr. Samuel Peters. A lot of people viewed much of what people claimed to be spiritual phenomenon—everything from hearing God’s voice to demonic possession—as mental illness, but surely Peters would know the difference.

“Your boyfriend asked me to brush up on the subject and break it down for him,” I said.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she said.

“Who?”

“Steve. I’m practically a nun.”

She pushed her hair out of her face with the fingers of her cream-colored hands, the nails of which were painted a soft pink. Like the perfume, I didn’t recall her nails being painted on our previous encounters and wondered if I had just been distracted. Her hands looked cold and I wanted to take them in mine to warm them.

“Speaking of which,” I said, “I wanted to ask you about the abbey. Is it owned by the Catholic Church?”

She shook her head. “It’s an autonomous non-profit organization. It’s far more interfaith than it seems right now because so many of the other teachers and workers are away for the holidays.”

“I got the sense while talking to Brad that he’s Pentecostal.”

She nodded. “We have a Jewish teacher on staff who’s away for Hanukkah, and a Buddhist monk who works as a counselor in our drug rehab program. Then you got me. I don’t know what the hell I am. A Judeo-Christian Buddhist Pagan artist.”

“How has the church allowed Father Thomas and Sister Abigail to be here so long?”

“They started it. I think they have a special dispensation from the bishop, but the truth is everyone knows they wouldn’t go anywhere else and I’m not sure anybody else would put up with them. They’re used to doing things their own way. They fuss like siblings, but they have a lot of respect for one another. I’m not sure what Sister’s gonna do without him.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Cancer. Treatment would’ve given him a little more time, but he opted for quality not quantity. I really don’t think he could stand the thought of leaving this place. He wants to die here.”

“You realize that having nothing to lose makes him more likely to have committed the crime.”

“I realize it might seem that way, but it’s not. He’s been working hard to prepare himself for the life to come. He’s too close to it to… I’m telling you he wouldn’t—
couldn’t
do it.”

“I hope you’re right,” I said. “If Gulf Coast wants this land back, can it just take it?”

She shrugged. “I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”

“What if St. Ann’s closes?”

“I’m really not sure, but that’s exactly what would happen if they stopped their support, so as usual, the big greedy corporation has all the power.”

We were silent a moment, during which she seemed to be trying to work out something in her mind, chewing on her top lip as she did. As I waited for her, I scanned the windswept world around us—the light chop on the surface of the lake, the twisting and turning Spanish moss on the waving branches. Everything was movement, like a sacred dance to a silent orchestra, more felt than heard.

When she turned and looked at me from the depths of her dark brown eyes, neither of us spoke for a long moment, and I had to resist the urge to lean in and kiss her full, soft pink lips.

“I wish we had the tape,” she said. “I guarantee it’d show he’s telling the truth.”

“Maybe.”

“The fact that it was there shows he didn’t plan on killing anyone.”

“Not planning to do it and not doing it are two different things.”