Текст книги "Aloha from Hell"

Автор книги: Richard Kadrey

Соавторы: Richard Kadrey,Richard Kadrey,Richard Kadrey
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

“He mentioned it.”

“I know you feel a certain reluctance to talk to someone involved with DHS or the Vigil.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

Carlos says, “Wait a minute. She’s t>

She looks at Carlos and then at me.

“I know I could tell you that I’m not with them from now until the end of time and you wouldn’t believe me. But for what it’s worth, I’m not and I won’t ever be again.”

“Is that supposed to impress me?”

“I thought maybe Eugène vouching for me would mean something, but you never let facts get in the way of your judgment, do you?”

“Mrs. Robinson, are you trying to seduce me?”

Vidocq bumps me with his shoulder from behind.

“Listen to what she has to say.”

Candy comes up beside me. I don’t have to look. I can smell her slightly inhuman scent. I once killed the pimp who ran a Hellion brothel. He lit the place with burning amber and it smelled like burning pine and smoke. Candy kind of smells like that.

“So tell me why you wanted me here.”

“I have a job I think you’d be uniquely suited for.”

“What kind of job?”

“It might be dangerous.”

“I figured that when you wanted me and not Vidocq or one of your marshal buddies. What you want is someone disposable. Someone off the grid who won’t be missed when whatever this is goes balls-up.”

“You’re way off. I want you because I think you’re the only person in L.A. with the skill set needed to handle this particular situation.”

“When someone says ‘skill set’ I get nervous. Just tell me what this is.”

“It’s a demonic possession. An exorcism went wrong and a boy is missing.”

I get up to leave.

“Thanks for getting me here for nothing. I’m gone.”

Candy puts a hand on my shoulder.

“You, too?” I say.

“Just let her finish.”

I look at Sola.

“I don’t do exorcisms or bounty-hunt demons. The Vigil got me mixed up in a demon skip trace and it ended with me and Brigitte gnawed on by a roomful of Drifters.”

She nods.

“I know. But that was Wells and this is me. There are no tricks here. No hidden agendas. Just a kid who needs your help.”

“I don’t think so. I think you’re the one who needs help. You sent the kid a demon jacker, but he blew it and the kid ended up worse than before. Now you want someone to clean up your mess.”

She picks up her coffee, takes a sip, and sets it back down. She doesn’t look at me when she starts talking.

“You’re right. Okay? There. I said it. I need you to fix up my screw-up.”

The muscles in her shoulders and the back of her neck are tight. Her breathing has gone a little shallow and rapid. Her heartbeat’s up. If I trusted her, I’d swear she’s telling the truth.

Sola shakes her head.

“I don’t know what happened and neither does Father Traven. Have you heard of him? The Vigil had him on retainer for freelance exorcisms. He’s the real deal. A genuine old-school demon ass-kicker. Only this time the demon kicked back harder.”

“Why come to me? Why not get another priest? Or a houngan or one of those old nyu wu witches in Chinatown? They love this kind of thing.”

“I tried to get another priest, but when word got out that I was working with Father Traven, none of them would talk to me.”

“Now you’ve finally said something interesting. What’s wrong with your snake handler?”

“He was excommunicated.”

I turn to Vidocq.

“Did you know about this? You were a nice Catholic boy. This is big-time stuff. Is there anything worse than an excommunicated priest?”

“Yes. One who’s not excommunicated.”

I get out a Malediction and light it. I look at Carlos. State law says I’m not supposed to smoke in here, but he gives me a don’t-sweat-it shake of his head.

“What did Traven do? Skim from the collection plate? Oil-wrestle altar boys?”

Julia shakes her head.

“Nothing like that. Father Traven is a p#x2raven ialeolinguist. He specializes in translating ancient religious texts and deciphering dead languages.”

“Let me guess. Instead of collecting stamps for a hobby, he translated a book the Church didn’t approve of and got nailed for it.”

“Something like that. It was one book in particular that got him into trouble, but he won’t talk about it. However, none of that has anything to do with the fact he’s an experienced and extremely successful exorcist.”

“So what went wrong with the kid?”

She sits down on one of the bar stools. Shakes her head and drops her hands to the bar.

“Your guess is as good as mine. The exorcism seemed to be going well, and Hunter—Hunter Sentenza, the possessed boy—was doing well. His color was coming back. The voices had stopped. There wasn’t a trace of fire.”

“Fire?”

“We didn’t actually see it, but there was a symbol burned into the ceiling over his bed. There weren’t any matches or lighters in his room. We think it was done by the demon possessing the boy. His hands and face were blistered.”

“What’s the symbol look like?”

“Old. I didn’t recognize it. Father Traven can tell you more about it.”

“What happened next?”

“It felt like we were reaching the end. Traven was sure that he had the demon under control and almost had it out. Before that, Hunter had been speaking in tongues. But then he seemed all right. He was calm and breathing normally. All of a sudden he grabbed Father Traven and tossed him across the room. Hunter levitated a few feet over the bed and shouted, ‘I won’t be locked in.’ After that, things got weird.”

“After that?”

“Hunter fell back onto the bed and didn’t move. I didn’t know if he was passed out or dead. As I helped Father Traven to his feet, the kid started singing.”

“ ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’?”

She shakes her head, a knowing little smile curling the edges of her lips.

“It was an old Chordettes song. It went, ‘Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream, make him the cutest that I’ve ever seen.’ ”

I can’t help but laugh.

“That’s what this is. You think the demon knows me.”

“Any idea who it might be?”

“I haven’t had much experience with them.” I try to think. Run over all my kills. There are so many. They run together like a dark stinking river.

“I might have killed a demon every now and then, but it’s not like they have distinct personalities. They’re like bugs. Who remembers stepping on a bug?”

“Maybe the song was a fluke, but I doubt it. The question is, what are you going to do about it?”

I look her in the eye, take a drag on the Malediction, and blow it out.

“I’m going to Max Overdrive and find an Andrews Sisters musical. Then I’m going to the hotel, put it on, and drink steadily for the rest of the day.”

I stand up to leave, but Vidocq grabs my arm. He might look old, but he’s been using his muscles for over a century. His grip is like a claw lifter at a wrecking yard.

“Give me the folder,” he tells Julia.

Sola pulls a beige manila envelope from a shoulder bag she’d left on the bar.

Vidocq pushes me over to the bar and pulls something out of the folder. It’s a picture of a teenage boy in a school robe. Maybe a high school graduation shot. He’s smiling at the camera. Straight white teeth and messy brown hair under the graduation cap. He looks like the kind of kid who’d be captain of the track team. I hate him. Healthy, happy, popular jock. My natural enemy in school. On the other hand, he’s not someone I’d pick to square-dance with demons.

Vidocq says, “This is the boy we’ve been discussing. His name is Hunter. He’s nineteen. The same age you were when you were dragged to Hell. Tell me, Jimmy, did that experience improve your life? I don’t think so. Are you going to walk away and let what happened to you happen to this boy?”

There’s acid in the back of my throat. A whirlpool of anger and fear in my head as the nineteen-year-old kid I keep buried under the floorboards in my head, way deeper in the dark than the angel, struggles up to where I can’t help but look at him. Total Nam flashback time and I’m feeling things I didn’t know I could still feel. The dry, brittle arms gliding out from under the floor in Mason’s house, wrapping around me and dragging me Downtown. Sensations of falling. Crashing onto a blood– and shit-stained backstreet in Pandemonium. Trying to clear my head and focus as a thousand new smells, sounds, and the perpetually twilight sky hit me. Then the slow realization of where I was and the gleeful looks on the Hellions’ faces.

I toss the photo back onto the bar.

Lying there in that Hellion street, I had a strange sensation, like some primal and essential thing inside me youg insidhad cracked and everything I ever was or ever might have been—my name, my hopes, Alice, my whole ridiculous life—was turning black and falling apart like rotten fruit. When it was done there was nothing left inside me but the numb hopelessness of a corpse. Not much to build a new life on but it was all I had when I realized the Hellions weren’t going to murder me right away. Maybe that’s why killing is so easy for me and why I’ve been hiding with a dead man in one room over a store since I crawled back here. There’s not enough of me left to do anything else.

I drop the rest of my cigarette into Sola’s coffee cup.

“I don’t like being manipulated. You fucked this thing up. You fix it.”

I get up and walk out.

I CROSS TO the other side of the street, where it’s darker and I can keep the sun out of my eyes. Candy just about catches up with me halfway down the block.

“Wait up, will you,” she says.

I keep walking.

She catches up and walks beside me.

“I sent Vidocq to the clinic and told him to take Allegra to breakfast. Want to have breakfast with me?”

“This is why Vidocq bought you, isn’t it. I’m the asshole who walks out and you’re the angel who’s supposed to bring me back in.”

“Of course. Is it working?”

“Not that I’ve noticed.”

She gets in front of me at the corner.

“Come on. Just have breakfast with me. We don’t have to talk about any of this.”

“No thanks.”

“Why do you have to make everything so hard? Let’s do something. Just us. We kissed that night at Avila and the timing has been so fucked between us trying to get to know each other ever since. But we’re here now and I don’t have to save Doc and you don’t have to save the world. Can we just try to be like normal people for an hour?”

“I thought not being normal people was why we got along. Monster solidarity.”

She puts a hand on my chest.

“Then we can pretend. A couple of wolves eating blueberry waffles among the sheep.”

“Keep your waffles. I need grease to kill this hangover. Lots of bacon or ham. Maybe a chick#00aybe a en-fried steak.”

“Anything you want.”

I take a step back from her.

“Let’s get one thing straight. You never play games like this or lie to me again. About anything.”

She nods.

“I promise.”

“Okay.”

She loops her arm in mine and pulls me down the street.

“Roscoe’s on Gower, then. They have fried chicken and waffles.”

Candy is a little shorter than me. I look down at her smiling in those stupid sunglasses. Sometimes just seeing a woman smile is like a knife in the heart. It hurts and it rattles your whole system, but against all your instincts you swallow the pain and keep looking. After a while you realize it doesn’t hurt as much as you thought it would.

“Okay. Roscoe’s.”

WE SIT IN a booth in the back of Roscoe’s, me with my back to the wall. It’s an old family habit after Wild Bill caught one in the spine back in Deadwood. Neither of us had to look at the menu to order. Roscoe’s specializes in fried chicken and waffles in a heroin-addictive gravy. You eat there because the food is great, and if you live in L.A. and aren’t going to flatline on a speed binge, you might as well check out with arteries the color and density of concrete.

I’ve been trying to ignore my arms all morning, but I can’t stand it anymore. I heal fast, but it’s just a fast-forward version of how everyone heals and that means almost-healed skin itches like hell. I lean back against the wall, scratch one arm and then the other. It feels great. I want to dig underneath the red skin and new scars and hack away at the nerves with my fingernails so they’ll shut up.

Candy says, “Have you been sleeping in pet-shop windows? You look like you have fleas.”

“A Gluttire demon made me his chew toy last night.”

“You have all the fun. I’ve never even seen one of those.”

“Unless you see it through binoculars from an air-conditioned bunker, you don’t want to. The bastard burned the hell out of my arms.”

“Let me see.”

I shrug off my coat and push my burned sleeves out of the way. (I really need to change clothes soon. It looks like I stole my clothes from a hobo arsonist.) I hope there aren’t any nice families looking over here riscrover heght now. They might have to bag up their chicken and finish it at home.

Candy leans across the table and pokes my raw red left arm.

“Hey. That hurts.”

“You big baby. It doesn’t look so bad.”

“I’ll send the next Gluttire to your place to give you a massage and a skin peel.”

Our drinks arrive. My coffee and Candy’s Coke. I haven’t eaten with her before, but I hear that Jades have a real sweet tooth.

In between sips of soda she says, “After breakfast we should see Allegra. She’ll have something to fix you up.”

“That’s not a bad idea. Even if it’s only something to stop this damned itching.”

Candy takes the straw from her drink and wraps it around her finger.

“Let’s start the job interview. Mr. Stark, what’s your favorite color? Your favorite movie? Your favorite song?”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“It’s called speed dating. You have five minutes to see if you like someone, then a permed-bitch control freak rings a bell and you have to move on to someone else.”

“You’re serious. You’ve done this?”

She makes a face and shakes her head.

“Hell no. But I want to see you squirm. And I have lots worse questions than those. If you were a tree, what kind would you be?”

Someone remind me why I came back to earth.

“Christ. Okay. Ask me the questions again.”

She gives me a wicked smile.

“Favorite color, movie, and song.”

I glance at the kitchen, willing our food to arrive so I can stuff my mouth and not talk.

“Hellion gray, Herbie versus Godzilla, and ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’ ”

“Okay. Now me.”

“If this is how speed dating works, I think I’ll stay home with Kasabian.”

“Go on.”

“Okay. Favorite car, movie, and way to use a knife.”

Our food arrives while she’s answering. Thanks to whatever monsters are watching over me. This will be over in a minute.

“Shelby Mustang and Evil Dead II. I’ve never used a knife except to cut bagels.”

“Wrong. The correct answer is a ’71 Impala Super Sport. Once Upon a Time in the West. And from behind, your right arm around the throat and an upward thrust with your left so the blade slips between the ribs and into the heart.”

The waiter is laying out the plates when I answer. He freezes for a second then puts down our cutlery and glasses of water. He turns and walks away slowly, like from a rabid dog, trying not to draw its attention or piss it off. What a pro. I’m leaving him a massive tip.

“How are the waffles?”

“Perfect. How about your chicken?”

“Smoothing over this hangover like a road grader.”

We don’t talk for a while. Just eat our food like a couple of civilians who haven’t killed enough people to populate a small city. It’s been six months since that night at Avila when we were both in monster mode, ripping our way through some of L.A.’s most elite millionaires and politicos, all of them Mason’s accomplices as he tried to open the gates of Hell. Candy and I did kiss each other that night. A hard, long kiss while we were covered in other people’s blood, a couple of monsters who recognized each other and weren’t afraid of what they saw. And then nothing. Candy went back on the wagon, taking Doc Kinski’s potion to keep from turning back into a killing machine. Then the Drifters invaded. And someone was looking to kill Doc, so she went on the road with him. I don’t know if there’s anything between us really, but it sure as hell feels like someone sprinkled mayhem and saltpeter all over creation to make sure we never find out.

I feel a little guilt bubbling up in the back of my mind. It’s the same feeling I always get when I look at a woman who isn’t Alice. But like Candy said, we’re here now. Let’s just see what happens. I can’t live in the shadow of Alice’s absence every moment of my life. I don’t push her away, but let her drift back where she was. Not forgotten, but not making me wish I was dead. I don’t let the picture of the Sentenza kid get to me either. Julia found one exorcist, so she can find another. Hell, I could point her to some Sub Rosa demon hunters.

My phone buzzes. A text comes through.The girl is delicious. You’re right to be with her.Leave anyan>Lthe case alone. Forget you heard about it.Stay with the pretty girl.

I push the plates away and get to my feet, storming through the restaurant looking for anyone holding a phone. A guy in blond dreads and a sleeveless T-shirt is looking at his. I’m across the room in two long steps and snatch it from his hand. A woman’s voice comes out of the speaker. He’s listening to his voice mail. I slam the phone on the table and stomp out of the emergency exit, setting off the alarm. There’s no one on the street. A dusty station wagon and a VW Bug pass each other in the road. Only one passenger in each and neither of them has a phone.

I push back into Roscoe’s through the front door. Everyone in the place is looking at me like they’re expecting the crazy man in the coat to set off the bomb he’s obviously hiding.

I go to the table and show Candy the message.

“Tell me this isn’t you or Vidocq. Or something one of you set up with Julia.”

She shakes her head.

“Vidocq wouldn’t and I didn’t,” she says. I look at her and let the angel out for a second so he can look, too. He sees what I see. She’s telling the truth.

I take a couple of the hundreds I grabbed from my stash of vampire money last night. Drop the money on the table and nod for Candy to follow me out. We double-time it back to Hollywood Boulevard to get lost in the tourist crowd before one of the solid citizens back at the restaurant dials 911.

I say, “Do me a favor.”

“What?”

“I’m a little agitated and don’t want to have to explain anything. Do me a favor and call Vidocq. Tell him I want in on the case. I don’t like threats and I hate crank calls.”

Candy puts her robot glasses on.

“At least whoever it was thinks I’m pretty.”

“Even assholes can have good taste.”

THERE’S A PARKING lot less than a block from the Beat Hotel. Vidocq hates riding in stolen cars, so I look for one that will make him the least unhappy and settle on a brown Volvo 240, one of the most boring cars in the world. No one, especially a cop, will look twice at a Volvo, especially one the color of a Swedish turd.

I leave Candy in the idling car, go into the room at the hotel, and ditch my burned shirt for a clean one. I always heig. I alwave the knife and na’at with me, but on the way out I grab the Smith & Wesson .460. You don’t have to shoot an elephant with a gun this big and powerful. You just hit it on the knee with the butt and the elephant will give you all of its lunch money. When he sees me slip the gun into my coat pocket, Kasabian shakes his head, which, in his case, is his whole body.

“I knew they’d drag you in. You can’t stay away from trouble.”

“Can I help it if trouble has me on speed dial?”

“Have fun, sucker.”

“Vaya con Dios, Alfredo Garcia.”

Sola already gave Vidocq the Sentenza family’s address, so I pick him up and we head north on the Hollywood Freeway.

STUDIO CITY IS the kind of place where the poor have to settle for two-million-dollar “luxury properties” instead of mansions. The only difference between them and the genuinely rich in the hills is that they have to get by with one pool and they can’t park a 747 in their two-story living room, though they can probably squeeze in a decent-size blimp. There are fake villas with fake Roman mosaics out front and fake castles with wrought-iron gates like Henry VIII is going to stop by with guacamole for the keg party.

Lucky for everyone, the address Julia gave us belongs to a place on Coldwater Canyon Avenue with nothing but a long snaking driveway. No monarchist gates, armed guards, or a giant hermetically sealed Jetsons dome.

At the end of the drive, a gold Lexus is parked next to a clean but well-used Ford pickup. There are streaks of mud and dried cement around the truck’s wheel wells. We get out and follow a stone path to the front door. I ring the bell.

A woman opens the door a second later. She’s obviously been waiting for us. She’s about fifty and pretty, with short dark hair and a high-quality chin tuck.

“Oh,” she says, all the hope and brightness disappearing from her eyes.

It’s Hunter’s mom. I can see the resemblance from one of the photos back at the bar. Mom takes one look at my scarred face and I can practically see the words home invasion with multiple fatalities spinning around her brain like the dragon in a Chinese New Year’s parade.

I say, “Mrs. Sentenza. Julia Sola sent us.”

She relaxes. The storm in her brain clears and her blood pressure drops to below aneurysm levels. Her little freak-out probably shaved a good five years off her life, but they’re the shitty ones at the end, so no big deal.

“Oh. You must be Mr. Stark and Mr. Vidocq. Julia said you’d be dros t019;d bpping by.” She stops, staring at Candy in her robot sunglasses.

I say, “This is my assistant, Candy.”

Mrs. Sentenza gives Candy a thin smile.

“Of course she is. Please come in.”

The inside of the house is bright, with light coming through a million windows and reflecting off the polished tile floor. Obsessive California chic. Like they own the sky and are goddamn well going to use every inch of it. Hunter’s father is waiting for us by the stairs leading to the upper floor of a two-story living room. (I told you.)

“This is Hunter’s father, Kerry.”

“Nice to meet you all. Call me K.W.”

Handshakes all around. His grip is firm and serious. He has rough laborer’s hands, like he actually works for a living.

“Are you three exorcists, too?” he asks.

“No. Father Traven holds the prayer beads. We’re more like spiritual bouncers.”

“Well, if you can fix this, we’re willing to try.”

There aren’t any hoodoo vibes coming off these people. Nothing shifty and hidden. They come across like straight-arrow civilians who wouldn’t know a Hand of Glory from an oven mitt. They’re not responsible for calling a demon into the house. Unless they’re a lot more powerful than they look and can throw up a glamour powerful enough to even fool the angel in my head. Their eyes are dilating and their hearts are racing. I smell Valium and alcohol in Mom’s sweat. Most of what I’m getting off them is heavyweight fear for their kid and confusion and a meek mistrust of us three. No surprise there. They don’t run into people like us on the golf course at the country club.

Vidocq looks around the place. Like me, he’s looking for any traces of magic, in his case mystical objects.

“You have a very lovely home,” says Candy. “It looks like a happy place.”

“It was,” says Mom.

I say, “Can we see the room?”

“It’s Hunter’s room. His name is Hunter.”

“Hunter. Got it. Can we see Hunter’s room?”

Mom isn’t sure about Candy and Vidocq, but I can tell she hates me already. I’m not sure about Dad. He looks like the kind of guy who didn’t come from money, and now that he has it, he’s always a little on edge waitingrunedge wa for someone to try to take it away. That means he’ll have a handgun or two in the house.

K.W. leads us to Hunter’s room while Mom trails behind.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but did Hunter take anything like antidepressants? Or was he ever locked up for, you know, behavior problems?”

“You mean, was our son crazy?” asks Mom.

“Was he?”

“No. He was a normal boy. He ran track.”

So that’s what normal is. I should write that down.

“Did he take any recreational drugs?”

Mom’s attitude has gone from hate to stabby.

“He’d never touch those. He’s an athlete. Besides, when Hunter was a boy he saw Tommy, his older brother, destroy himself with drugs. He hallucinated. He was scared all the time and couldn’t sleep for weeks on end. And it kept getting worse. Then Tommy died. Hunter saw all of it.”

“He didn’t die. He hanged himself,” says Dad. His face is set and hard, but it’s clear that admitting this hurt.

“Don’t say it like that,” says Mom. The tears come fast, an automatic reaction when her other son’s death comes up.

These people are unbelievably easy to read. They don’t have any magic. There aren’t any spells that will hide it this thoroughly.

K.W. puts an arm around his wife’s shoulders.

“Jen, why don’t you put on some fresh coffee for our guests?”

Mom nods and heads down the hall.

When she’s gone K.W. turns to us.

“Sorry. This thing has us both a little crazy, but it’s hit her worse. How are you supposed to live after one son’s suicide and your other son’s . . . well, whatever the hell this is. What’s normal again after that?” he says. He swallows hard. “I still don’t know what we did to ruin our boys.”

“You didn’t ruin anyone,” says Candy. “Things just happen sometimes. It’s easier to fall off the edge of the world than you might think. Even for nice people.”

K.W. looks at her. His eyes are wet, but he’s fighting hard not to let it go any further. I hate being reminded that rich people are still people.

He pushes open the door to Hunter’s room.

“This is it,” he says. “Look around at anything you want. We don’t have any secrets.”

Mom comes back.

“I put coffee on.”

She looks past us into the ruined room.

She says, “Julia told us not to touch anything, so we haven’t.”

I scan the wreckage inside.

“You haven’t done anything? Like a spilled glass of water or class photo?”

“No.”

“Good. Never clean up after monsters.”

“My son isn’t a monster.”

“I’m not talking about your son.”

Vidocq goes into Hunter’s room.

“What my associate is saying is that when powerful supernatural forces are at work, without proper preparation any encounter can be extremely dangerous. My advice would be to not enter the room at all and to keep it locked unless Julia or one of her associates is here.”

Jen nods and stares, a little surprised at Vidocq’s accent. She relaxes a little. Even in a pile of splintered furniture Vidocq is a charmer.

Candy and I go inside while Mom and Dad watch from the hall.

I kneel down, take some packets of salt I lifted from Roscoe’s, and sprinkle a white line across the entrance. Vidocq sticks iron milagros down one side of the door frame with some green hardware-store putty.

“I have to close the door for a second,” I tell the Sentenzas.

I get out the black blade and carve a protective rune into the wood on the inside of the door frame.

Vidocq reaches for my hand like he wants to stop me, but he’s too slow.

“Why are you destroying their house further? Why not put an ash twig over the door?”

“Why don’t we send the demon roses while we’re at it? I hate hippie hoodoo.”

Vidocq rummages in his coat and finds ash powder in one of his vials. He reaches up and sets it on the frame oft" the frver the door.

“Okay,” I say to K.W. and Jen when I open the door. “Nothing should get out of here.”

“Thank you,” Jen says.

The room is a wreck. It looks like it was worked over by Linda Blair on a crack binge. One of the windows is boarded up. There are holes in the wall where it looks like someone punched through. The place hums with residual dark hoodoo, like there are wasps in the walls. I don’t think the Sentenzas can hear it, but Candy, Vidocq, and I can. Something bad was stomping around in here, but I have no idea what. Vidocq is blowing some kind of powder into the air and watches it settle on the floor and furniture. He looks at me and shrugs. Candy is over by Hunter’s closet. I look at her and she shakes her head.

Vidocq prowls the room, trying different powders and potions, trying to identify the magic residue. Candy paws through Hunter’s closet and dresser.

I ask, “How did the whole thing start?”

“I guess it started with the migraines,” says K.W. “His head would hurt and he’d get real sensitive to light. He said there were ants eating their way into his brain. I get migraines sometimes, too, so I’d give him some of my Imitrex and put him in a dark room. Sometimes it helped, but other times it made things worse. I’d hear him talking and he said it was to the voices in his head. After a week of that, things got really bad.”

Jen picks up the story.

“Hunter stopped sleeping. He said he had horrible dreams. Things were chasing him. Not to hurt him, just to have him. He drank coffee and energy drinks to stay awake, but he’d fall asleep anyway. There would be marks on the walls where he clawed them. His hands would be bleeding. It was like Thomas all over again.”

Hunter’s bed is just a bare mattress. The scene of the exorcism. All four corners are stained with blood. The kid cut himself on the restraints during the ritual. The rest of the mattress is stained with every fluid a human body can produce. There are deep claw marks by the head of the bed. Even some bite marks.

“Did he ever take anything more powerful to stay awake? Speed? Amphetamines, I mean.”

K.W. says, “I know what speed is. And no, not that I’m aware of.”

Candy stands at the foot of the bed looking. It’s the sigil Julia told us about, which was burned into the ceiling. I can’t place it, but I’m sure I’ve seen it before. I snap a picture with my phone.

Neither parent has moved from the door. Jen has one hand over her mouth as she watches us ransack her younger son’s room.

“What you’ve told me so far could be anything from a bad batch of acid usttch of to a brain tumor. When did you start thinking it was supernatural?”

Jen says, “There was the time I found him floating in midair.”

Vidocq stops pouring his potions.

“Julia didn’t mention that,” he says.

Jen turns away so she doesn’t have to look at us.

“Tell us what you saw,” says Candy. She has a good instinct for this kind of work, for knowing when it’s best for a woman to ask another woman a painful question.

“It was early in the morning. It was still dark out. I couldn’t sleep, so I came by Hunter’s room to check on him and I saw that.”