Something knocking, p.3
Something Knocking, page 3
The driver opened the door and extended a hand, helping Father Emilio from the vehicle. The driver was as well trained as the guard and after bowing slightly, he left without a word.
Father Emilio allowed himself a moment to gaze around him. The basilica, as usual, was bustling with pilgrims, tourists, guards, and servants of the Church. The building where he stood was within view of the basilica and not far away. Though entry was allowed only to a select few, the path leading to the building was open to the public, or at least as open as any place in the holy city was, yet it was devoid of traffic, foot and vehicle alike. It was as though an unseen force worked to blind it from lingering eyes.
He took a deep breath, then entered the building.
A young nun waited at the reception desk. She returned Father Emilio’s smile with one of her own and gestured toward a narrow hallway. The inside of the building was as unassuming as the outside, but it held a secret, one of the deepest secrets the Church still held.
Father Emilio walked toward that secret, and when he reached the door, he hesitated, a rush of foreboding halting his steps.
“Saint Joseph, please grant me strength,” he whispered softly.
As he finished the prayer, he felt his spirit imbued with courage. He squared his shoulders and walked inside.
The room appeared to be a small janitorial closet stocked with mops and brooms and cleaning chemicals. Father Emilio reached forward and pressed a corner at the base of an electrical panel on the wall. The panel opened, revealing a row of buttons labeled one through five, above which sat a button labeled T for terra.
He pressed the button labeled five, and the room-turned-elevator hummed as it descended fifty feet below the ground. It was a marvel of engineering, the work of a German firm that specialized in defense equipment. It was also an utterly unnecessary and pompous testament to the arrogance of Church leadership. No human force threatened their order and no supernatural force would be stopped by a few dozen feet of Earth and concrete.
Still, the Cardinals did love their ceremony. Perhaps it was his own disdain for such pretense that prevented Emilio from that rank. Not that he desired it. He could serve his Savior best as a priest and an exorcist, not as a politician.
The elevator came to a stop, and he opened it to reveal another corridor, this one similar to the one on the ground floor but with only one door at the end of the hallway. Father Emilio proceeded to that door and opened it to reveal a large conference room dominated by a long, square table around which sat nineteen priests. At the head of the table sat Cardinal Bertolli, the head of their order. His white hair was perfectly trimmed as always, and he wore the look of self-importance that all Cardinals seemed to wear. Father Emilio made a mental note to say five Hail Marys in penance for his unkind thoughts and pushed his disdain for ceremony away as he took his seat.
“Welcome, Father Carbone,” the Cardinal said solemnly. “Thank you for coming here on short notice.”
“I am happy to serve, Your Eminence,” Father Emilio replied with a smile.
Cardinal Bertolli nodded acknowledgment, then addressed the group. “I assume you’re aware of the reason you were called here, yes?”
The priests nodded and murmured assent. Bertolli nodded, then said, “The first death took place last month. Sister Luisa Montebello of Pescara. The second occurred two nights ago, Sister Katarina Lucchese of San Vito Chietino. Both sisters were discovered by other members of their respective convents, dead of violent exsanguination. No visible wounds were reported and no poisons were detected in their systems.”
“So we can rule out murder,” a priest Father Emilio recognized as Father Pierre, a French expatriate, offered.
“We can rule out nothing,” the Cardinal countered. “We are only here to discuss the situation.”
“Your Eminence,” another priest, Father Dominic, replied, “forgive me if I speak out of turn, but if we are here to discuss this situation, then the Church must feel there is cause for our specialty.”
“You do not speak out of turn, Father,” the Cardinal replied, “but you do jump to a conclusion we’re not ready to reach yet. We are here simply to discuss the facts and determine how we should respond.”
“You say the coroners have found no trace of poison,” a third priest who Father Emilio didn’t recognize spoke. “Have they offered a suggestion as to what may have caused this?”
“They believe that the deaths are a result of contaminated food. Since both sisters violently expelled their stomach contents and lost copious amounts of blood, they theorize that may be why no poison was detected.”
“Wouldn’t the poison remain present in the blood and vomit?” another priest asked.
“Some poisons break down upon contact with the air,” the Cardinal answered.
“But there would be traces of the resulting components, no?”
“Yes,” the Cardinal allowed. “The doctors don’t have an answer for that.”
The priests shared glances with each other. One of the younger members of the order spoke after a few moments. “I am the least among you, but should we not consider the possibility that these sisters were possessed?”
The room fell silent. All eyes turned to the young priest. He blushed but kept his eyes on the Cardinal. “I am only saying what many others in this room are thinking, Your Eminence.”
“It is true that the church is concerned of demonic action,” the Cardinal replied, “but we must exercise great caution when approaching a case like this. There are many mundane explanations for such deaths that must be accounted for before we declare this a possession.”
Father Emilio admired the young priest’s courage, but he agreed with the Cardinal. Exorcisms were not to be taken lightly. One had to be absolutely sure that a case warranted an exorcism before sending a member of their order to address the situation.
Evidently others didn’t see things the same way.
“Father Julio is right,” another priest offered. “If a wolf is loose among our sheep, it is our responsibility as shepherds to drive it out.”
“But we must not simply leap straight to an exorcism,” another priest replied. “Many cases can be resolved simply by prayer and fasting.”
“If the demon is murdering nuns by means of violent exsanguination on the grounds of a convent, then it’s safe to say this demon is stronger than that which can be removed by prayer and fasting alone.”
“Did not Christ say that prayer and fasting is more powerful than exorcism?” another priest offered.
“He said this because his disciples were faithless,” an older priest corrected. “Had they faith as strong as a grain of mustard seed, they could have cast the demon out.”
“I have faith, Father Antonio,” the first priest replied, “I am simply agreeing with the Cardinal that we must exercise caution.”
The debate continued to rage. Father Emilio listened, but his thoughts once more drifted to Giulia. Why did he fixate on her? The Lord must have meant for them to meet. Could it have to do with this case? If so, why? Miss Lambi was not a nun. She wasn’t even Italian, and she didn’t live near the area where the two nuns were killed. What possible relation could she have to this circumstance?
A still small voice in his head encouraged him to be patient. The answer, if there was one, would be clear in time.
“Father Emilio,” the Cardinal called, pulling him from his thoughts. “You have remained silent. You are the most senior of this order save for me. I would like to hear your thoughts.”
Father Emilio took a breath and faced the Cardinal. “I believe you are right. We must exercise caution. We must investigate both deaths before we decide this requires exorcism. If our enemy is among us, it will become clear in time.”
“How so, Father?” the priest who spoke of faith and mustard seeds challenged. “By murdering another poor child of God?”
“If the murderer is not demonic, but human, then focusing our efforts on possession will allow the true killer to move unhindered.”
“There are police to investigate that,” the other priest said, waving his hand dismissively. “We are here to guard against the supernatural forces while they guard against natural forces.”
“It may be that the killer is human, but he or she is possessed by a demon,” the young priest, the one who first mentioned possession, offered.
“And it may be the killer is simply a sinner of the worst caliber,” Emilio retorted.
“In any case,” the Cardinal spoke, his voice authoritative. The priests quickly calmed and faced him. “The first step in an exorcism is to investigate, as Father Emilio has stated. I nominate him to lead this investigation.”
The other priests murmured consent. Father Emilio was, as the Cardinal had said, the most senior of the order. He nodded agreement, but his spirit fell. It had been ten years since his last exorcism, and the tragedy of that day haunted him still.
He prayed silently to Saint Joseph for strength again. If it was God’s will that he should face the Adversary again, then he would serve.
“Father Emilio,” the Cardinal continued. “Per church policy, you must partner with a layman for the investigation. We will contact the police force in Pescara and have an officer assigned.”
“No, Your Eminence,” Father Emilio replied.
There was an audible gasp from the priests in the room. The Cardinal lifted an eyebrow. Father Emilio’s own eyes widened in surprise. The words had escaped his lips unbidden.
No. Not unbidden. He knew now why his thoughts remained fixated on the American woman. He met the Cardinal’s eyes and said, “I believe the Lord has already sent me a partner.”
“Oh?” the Cardinal replied, intrigued. “Please, go on, Father.”
Father Emilio shared his encounter with Giulia and how his thoughts had lingered on the American ever since. “I wasn’t sure why my thoughts would linger on her, but now I believe the Lord has sent her to aid me in this investigation.”
“Why her?” another priest asked. “It is highly irregular to send a woman to investigate a possible possession. Does this Giulia Lambi have a background in law enforcement?”
“Is she even a believer?” another priest offered. “From what you’ve told us, it appears she is in the middle of a crisis of faith. You can’t send a woman whose heart is filled with doubt to investigate a possible possession. The Adversary will use her weakness against her.”
“I can’t offer an explanation,” Father Emilio admitted. “I only know that from the moment I met her, I felt the Lord calling me to her. I didn’t understand why until just now.”
“This is insanity,” another priest replied, shaking his head.
“The will of God may at times appear insane,” another countered. “Father Emilio is the most experienced among us. If he feels the Lord has called this woman to assist him, then who are we to say otherwise?”
“We shall take a vote,” the Cardinal said, quelling any further dissent. “All who feel that this Giulia Lambi should serve with Father Emilio, please raise your right hand.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Lauren wondered if this was how her father had felt after her mother had died. Had he too reflected on the silence and emptiness around him and felt the same emptiness in his own soul?
She walked through the rooms of the country house her father had left her, her heart aching with grief. It was still far too large for a person living alone. At first, the home had seemed cavernous, almost palatial. Today, it seemed far more humble, still comfortable and spacious, but not so extravagant as she thought at first glance.
She tried to push those thoughts down and simply take stock of the house that was to be her home for the foreseeable future. There was a spacious parlor dominated by a large ornamental rug around which sat a sofa and two upholstered chairs. The furniture was made of some sort of rich, red-brown hardwood—mahogany, she supposed, although she didn’t know much about that—well-oiled and adorned with intricate scrollwork. A coffee table of the same red-brown wood sat in the center of the rug and featured a large, leatherbound photo album.
Straight ahead from the sofa was a large stone fireplace. Though it was swept clean, it bore the marks of years of soot and ash left behind by the fires her father would set to warm himself. She wondered how many nights he had spent in solitude looking through photos of the wife who had left this world and the daughter he would never see again.
She moved on to the dining room, which sported a dining table and chairs made of the same wood as the parlor furniture. It was fairly small, with room for six, but still took up most of the space in the room, lending a cozy, homey feel. Above it hung a chandelier, again of modest size but of fine quality, the fixtures of polished brass and adorned with scrollwork similar to the furniture.
Past the dining room was the kitchen, and here Lauren found the first signs of modernity. The appliances were all stainless steel and very new. The cookware hung above a central island countertop of laminated, polished granite that was once again very high quality but not so garish as one might have expected of a man of her father’s means. The cookware itself was equally high-quality but of a brand Lauren recognized as lesser-known and less expensive. There was no food in the pantry or fridge at the moment. She made a mental note to go shopping the next day.
A narrow hallway led to a bathroom and a laundry room, both unremarkable. Lauren returned to the parlor and climbed the staircase to the second floor. The second floor was more modest than the first. The floor here was carpeted rather than tiled and the bathroom was even less adorned than the one downstairs, though it sported a spacious shower and a tub with a waterjet function.
Interestingly enough, the bathroom was detached from both bedrooms, and the master bedroom didn’t have a bathroom. Perhaps that was only an American thing. The bedroom furniture was comfortable and as modern as the kitchen, with a large flatscreen tv on one wall, a king-size four-poster bed, a chest of drawers, and a walk-in closet.
The grounds contained a garden, including a small vineyard. She smiled softly as she recalled how her father used to brag about the wine he would make from the grapes here. Her smile faded when she saw the end of the vineyard where the support for the vines had broken, and the grapes grew in an uncontrolled sprawl. The vines had grown enough that she knew they had remained that way for months.
Just past that support, the gate to the vineyard hung loosely on its hinges. The gate too, had collapsed sometime after her father’s hospitalization.
Well, of course it had. Her father was no longer there to maintain it. This place, like the rest of the house, was just a reminder of the fact that one of the people she loved most in this world was gone, and the places and people he had touched had already begun to move on from his memory.
Lauren wouldn’t sleep here. She wouldn’t sleep in the same room as her father and spend every night reminded that he was no longer with her. She wouldn’t sleep alone in that massive bed and spend every night reminded that Kevin was lost to her as well.
She walked back inside to the guest bedroom, and as soon as she entered, a stab of grief pierced her chest.
The room was furnished with a standard-sized bed that appeared as comfortable as the larger bed in the master bedroom. It contained a smaller chest of drawers, and its own walk-in closet, and in general was laid out much the same as the larger bedroom.
It wasn’t the furniture that caused the stab of grief but the decorations. Several framed childhood drawings of Lauren’s hung on the wall, including a crayon picture of Lauren with her parents. On top of the dresser was an old music box given to her by her mother who had received it from her mother whose own mother had commissioned a local toymaker to make it for her as a gift. There was the old stuffed bunny she had slept with until third grade and kept on her dresser for years afterward. There was a framed picture of her proudly holding up the wind-tunnel model with which she had won the sixth-grade science fair. Her parents stood on either side of her in the picture, their faces bursting with pride and love.
The room looked exactly as her childhood room had looked, and though this wasn’t her childhood home, Lauren felt as though she had been transported twenty years in the past. She could almost hear her mother cooking dinner as Pavarotti and Domingo played from the kitchen. She could imagine her father sitting on the sofa and watching the news, commenting on whatever political opinion he had adopted as his newest pet rant.
This was home. This was family. And now she had no family to share it with.
She decided to shop today instead of tomorrow, desperate to pull herself away from the memories that she knew would haunt her for weeks to come. Possibly for the rest of her life.
Like her new home, Arezzo was a seamless mixture of the past and present. The red-brick buildings and cobblestone streets blended with modern convenience stores and automobiles. Digital traffic lamps directed cars and pedestrians alike, and traditional shops stood next to modern supermarkets. The inhabitants, like the city itself, seemed a perfect balance of what was and what is. Arezzo was the perfect microcosm of European sensibility, a stalwart loyalty to a rich history and a refusal to accept that progress must mean forgetting where one comes from.
Her mood improved somewhat as she navigated the narrow, winding streets. She could get used to living in a place like this. People were polite without being nosy, and when she entered a shop, the keepers smiled graciously and were equally as willing to talk as to keep silent.
Come and be a part of our community, their eyes said, but only when you’re ready.
She chose to patronize the smaller shops rather than the supermarkets. She purchased cheese and yogurt and cream from the dairy, several cuts of meat from the butcher and a respectable array of fresh produce from the grocer. From the baker, she bought bread and crackers and in a nod to her own American tastes, she stopped by a convenience store on the way home for sodas and chocolates. She would visit the confectionary another day and enjoy some proper sweets, but for now, she felt she had enough to begin with. There were clothiers and cobblers she could see about her wardrobe, and when that was taken care of, she could take the metro to the mall and visit a department store for the necessities she couldn’t find from the smaller shops.
