Pandemonium

“Oh, I’ve already taken care of it.”

“What’d you do with it? That was my dad’s army pistol!”

“It was also a forty-five automatic, the same model the Truth uses. The same model that killed Dr. Ram.”

“But that’s over now—you know it wasn’t me!” I tried to sit up, but all I could do was lift my head in a forceful manner.

“You still can’t go around carrying ready-made props—especially ones that put holes in people. The demons can possess anyone—

whoever they want, whenever they want. They’re especially attracted to those who’ve been possessed before, even by another demon. You’re already marked, Del. So, let’s not make it so easy on them, eh?”

“What did you do with the gun?” I said.

“I heaved it into the lake.”

I blinked at her. I didn’t know whether to be angry or relieved.

“Next,” she said. She pulled out the black nylon bag I’d gotten at the ICOP conference. She withdrew from it a sheaf of stapled papers and started slowly turning the pages. “Now these are interesting souvenirs,” she said. “Out of all the academic crap at the conference, this is what you take with you. What did you think you’d do with these, apply a little guilt, a little leverage to get me to take your case?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” I said. She spun the packet at me. The pages landed on my chest, open to the page she’d been looking at. At this angle I couldn’t read the words, but I saw the photocopied picture and realized what I was looking at. The “Little Angel” paper from the Penn State woman.

“What are you mad about?” I said. “This is just some research paper I picked up.”

But there was something about the girl in the picture, even viewed sideways. She was maybe nine years old, dressed in a white gown. Even in black and white, after multiple generations of photocopying, the girl’s beauty was evident. Pale skin, high cheekbones, a head bursting with curls.

“When was this taken?” I said.

“Nineteen seventy-seven,” she said. “I was eleven.”

“I didn’t know,” I said. I looked up. “I swear it, it’s just something I picked up and put in my bag. I thought you grew up in Ireland.”

“My mother and I moved to New York when I was eight, after my parents divorced. The Little Angel found me soon after. I didn’t move back to Ireland until I was a teenager.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t—”

“Stop it. Whatever you had in mind, it doesn’t matter. I don’t require motivation, Del. I don’t need to be manipulated into helping you, and I don’t respond to pity. There are thousands of people who’ve been possessed, and it doesn’t matter if I was one of them—the job’s the same.”

“The job . . . ,” I said, unsure. “Being an exorcist?”

“Being your pastor.”

“Oh. I mean, that’s nice and everything, but I don’t think I need—”

“Del.”

She walked to the side of the bed near my head, put her hands on her hips. “Last night you were afraid you were going insane. You said the Hellion’s memories were breaking through into your own. You were losing yourself.”

“I was a little freaked out last night, but I’m fine now. I can handle this.”

“You are so far from handling this.” She crouched, bringing her head even with mine.

“Now . . .” She lifted one of the bike chains into view. “Three numbers. What’s the combination?”

“Uh, that would be six, followed by six . . . and I’m sure you can guess the last one.”

She shook her head, opened the first lock. Then she walked around the bed to my other arm. While she was working on the next combination, I peeked under the blankets. Boxer briefs, my erection as clearly delineated as the trunk of a cartoon elephant. My need to pee had turned into an ache.

She undid the second chain. Hands finally free, I began to unfasten the manacles, leather-padded medieval things I’d purchased from