Exorcist Road

  Possessed by a demon...or by the urge to kill?

  Chicago is gripped by terror. “The Sweet Sixteen Killer” is brutally murdering sixteen-year-old girls, and the authorities are baffled.

  A seemingly normal fourteen-year-old boy has attacked his entire family and had to be chained to his bed. His uncle, police officer Danny Hartman, is convinced his nephew is possessed by a demon. Danny has sent his partner, Jack, to fetch the only priest in Chicago who has ever performed an exorcism.

  But Jack has other plans tonight. He believes the boy isn’t possessed by a demon, but instead by an insatiable homicidal urge. Jack believes the boy is the Sweet Sixteen Killer. And he aims to end the reign of terror before another girl dies.

  Exorcist Road

  Jonathan Janz

  Acknowledgments

  I want to thank all the wonderful people at Samhain for their support. Don D’Auria is a constant champion of my work. Amanda Hicks, Mackenzie Walton, and Jacob Hammer all help me a great deal behind the scenes.

  My agent, Louise Fury, was the one who suggested I write a novella. I’m very thankful for her constant enthusiasm and guidance. And as always, my pre-reader Tim contributed a great deal to this story. He’s an indispensable part of my team.

  I thank God for the opportunity to write, and even more importantly, for blessing me with such an amazing family. My wife and three children mean everything to me. They love me, support me, and remind me to laugh every day. I’m eternally indebted to them for filling my life with joy.

  Dedication

  This story is for my Aunt Letha. You passed on before my first novel was published, but during those long, hard years of rejection and frustration, you believed in me and had faith in me. Your smile, your quiet kindness, and your positive attitude always made me feel good about myself. Thank you for all you did for me, Aunt Letha. I think of you every day.

  “And I think—I think the point is to make us despair; to reject our own humanity, Damien: to see ourselves as ultimately bestial, vile and putrescent; without dignity; ugly; unworthy. And there lies the heart of it, perhaps: in unworthiness. For I think belief in God is not a matter of reason at all; I think it finally is a matter of love: of accepting the possibility that God could ever love us.”

  ~The Exorcist, William Peter Blatty

  Before

  They called him the Sweet Sixteen Killer.

  At least I assumed the killer was a man. To inflict that kind of damage on the human body a person would have to possess a hell of a lot of strength. Especially the fifth victim, the Harmeson girl.

  It requires a fair amount of pressure to rip a girl’s head from her body.

  Forgive me. Father Sutherland always chided me for my gallows humor, the flippant comments I’d make when a situation demanded gravity. I guess it’s a coping mechanism, though that doesn’t excuse it. Especially not in a priest.

  So before I talk about the worst night of my life, let me tell you my name, my age and my greatest fear.

  Jason Crowder.

  Twenty-nine years old.

  Having people realize what a coward I am.

  Men enter the priesthood for all sorts of reasons. Many are called by God. Others feel the need to atone for some long-ago sin.

  I took the vow because I was scared of the world.

  I’ve always been frightened of women, particularly. And before you make any assumptions, let me just say that I am attracted to them. It’s simply that they’re too capricious, too wild. Their breath always seems to smell of summer rain, their skin like some dewy tropical fruit. They make me feel dizzy. Powerless. Therefore, the vow of celibacy seemed a natural step to take. It was easier. Less traumatic.

  How was I to know being a priest would only make things more difficult? How was I to know how tempting a married woman could be, how beguiling, despite the terror she made me feel?

  I’d like to tell you about Liz now. I’d like to tell you about her mesmerizing green eyes, about the way her clothes hugged her body.

  But, because I don’t have much time, I need to tell you how it began that storm-swept night. I need to tell you about the cop who roused me from a deep sleep a few minutes shy of midnight.

  I need to exercise the patience that has kept me alive this long. The discipline. Perhaps it was my discipline that caused Danny Hartman to select me that night, for him to show up on my doorstep and drag me unknowingly into a nightmare beyond my darkest imaginings.

  Or perhaps it was something else that chose me.

  Part One

  Presence

  Chapter One

  Picture Danny Hartman as I saw him the night he awakened me:

  Average height, handsome in a sad way. Eyes that darted away before you could discern the pain in them. Lean, but possessed of a tensile strength. Forty-one. A dark-brown goatee that matched his short hair, though the hair was sheltered by his navy-blue policeman’s cap as he stood on the stoop of my cottage at the rectory.

  The rain was coming down in freshets, pelting Danny as if in punishment for some ghastly sin. And though doing so soaked him to the bone, he removed his waterlogged cap and clutched it to his stomach out of respect for me, despite the fact that I was only a lowly junior priest. I inhaled the faintly metallic scent of the rainfall and waited for him to speak.

  He smiled apologetically. “Sorry, Father. I know it’s late, but I need you to come with me.”

  I nodded. Danny was a parishioner at St. Matthew’s, and though he was a quiet man who kept mostly to himself, he had always treated me with more reverence than I was used to being shown.

  I took a step away from him but hesitated. “Should I bring anything, Officer Hartman?”

  He chuckled. “It’s Danny, Father. I only get called Officer when I’m being reprimanded.” He sobered. “I’d bring a Bible if I were you. And anything else you might use in an emergency.”

  That stopped me. “Do you mind if I ask what sort of emergency this is?”

  He gave me an appraising look. For the first time I saw myself through his eyes and imagined how ridiculous a figure I must make. Blond hair sticking up in jackstraw tufts. Faded blue robe hanging cockeyed on my bony shoulders. Unshaven, though that hardly made a difference. I never could grow much of a beard.

  Danny said, “Look, Father, I don’t know where to begin, so I’ll just say this: Bring whatever you guys use in a special situation. When things could be dangerous…spiritually, I mean.”

  His words chilled me more than the cool April air blasting through the open doorway. I nodded again, sure my disquiet was etched plainly on my face, and hurried to the bedroom.

  I was back within a couple minutes, taking time only to throw on a T-shirt, jeans, socks and tennis shoes. My robe and the rest of the stuff I grabbed were crammed into my duffel bag. Danny, I realized with self-reproach, had been waiting patiently on the front stoop, being doused by the storm because I hadn’t invited him inside. I muttered an apology on the way to his police cruiser, and soon we were pulling out of the rectory parking lot and onto the deserted parish road.

  “Where is this emergency?” I asked.

  He made a face like he’d tasted something rotten. “Rosemary Road.”

  I admit to being surprised by this. Rosemary Road was in one of the nicest areas of Lincoln Park and one of the most affluent neighborhoods in all of Chicago. Several of our largest donors lived on Rosemary Road. It wasn’t the sort of place where you’d expect there to be trouble.

  I said as much to Danny Hartman.

  He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, passed a trembling palm over his cheek. “Father—”

  “Jason, please. At least for tonight.”

  He nodded, though he looked disquieted by the prospect of addressing me
by my first name. It was one of the many things I disliked about being a priest. Rather than feeling honored by my position, I felt distanced, set apart from normal society in often unpleasant ways. I wasn’t just a guy sitting next to another guy I happened to like and respect. I was a different species of creature, one who made others uncomfortable by my presumed judgment of them.

  “Like I said, Jason, I don’t really know where to start. My mind’s spinning from what I saw, and, honestly, I can’t make any sense of it.”

  “Just start talking, and I’ll stop you when I need clarification,” I said, falling naturally into my role of confessor.

  He swallowed. “I’ve got a brother. Ron. You never met him. He isn’t the religious type. Lives over on Rosemary. He’s got a wife, a couple kids. Works at the Mercantile. Makes a hell of a lot of money— Forgive me, Father.”

  I nodded, thinking Ron must indeed make a good deal of money in order to afford a house in Lincoln Park.

  “He called me earlier tonight—actually, that’s wrong. It was Liz who called me. Ron got on the phone because she got choked up talking about it, but it was Liz who called me at first.”

  I knew Liz Hartman, though I didn’t mention it at that point. Instead, I asked, “Were you on duty?”

  Danny nodded. “I was with Jack Bittner, my partner.”

  I knew Bittner, and though I wasn’t surprised they were partners, I couldn’t help thinking that the higher-ups at the CPD couldn’t have chosen a more mismatched pair than Danny Hartman and Jack Bittner.

  While Danny was a faithful parishioner and the kind to stay for fellowship after Mass was over, Jack’s visits were infrequent, and when he did attend, he invariably sat in the back row with a forbidding look on his face. Truthfully, Jack had always intimidated me.

  Danny sighed. “My brother, when he got on the phone, he told me to come quick, that they’d locked Casey—that’s their son…he’s fourteen and one of the nicest, most unassuming kids you’d ever want to meet—he said they’d locked Casey in his room.”

  “That seems a mite barbaric.”

  Danny considered a moment. “See, this is where it gets crazy and confused.” I watched him chew on the inside of his mouth and decided to give him time to get it all straight before he spoke. Though I’m not naturally a patient person, I’ve learned the importance of the trait in my duties at St. Matthew’s.

  Danny said, “I guess the only way to say it is to say it, right?” He shook his head ruefully. “I just know what I’d be thinking if I were you. Someone came to me with a story like the one I’m about to tell, I’d laugh in their face.

  “Ron says to me, ‘Get over here fast. Something’s wrong with Casey’. I was driving, so I did as I was told, and maybe because I was so distracted I made my first mistake right then. Right at the beginning.”

  Careful to keep my tone neutral, I said, “Mistake?”

  “Taking Jack along with me. I should’ve never done that.” He gave me a miserable look. “How was I supposed to know what would happen?”

  “What did happen?”

  He grimaced. “See, before I get to that, you really need to understand the mood everybody’s been in. You know, all this Sweet Sixteen business?”

  I nodded. In fact, I’d sensed a change in the entire city over the past three months. It was one thing to have a serial killer loose in Chicago. It was another thing entirely for the madman to prey exclusively on sixteen-year-old girls. A few years ago I did some reading about Albert Fish, one of the most notorious serial killers in history. A cannibal and a child molester, Fish’s case was the most horrifying thing I’d ever read. The Sweet Sixteen killings weren’t carbon copies of that horrible business with Albert Fish, but there was a kinship there. Kids were supposed to be off-limits. And though the Sweet Sixteen Killer’s victims were a good deal older than most of Fish’s victims, the six young women who’d been slain were far too young to die.

  Making matters even worse were the similarities to Jack the Ripper and the sexually violent nature of the murders. Not only did the Sweet Sixteen Killer fixate on teenage girls, but the depravity of his crimes defied comprehension. Thinking about the monstrous things I’d heard, I tried to distract myself by focusing on the sound of the rain pelting the roof, the relentless sweep of the wiper blades providing us just enough visibility to not sideswipe a parked car or drift into the oncoming lane.

  “The whole thing is a terrible business,” I said, and decided to leave it at that.

  “You’re not kidding, Father. Jason, I mean. And while it’s been rough on everybody, it’s been especially hard down at the station. No one wants to talk to each other. Or even look at each other. It’s like we’ve all taken the killings personally. Like we’ve failed the city. Especially the victims.”

  “A certain amount of ownership is laudable,” I ventured. “If you all feel a sense of duty, that means you care. It also means the killer will be less likely to slip through your fingers.”

  Danny’s expression went hard. “Oh, he’ll kill again, a scumbag like that. Don’t kid yourself, Jason.” A look of anxiety flitted across his face. “I’m sorry, but…can I just call you Father?”

  I smiled and nodded, understanding the awkwardness of addressing me by my first name. I also thought there might be some deep-seated need that could be fulfilled by calling me Father. Even policemen need comfort.

  Danny looked relieved. “So like I was telling you, we’ve all been frustrated. Moody. Guys snapping at each other, pulling long shifts. Getting paranoid and…” he shrugged, looking embarrassed, “…maybe even fantasizing about being the one who catches him.”

  “Nothing wrong with that,” I said.

  “I mean, we’re human, right? We want to bring this monster to justice. This guy…this guy’s worse than Gacy.”

  I thought of John Wayne Gacy, the serial killer who’d terrorized Chicago back in the seventies, the man also known as the Killer Clown. I said, “Gacy was an interesting case. There were several factors that contributed to his homicidal urge, particularly his troubled childhood.”

  Danny didn’t comment, but pressed on with his narrative. “Like everybody else, I’ve lost sleep, brooded, that sort of thing. But no one’s taken it as hard as Jack.”

  I waited, thinking—perhaps uncharitably—that Jack Bittner did not seem the type to take his work personally.

  I asked, “Is there any reason why Officer Bittner would take a more-than-ordinary interest in the Sweet Sixteen killings?”

  Danny gazed at me bleakly. “His daughter turns sixteen next week.”

  I looked at Danny, a bit astounded at this news. I couldn’t imagine Jack Bittner being a father.

  Danny nodded. “I know, most people don’t know about Celia. But you can’t assume anything about people. Bittner used to work on the South Side—that’s where he was born and raised. He had a hell of a rough childhood, Father. His dad ran out. His mom committed suicide. Jack always used to talk about that, how he imagined his mother burning in hell.” Danny sighed. “Anyway, when Bittner’s wife left him for another guy, he moved up here to put some distance between them. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man hate his ex-wife as much as Bittner does. At least, short of the ones who kill their ex-wives.”

  I’m afraid I must have betrayed some of my displeasure at this sentiment, for Danny seemed a trifle flustered. He rushed on, “Reason Jack stayed in Chicago rather than pulling up stakes and starting his life somewhere else was Celia, his little girl. He wanted to be close enough to visit her, but not so close he’d have to see his ex. Or her husband.”

  I mulled it over. “It sounds like there’s more to Jack than I thought. But what has this to do with your brother’s family?”

  “I’m getting to that. We showed up at Ron’s place at around…oh, it must have been around eleven o’clock. I couldn’t believe what we found. Liz looking beat up. Ron limping around like he’d been mauled by a bear. Even little Carolyn…” He smiled sadly. “I guess she’
s not so little anymore. She’ll be ten in a few months. But she’s still my little Carolyn.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “Casey attacked them.”

  I glanced at Danny, an unease growing within me.

  “I got this from Ron, okay? He was freaked out, but I think he was relatively coherent. According to Ron, one minute everything’s going along like normal—Carolyn in bed asleep, Liz reading a book, Ron downstairs doing something, probably checking his investments—when they heard noises coming from Casey’s room.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  Danny took a right on Rosemary Road. “A loud thumping sound. Like a giant drum being struck at intervals.”

  “You heard this?”

  “Uh-uh. By the time we got there, things had become too chaotic, but the first thing they heard were the drum sounds.”

  “Go on.”

  “Liz got there first. Ron said she was standing frozen in the middle of Casey’s room staring at their son. Casey was on the floor at the foot of the bed, sitting on his knees. Ron said Casey was smiling in their direction, but not a nice smile. Not Casey’s normal one.” Danny looked at me with that same desperate look I’d seen earlier, like he was afraid I wouldn’t believe him. “Casey really is a good kid,” Danny explained. “I’ve known him since he was born. I’m his godfather. He’s never been in any kind of trouble. Excellent grades. In fact, I’ve always worried he was a bit too…I don’t know, passive? Like other kids might take advantage of his kindness?”

  “What was Casey doing, Danny?”

  “‘Like the devil’ was how Ron put it. He said his son looked just like the devil.” Danny shook his head, turned left. “Jesus, the kid’s own father.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t—”

  “The sound they’d heard was Casey’s fists beating the floor in that steady, merciless rhythm. He’s a skinny kid, not really grown into his body yet. But he was striking the floor so hard the windows were rattling. The stuff on his dresser was jumping. The wood—” he licked his lips, “—the wood floor was dented and bloody. I saw that when we got there.