Carpe Demon: Adventures of a Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom (29 page)

I kept Father Ben detained for a few more minutes as I drilled him about the donations’ organization. The answer, unfortunately, was that there really was no organization. What I saw was what I got. Which meant I was back to where I’d started. This time, at least, I could try to find some regional connection.

I settled myself at the table, opened the first box (gingerly, in case of more bugs), and dug back into my project. An hour later all I had to show for my efforts was a backache. Okay, that wasn’t entirely true. I did learn some things. I found out, for example, that Cecil Curtis was Clark Curtis’s father, which meant I was reading documents about Stuart’s boss’s family. (Which did make the job slightly more interesting. Basic human nosiness, I guess.) As I’d discovered yesterday, he’d left all of his land (and we’re talking a
lot
of land) and worldly possessions to the Church, specifically excluding his “spouse or issue,” a little fact that I imagine pissed off Clark (not to mention his mom and siblings).

I learned that Thomas Petrie had won a church-sponsored scholarship and had gone to St. Thomas Aquinas College. He ended up being famous for his series of books that revolved around a mystery-solving priest, and after he started to hit the
New York Times
list regularly, he made frequent contributions to the Church. Since the donations weren’t monetary (one year he gave a wooden Madonna-and-child statute), I assume he was donating things that he’d acquired researching each of his various books.

I skimmed through the other benefactors, too, but didn’t find much of interest. Mike Florence caught my eye simply because of the Italian town, but from what I could tell, he’d donated nothing more interesting than a six-inch-square gold box with a beautiful carved crucifix affixed to the lid. The receipt accompanied the donation, though, and unless Goramesh was on the hunt for a box sold at Macy’s in the 1950s, then I doubted I was on the right track. (I’ll admit I was a little curious to see the thing, but it was in a container at the bottom of the stack and all the way at the back. That’s what we in the archive-reviewing biz call “geographically undesirable.”)

With a sigh of resignation, I pushed aside the last itemized list. My options now were to review every single piece of paper in each donor’s file, or start in on the cool stuff in the boxes. Since I doubted I’d recognize what I was looking for if I saw it, the smart thing would be to review letters and correspondence. But I only had a half-hour left in the basement, my eyes hurt, and I was bored.

Besides, something in my gut told me we were running out of time, and at the moment all I could do was put my faith in God (and Larson and Laura). I was in a cathedral after all. If divine inspiration was going to hit, surely I was in the right place.

I pulled over the first box, but didn’t haul it up to the table. It weighed a ton. Instead, I kept it by my feet, then toed off the lid, keeping a safe distance in case a flock of beasties came zipping out.

None did, and I peered down, dismayed to see that the box was filled with decaying leather-bound Bibles. Thousands of pages, any of which could have a note inscribed on them. And each Bible began with page after page of family histories scrawled in terrible handwriting that I was going to have to decipher.

I pulled the first Bible, fighting a sneeze as I reminded myself why I’d never started a family Bible for my own family—they get old and rotten and decrepit, and then what do you do? If you’re the Oliveras family, apparently you donate it to the Church so a slob like me can wade through the pages later. And why not? It’s not like you can dump it in the trash can. There’s no Thou Shalt Not, but it still seems to me that tossing a Bible would score you some serious demerits on your permanent Record.

I managed to decipher the handwriting on the family-tree portions (nothing interesting), then paged slowly through the book (no handwritten phrases or underlined verses). I paid particular attention to John 11:17, the chapter and verse about Lazarus, but there didn’t appear to be any notes in the margin, any tipped-in sheets of paper, any messages scrawled with invisible ink. I even inspected every centimeter of the leather binding, searching for treasure maps hidden in the spine. Nothing. As far as I could tell, this was a family Bible and nothing more.

When I put the Bible aside, it was almost four o’clock. The cathedral was closing, and I needed to get Timmy. Of course, as soon as I stepped into the real world, all my real-world problems lined up behind me. While I’d been in the basement, Eddie and Stuart had been forgotten. Now, though, they were front and center again.

Stuart, I assumed, had a reason for going to the cathedral, and had I not done my impression of the world’s most pious Catholic, perhaps he would have noticed me and explained. Since it was stupid to speculate, I forced myself off the subject. Surely he’d tell me tonight. And if he didn’t . . . well, then I’d just have to ask.

Eddie was a harder subject. And as I turned into the parking lot at Timmy’s school, I still didn’t know what to do about him. More, I didn’t know why I’d suddenly become obsessed with the idea of doing anything at all.

At the moment, though, Eddie was the least of my problems. Just beyond those doors was a two-year-old who (I hoped) hadn’t been scarred for life by his first experience in non-parental child care.

I parked the car and got out, realizing only then how much my stomach was churning. I’d kept my cell phone on all day with no frantic calls from Nadine or Miss Sally. So I knew (hoped) that no horrible accident had befallen my child.

But it wasn’t horrible accidents I was worried about. I was terrified of the expression I’d see in his eyes when I picked him up. An expression that said “Where have you been, Mommy, and why did you leave me with strangers?” As a Demon Hunter, I had a great answer to that. As a mom, I couldn’t think of a thing to say.

“He did great,” Nadine said as I passed the reception desk on my way to the Explorers classroom. I almost stopped and cross-examined her (What is “great”? Are you just saying that to make me feel better? Will my son ever forgive me for dumping him off on you people?), but I fought the urge and soldiered on.

One nice thing KidSpace does is put windows in the doors to all the classrooms. From a mommy perspective, this is a good thing, and I took the opportunity to peer in at my little munchkin. There he was, my little man, playing on the floor with a plastic dump truck, right alongside another little boy, this one pushing a dinosaur in a wheelbarrow.

He was smiling. He was happy. And from my perspective, this was a minor miracle. I’d made a good decision. My sweet little boy wasn’t traumatized. He didn’t need therapy. He wouldn’t run to Oprah in twenty years and rat me out. If anything, he seemed to be having a great time.

Life was good.

I opened the door, held out my arms to him . . . then watched with desperation as Timmy burst into tears.

“Mommamommamomma!” The truck was forgotten as he raced to me. I caught him on the fly and scooped him up, hugging him and patting his back. So much for my rampant lauding of my parental decisions; this was one stressed-out little boy.

“He really did fine today,” Miss Sally said as I rubbed circles between his shoulders and murmured nice-sounding words. “This is very normal.”

I believed her (well, I sort of believed her), but that didn’t lessen the guilt. I shifted Timmy so that I could see his face. “Hey, little man. You ready to go home?”

He nodded, thumb now permanently entrenched in his mouth.

“Did you have fun today?”

Another reluctant nod, but at least it eased my guilt.

“Before you go, though, I need you to sign this form.” Miss Sally pushed a clipboard toward me. I shifted Timmy’s weight on my hip and squinted at the preprinted page. “Accident Report.”

“What happened? Is he hurt?” I looked down at Timmy. “Are you hurt?”

“No, Mommy,” he said. “No biting Cody. No. Biting.”

My cheeks warmed. “He
bit
someone?”

“Just a little bite,” Miss Sally assured me. “The tooth impression has already faded, and he and Cody have been playing together all afternoon.”

“He bit hard enough to leave a mark?” I could hear my voice rise, but I was having trouble getting my head around this. My son was a biter? My little boy was a problem child? “But Nadine said he did great.”

“Oh, he did. Truly. This isn’t that unusual for new students. And it won’t be a problem unless it happens again. Or unless Cody’s parents complain.” She held up a hand. “But they won’t. Cody was a biter, too.”

There it was. That label.
Biter
. I had a biter.

After a few more minutes of guilt on my part and reassurance on Sally’s part, I started to believe that the day really hadn’t been a total disaster. In addition to taking a taste of his schoolmate, Timmy had made friends, sang songs, and spent a full hour playing with finger paints. What more could a toddler want?

In the end we trotted down the hall hand-in-hand, and as we reached the door, he lifted his little face, and those big brown eyes sucked me in. “I love you, Mommy,” he said, and I melted on the spot. He might be a biter, but he was my baby. “Home, Mommy? We go home?”

“Soon, sport,” I said. “We have one more quick errand.” I hadn’t even realized I’d made up my mind until I said those words, but something about seeing Timmy in the care of others had fueled my decision. I couldn’t leave Eddie all alone. In his condition he might accidentally blow the lid off
Forza
, and that was something I simply couldn’t let happen.

Plus, I feared that Eddie was right—there were demons walking the halls of Coastal Mists. And any one of those dark creatures would be more than interested to know all the delicious little
Forza
facts that were locked in Eddie’s head. Facts that might get Eddie—or me or my family— killed. Besides, Hunters protected other Hunters. I’d always lived by that code, and even now, retired, I couldn’t back away from it.

So Timmy and I were going back to get the man. What I’d do with him once I had him . . . well, that was anybody’s guess.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“He’s
who
?”
Stuart’s voice, though whispered, seemed to fill the kitchen. I made a frantic pressing motion, as if I were snuffing flames, hoping Eddie hadn’t heard.

No such luck.

“I’m your grandfather, sonny,” Eddie called from the living room. (At least we knew his hearing worked well.) “Mind your manners there, boy.”

As Stuart’s eyes widened, I closed my own, counted to ten, then opened them again with the secret wish that everything would be calm and wonderful, all my problems would be solved, and my family (real and fake) would be living in peaceful harmony.

No go.

“Kate . . .” Stuart’s voice was calm, but no-nonsense. I sighed, resigned to telling him some version of the truth.

“He was in a nursing home,” I said. (Truth.) “And they were keeping him all drugged up.” (Also truth.) “Plus, I think he has Alzheimer’s.” (Sorta truth. I wasn’t sure what was wrong with Eddie. All I knew from my brief time with him was that truth and fiction were mixed up in his head, and either one might come spewing out without any warning at all.)

“I sympathize,” Stuart said. “But why is he now in our living room? Both my grandfathers have been dead for years. And the man dropping potato chip crumbs onto our living room carpet is very much not dead. Yet.”

“Right,” I said. “He’s not. Dead, I mean.”

(Pregnant pause.)

“Kate . . .”

Another sigh from me. I really should have planned this one better. When I’d returned to Coastal Mists, Eddie had been due for another dose of meds. He’d been coherent (more or less) and when I’d explained that I was taking him home with me, I’d expected a bit of a paperwork nightmare. Instead, the whole process had been smooth as silk, as if I were immune to the red tape that normally tied itself around hospitals and the like.

I helped him pack (though since I had Tim with me, the bulk of my help consisted of rescuing his belongings from the fingers of my toddler). Then we started schlepping toward the front desk.

Melinda stopped us on the way out. “Mr. Lohmann,” she’d gushed. “You’re leaving us?”

He squinted at her, then pointed a wizened finger at me. “She’s training the little one to hunt demons,” he’d said. “I’m helping.”

To which I’d naturally rolled my eyes and—because I’m an idiot—said, “He’s coming to live with us.”

“Your son must be very excited,” Melinda said to Eddie.

“My who?”

Melinda looked at me, clearly confused, which made sense considering I’d earlier given her the long song and dance about how he was related to my husband. In retrospect, I probably should have just let it pass, but since Stuart
does
have a father, and since he is very much alive and coherent, and since I had no idea if Desmond Connor was a close personal friend of the director of Coastal Mists, I announced that Eddie was my first husband’s grandfather. No relation to Stuart whatsoever. “Of course I have to take him home with me,” I said. “My daughter needs to know her great-grandpa, and I won’t be able to sleep knowing I didn’t do everything in my power to take care of Eric’s grandfather.”

Melinda oohed and aahed about how sweet I was, and while I hung my head and tried to look modest and unmartyrlike, Eddie crouched down to Timmy’s level. “You can call me Gramps,” he said. At which point Tim reached out and yanked Eddie’s eyebrow.

“Caterpillar,” he said. “Fuzzy caterpillar.”

Not being entirely stupid, I figured that was our cue to leave, and we gathered Eddie’s things, signed the necessary papers, and headed out the door.

To my relief, Nurse Ratched was nowhere to be seen. I had mental images of her chasing after us, not letting us leave, and hordes of demons descending on us, intent on slaughtering us first, then burying us in the basement. I told myself I was being paranoid, but I knew I really wasn’t. I had no doubt that my geriatric demon had been a Coastal Mists resident, and I fully intended to let Larson in on the problem, and he could relay it up the
Forza
chain of command. It wasn’t
my
problem, though. My problem was about five-eight, a hundred seventy pounds, with a stubbly gray beard and eyebrows that vaguely resembled caterpillars.