Reincarnate: A Paranormal Thriller 4c1q3x

REINCARNATE a paranormal thriller

DEAN SERRAVALLE

Relax. Read. Repeat.

REINCARNATE By Dean Serravalle Published by TouchPoint Press Brookland, AR 72417 www.touchpointpress.com

Copyright © 2021 Dean Serravalle All rights reserved.

eBook Edition

Softcover ISBN-13: 978-1-952816-77-2

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference. If any of these are used, no endorsement is implied. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book, in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation. Address permissions and review inquiries to [email protected].

Editor: Jenn Haskin Cover Design: Michelle Thorne

Cover Image: Half Face of a Boy by Jan H. Andersen (Adobe Stock)

Visit the author’s website at www.deanserravallewriter.com

First Edition

For my beautiful wife Lauren, who proved to me that soul mates do exist

“Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, Before you were born I set you apart; I appointed you as a prophet to the nations.” —Book of Jeremiah

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20

Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

The security lights detected her in the forest before the walking-bridge to his cabin. She tresed alone, dressed in black, her face veiled. Oscar watched her from his bedroom window after turning down his lights. The woman walked hunched over as if pushed by the invisible path from which she came. With every five steps, another light spotted an area behind her, creating a slanted shadow toward his home. She didn’t seem bothered by the light or its obvious implication. Her pace appeared timed by a metronome; her head bowed. Oscar reached for the hunting rifle next to his bed without taking his eyes from her, for fear she would disappear without footprints. The bridge refused to creak as she walked across it; neither did she feel the need to use the rope handles. Her balance remained centered on the wooden planks, one at a time. Oscar descended the stairs to the front door, loading his rifle as he did so. A light knock sounded from the other side of it. “Who’s there?” “I’m looking for Dr. Predest.” “Dr. Predest doesn’t exist anymore.” “Then I am looking for mercy.” The oblong mirror in his entranceway reflected a bearded man with long disheveled hair. This frightening image of his reclusive self convinced Oscar to lay the rifle down on an end table, within his reach. He opened the door to a woman in black, framed by an aureole of light. Her bleached face wrinkled deeply around her mouth, though her sapphire eyes sparkled with youth. The sharp chain of a rosary creased her hands like external veins, the cross dangling from them as if choked by the stranglehold. “Dr. Predest?”

“Oscar, please. I haven’t practiced for quite some time now.” “May I come in?” “Who sent you?” “My son.” “Where is he?” “Strapped to a bed.” The awkward silence of the moment invited her in on its own. Oscar shielded the gun from her with his body as she entered and discarded her tiny slippers to the side. As one accustomed to it, she carried the weight of mourning, apparent by her heavy cloaked dress, although the black attire perfected the contrast to her silver skin. Oscar closed the door on the forest, hills, and brooks surrounding his home. Fragments of the scene disappeared as the security lights retracted. The lady remained standing in the entranceway to his home, awaiting instructions to move. Oscar pointed to the table he had carved and planed from a fallen oak tree. She felt the table with her fingertips before sitting down in the wood-scented darkness. A candle holder with dry, melted wax, centered them as he sat across from her. Preferring to read by candlelight in this room, he lit the taper to ignite a reason for her visit. Her waxen face melted real in color before him. “I do understand your preference not to see anyone.” “I prefer to study alone, now. No offense to society.” “You’ve created a nice island for yourself, I see.” “No man is an island.” “John Donne?” “Yes.”

He was impressed that she recognized the poet’s quote. She moved her thumb over another rosary bead. She prayed as she talked to him. “I didn’t get your name.” “Theresa.” “Why are you here, Theresa? I made sure to mark the outskirts of my property with many No Tresing signs. You’re lucky I’m in between guard dogs, or a coyote didn’t cross your path.” “Yes. I am.” Her thumb moved onto the next bead. With each bead crossed, the candle revealed another wrinkle engraving her face. She noticed his observance on the rosary. “Do you believe in God?” “I did.” “You can’t remove the root of your belief. You might have cut the branches, but the root remains.” “Are you preaching to me?” “Yes, I apologize. His words and suffering are ingrained in my heart.” “Listen, Theresa. It’s late and I wasn’t prepared to examine my conscience tonight. Why have you come here?” “I want you to see my son. I would like you to counsel him.” “I told you, I stopped my practice, Theresa.” “I know; since you lost your own son.” Oscar didn’t appreciate this foreknowledge. It reminded him of too many betrayals of trust, of concern. It reminded him of Tobias.

“I understand why, Oscar. I feel the same way. Nobody wants to help me, or my son. They think I am a religious fool, a fanatic, who may be contagious. They want everything to go away, all packaged up, like the garbage. And when the stink doesn’t go away, they dismiss you with blame, or the word crazy.” Oscar rose to plug the tea kettle into an outlet. He proceeded to arrange two cups and dropped the tea bags into them. He waited in the kitchen for the water to boil. Theresa remained silent at the table, never looking back, focusing on her prayers. He wasn’t prepared to discuss this type of material tonight. His routine was disrupted, and he felt uncomfortable in his own space. When the water percolated, he poured it into the cups and the scent of the steeping tea changed the air with an herbal humidity. He hoped it would change the subject of conversation when he returned to the table. “I know it must be hard to revisit the past, so I will just resume my begging. My son is ill, and he needs your help.” “Why is he strapped to a bed?” “To prevent him from hurting himself again.” “Where is he now?” “In his bedroom.” “Who is watching him?” “A nurse and a security guard I have hired.” “There are many child psychiatrists out there. Why did you seek me out?” “I’ve read all of your articles. Every one of them, even the one about predestination and hypnosis. I’ve also read articles about you, before and after the disappearance of your son. You were onto something, I believe, but they made you feel like you had gone crazy, especially in the connection between predestination and hypnosis. Apparently, you are an expert in the field.” “Yes, I am, in the same way that gypsies are experts in magic. Listen, I don’t believe in those talents anymore. I haven’t used—I mean, I’ve only trained. Listen, I’m not sure I can help your son with hypnosis.”

The steam from the cup of tea glistened her face, softening it. “Well, perhaps, you can judge for yourself.” She slid a sealed envelope across the table, square in shape, like a formal invitation. “What do you mean?” “A specialist, a priest from the Vatican is visiting tomorrow. I came here to invite you to my son’s exorcism.” “A priest from the Vatican? An attempt has already been made? When an exorcist from the Vatican is sent, he needs to be referenced by a bishop from the diocese.” “This will be the third time. I want you to see my son, and if this attempt fails, I need you to talk to the spirit possessing him.” “I’m not a spirit talker or a ghost whisperer.” Theresa rose from the table, leaving her tea idle. “He has mentioned your name. I believe he knows you.” “Who?” “The spirit possessing my son.”

Chapter 2

Oscar drove his car uphill, bending around roads that wound around the mountains of Northfield, Massachusetts, and through long, dark tunnels. The township of Grace, like many scattered settlements in his area, permitted the overgrowth of nature as a means of penance for past witch hunts. Upon a first visit, the spectrum of green preached naturopathic healing. It seemed to bury puritanical conflicts in deep, dark soil while shrouding their secrets with towering flora. Alongside the road, tiny, hand-built kiosks emerged next to thick oak trunks. Within these harmless enclosures, local vendors hawked natural, homegrown remedies—the inspiration of bees and organic honey, the fountain of youth in aloe plants, or the saving grace of tree sap from a maple. As these establishments became reversing images in his rear-view mirror, Oscar found himself descending into the valley and into the district of Thorold, from which a canal spliced to an ading Connecticut River. The oak trees from the top of the mountain imposed greater threats to the sky with their height, blanketing the valley and road on the other side with shade. At once, he felt exposed by the flatter farm settlements and naked without a forest surrounding him. How easily Theresa infiltrated his natural security system the night before. How difficult it was for him to drive into the open again, his thoughts rampaging the purpose of this visit, questioning the validity of her request. Although he had spent the better part of the night reconsidering this visit, he couldn’t move past Theresa’s last words. His name. The spirit possessing her son mentioned his name? Was it a ploy to get him to see her son? He had arrived at this possibility when he pulled up to the tiny aluminum-sided home with the lonely barn in the back. The agricultural land surrounding it showed no signs of growth or seasonal preparation, strafed yellow with dry soil and weeded cornstalks.

Before he stepped out of the car, Oscar thought about returning home. Demon possession? Of all things to be duped by. He was much sharper than this, as a therapist, as a mind reader, as a psychoanalyst. He had prided himself in the past on his objective eye, his impartiality, his ability to see beyond the language to a person’s motivation. Why was he here now, thinking in his car, the keys dangling from the ignition? He felt foolish for having shaved for the event. He had read his fair share about the practice. Stories of exorcism spread as urban myths, even in medical circles. Although he had treated two patients, both children, with medication after they were freed of their demons, he questioned the validity of the exorcism. Had it worked, or was the ritual simply drama to create a placebo effect? There was no substantial psychological proof of the presence of preternatural spirits lodged in human form. But as a child psychiatrist, he had wondered why children, most often adolescents, were the victims of such demon-possessed diagnoses. Was there a direct connection to hormonal imbalances during this growth period or were children more capable in their young belief systems to accept the possibility, thereby making them viable candidates? The fact someone from the Vatican had been sent for, to handle this case, convinced him to step out of the car. Never, in all his case studies, had he read of an exorcism conducted by an expert from the Vatican. The “specialist,” as Theresa called him, was only summoned when all local help was exhausted. Perhaps Oscar gravitated to this foreign house on the virtue of that curiosity. He was also a specialist. Psychotherapists and psychiatrists alike came to hear him speak on the value of hypnotism in psychotherapy. He was paid handsomely to attend conferences, publish writings, and make public appearances to further his findings in the discipline. Celebrity hypnotists continued to pay him to consult their own, performance work. But since Tobias’ disappearance, he had retired his talents and stored them in a secret container he had labeled disillusion. Oscar stepped up onto the cement porch of the home. He pulled the invitation out of his pocket to double-check the address. He was going to meet this specialist. If this priest exhibited skill, he would stick around to critically watch his expertise. On the other hand, if he were some quack pretender, Oscar would leave without once looking back or addressing Theresa’s son. He had developed a phobia of betrayal.

As he stared through the frayed screen of the storm door, it surprised him to find no religious denomination decorating the home. Expecting to see crying statues or iconic images sticking to the windows, no such symbols, not even a cross, characterized the home of a religious fanatic. He had counseled many in the past. Physical, religious symbolism was a mainstay, from crosses dangling from rear view mirrors to bloodied pictures of Christ in foyer entranceways. When he knocked, a stern man in heavy boots and a blank security uniform stood tall behind the screen door. “Are you Dr. Predest?” “Yes.” Oscar handed him the invitation and wondered why afterward. It wasn’t a VIP . “We’ve been waiting for you. Please.” The man held the door open for him. Anticipating a little space to adjust to the house before he entered a room, Oscar hesitated upon finding the ceremony staged in the living room. A hospital bed centered the living room like a coffin, while the attendees sat in armchairs on either side, teacups in their laps. When Theresa saw him in the entrance foyer, she darted out of her chair to fill him a cup. Before he could find a seat in the room, or introduce himself, she pushed the cup into his hand. Very formally, Theresa linked her arm with his and led him to the collared specialist as she would a suitor first introduced to her father in request of a hand in marriage. Bearded with thick glasses, he wore the Vatican crest on his lapel, like a soldier. It gleamed gold in the poorly lit surroundings. Because this room centered the house, no window to the outside introduced it to direct light. Perhaps they had staged it this way on purpose. Oscar noticed the absence of picture frames or mirrors on the walls, leaving pointed nails and chip marks to be exposed. The specialist rose from his seat to acknowledge him. “It is a pleasure, Dr. Predest, to meet you outside your writings.” Flattered by the recognition, Oscar intended to exercise the same humility, but the priest had chipped the first shard of proverbial ice. “Likewise?”

“Father Bosco.” “How was your trip in, Father Bosco?” “Pleasant, under the circumstances. Can you excuse us, Theresa?” “Please,” she motioned to the empty space in the kitchen, while she turned and knelt by the hospital bed. When she did so, Oscar caught a glimpse of the child. No more than ten years old, at the very least, light-haired, sleeping, but strapped to the bars encasing the machinery below the bed. When Father Bosco found a pocket of silence on the flower-patterned linoleum, he motioned for Oscar to lean in closer. “I understand you are here to observe the ceremony. I trust that although you are a doctor, you are also a believer, no?” “To be honest with you, Father, and this is no objection to your vocation, but I have ceased to believe in such practices, despite past experiences.” “But many of your articles argue the opposite, Dr. Predest. In fact, I the Vatican conducting a follow-up study on one of your theories.” “Which theory are you alluding to, Father?” “Your theory on predestination of course. That article found an active audience at the Vatican, let me tell you. How can you write an article about souls existing before they become human, or as you put it, before they enter ‘human temples,’ and not be a believer?” “I assume I was mistaken in that particular theory, Father Bosco.” “How can that be? I believe we have some things in common, Dr. Predest. I too studied human psychology, outside of the seminary. It has been difficult to compromise the science with the belief if you know what I mean. But you seemed to find a verifiable connection between the two. Have you abandoned it absolutely?” “I’m afraid I have.”

“But Aidan Jude?” “What about him?” “That was the study. You hypnotized him and found you were speaking to his spirit, instead of his subconscious. Am I incorrect?” “I suppose you are, Father. I’m sorry, but I must have been mistaken.” “Oh.” Father Bosco twisted the excess beard at the tip of his chin. He paused his concentration onto Theresa, static in prayer at the side of her son’s bed. Despite the volume of their voices, the boy remained asleep, as if drugged in preparation for a surgical operation. Father led Oscar aside to another vantage point. He whispered, “According to Theresa, the spirit has said your name. I’m sure this is the real reason for your visit.” “Yes, it is.” “What is your initial explanation for this phenomenon, doctor? Have you ever met Theresa or her son? Please, I need to know.” “No, I haven’t.” “Well, what convinced you to come?” “I have no explanation. I assumed it was a ploy to get me here.” “You do realize I am the third priest to see this young boy, and oftentimes, a true exorcism can take quite some time to accomplish.” “Yes, I am fully aware you are a specialist and that your presence here is not whimsical or by accident. If indeed he is possessed, I am prepared to help out in any way I can.” “Good. The Vatican doesn’t send me unless there is credible ground. I’ve performed many exorcisms, Dr. Predest, and at the risk of preaching to the choir, I am here to expel a demonic spirit.”

“I understand, Father, and I don’t discredit the practice. I fully respect your expertise. I am simply here to observe the process.” Father paced about the kitchen until he reached the screened window, dirtied by decayed spider webs. He gazed beyond them and out onto the flat land. In the distance, green mountains traced a pulse-like ridge across the sky. He appeared anxious. But he couldn’t be, Oscar thought. There was something else. “I will expel this demon. I am confident and faithful of the ability given to me to do so. But if it is true, Dr. Predest, and this spirit has mentioned you by name, wouldn’t you want to find out why before I remove it?” At once, Oscar realized he now stood in the presence of a true specialist in the field, someone whose interest exceeded the limit of what needed to be done. Every genius he had encountered in his professional lifetime possessed this quality, the appetite to question further, or to seek undiscovered ground. Father Bosco was one—of these special people, intent on learning beyond his respected expertise. The question stunted Oscar at first and he began to see what he doubted just a few minutes before as a scientific reality. Father Bosco had inspired him to think this way, outside of the box again. Oscar felt invigorated by the challenge. Although he had isolated himself from the world of his former career, he missed such conversations. “Yes, I would, Father, if you can get it to confess.” “That, I will do. I’m just a little uncertain as to why you were called upon, doctor. Although the spirit is prone to resist and employ tricks to dissuade the exorcist, the mention of your name speaks to an alternative agenda. As a man of faith, I believe it has something more to do with your faith than it does mine.” “If that’s the case, Father, I will be here to answer any questions.” “Fine. Now let’s save this young boy from what we know.”

Chapter 3

Father Bosco prepared himself with prayer before performing the ritual. He had set up an end table with religious articles: a cross, a statue of St. Francis of Assisi, and one of Saint Michael the Archangel. An older leather worn Bible with brown pages weighted the articles down. Father Bosco knelt on the hardwood floor before this little shrine, closed his eyes, and lost himself to the room. He fell into a trance and had left his body, as it didn’t move or flinch. Instead, his posture had frozen in the kneeling position, as if nailed to the wood. Theresa maintained her kneeling position by her son’s bed. Oscar felt indebted to follow suit. Except, he couldn’t feel any fervor in his heart to evoke anyone in prayer. He walked around the room before arriving on the other side of the bed. The child was plain-looking in his somnolent state, with radiant white skin. He seemed too young to be the son of his much older mother and Oscar wondered whether Theresa had adopted the young boy. Induced with morphine, he twitched in sporadic intervals. These subtle movements drew attention to the scars at his wrists–multiple attempts. His eyelids flitted, resisting aperture, remaining closed. Father Bosco had indicated the need for the child to rest before the ritual, which was very tiresome for the victim of any possession. He advised Oscar to relax before the child awoke, but Oscar was not accustomed to relaxing during the day or at night for that matter. Since Tobias’ disappearance, he had assumed a deep hatred for rest, treating it as an enemy rather than a friend. The house creaked when the wind flowed over it from the mountains to the flatlands. Oscar took a seat in an armchair and ed his brief flirtation in the past with this ritual. He had read up on it after treating his two patients and found that the ceremony itself was kept private to protect the victim and the sensitivity of the subject. There had been some famous or infamous exorcisms, which had found an audience in books and film, but those were dramatized too violently, he analyzed, after conducting his own research.

Yes, the demon inside was prone in some cases to extra strength and the ability to communicate in foreign tongues, not to mention the convulsions, vomiting of waste (despite the absence of food intake), and screaming. However, in many cases the demon elected to use trickery and a calmer approach to prove itself superior to the exorcist–its deliverer. In this manner, the demon was prone to mocking religious rites, finding confidence and a captive audience for the “game” it enjoyed playing. Oscar tried to excuse the calling of his name in this spirit’s agenda. He had never met this boy or his mother before. They lived quite a way from him in Thorold, outside of Grace County. Although Theresa did mention reading the articles regarding Aidan Jude and Oscar’s misinterpretation of the one session in particular–that he was actually speaking to a reincarnated spirit. Was it possible this child had come across the same readings, by accident? Oscar’s name might have lodged itself into the child’s subconscious. This seemed like the most logical explanation as to why a desperate mother prayed by the foot of the bed, while a specialist from the Vatican supplicated by a religious shrine. In this quiet and peaceful moment, Oscar had finally rationalized a reason why this religiously fanatic woman had sought him out. Perhaps, she was trying to get two specialists in the same room at the same time. Maybe, there was a method to her religious madness. Was she looking for a free diagnosis, free medical treatment? Could he have simplified it to this extreme? But what about Father Bosco? His presence alone legitimized the ritual. Very rarely would a bishop in a diocese seek the intercession of a Vatican exorcist. Father Bosco would not be called upon the suspicion of any scam. His preparatory procedure indicated a man of great zeal and humility–a quality consistent with the role of exorcist. Usually, a devout priest with the necessary piety, prudence, and personal integrity would be selected among his peers for such an enterprise. Apparently, demons feared great humility in a priest above all virtues. Father Bosco descended back to earth and woke from his trance. He removed a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe a sweaty brow and beard. After this brief freshening, his eyes, Oscar noticed, assumed a sharper focus. His skin shone healthier as well, as if refreshed by a shower or a swim in a pool. Returning to his leather handbag, Father Bosco removed a cloak and a long

purple stole. The stole consisted of two cloths stitched together. Father Bosco blanketed himself with the arb and double wrapped the stole around his neck. He removed the cross from its table holder and placed it on the face of the child. Oscar hadn’t even asked about the child’s name. Observing him in this vulnerable sleeping position made it almost inappropriate to do so. In this context, the boy lacked personality, like some mannequin or inanimate prop in a theatrical play. The cross rested still on the boy’s face while Father Bosco placed his right hand over it. Oscar recognized this ritual as the imposition of hands, used by Jesus when he healed the sick. The church mimicked this use in the Sacrament of the Sick. In the Bible, Jesus blessed children this way, by placing a hand on the child’s head. In his other hand, Father Bosco held the Bible to his chest. Theresa resumed her prayers by the table Father Bosco had set up in the living room, next to the ash-stained stone fireplace. Taking a deep breath, Father Bosco invoked the power of The Holy Spirit with a louder, bellowing voice. His body recoiled into itself as if expecting a retaliation. After a verifiable silence, wherein the priest bowed his head, an invisible, gravitational force wrenched the Bible from his hands, sending it to the ground while opening it to a specific page. Father Bosco tore the purple stole in half and removed the cross from the child’s face. He reached for the Bible and read Isaiah 49 verses 1-3—the age pointed to by the spirit. “Before I was born the Lord called me; from my mother’s womb he has spoken my name. He made my mouth like a sharpened sword, in the shadow of his hand he hid me; he made me into a polished arrow and concealed me in his quiver. He said to me, ‘You are my servant.’” After reading the age out loud, Father Bosco turned to Oscar to see if he could offer an objective interpretation. Oscar nodded. He had read about the spirit quoting scripture to indicate the source of conflict, to open an opportunity to speak in plain . Father Bosco turned to other, marked pages, reciting them aloud. “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through him all things were made;

without him, nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” The child squirmed within the restraints, increasing the intensity of Father Bosco’s voice. “He said to them, ‘Go into all the world and preach the gospel to all creation. Whoever believes and is baptized will be saved, but whoever does not believe will be condemned. And these signs will accompany those who believe: In my name, they will drive out demons; they will speak in new tongues; they will pick up snakes with their hands; and when they drink deadly poison, it will not hurt them at all; they will place their hands on sick people, and they will get well.’” The bed rattled like chains against steel. Oscar rose from his seat. Father Bosco proceeded to read another marked age. “Jesus was driving out a demon that was mute. When the demon left, the man who had been mute spoke, and the crowd was amazed. But some of them said, ‘By Beelzebul, the prince of demons, he is driving out demons.’ Others tested him by asking for a sign from heaven. Jesus knew their thoughts and said to them: ‘Any kingdom divided against itself will be ruined, and a house divided against itself will fall. If Satan is divided against himself, how can his kingdom stand? I say this because you claim that I drive out demons by Beelzebul. Now if I drive out demons by Beelzebul, by whom do your followers drive them out? So then, they will be your judges. But if I drive out demons by the finger of God, then the kingdom of God has come upon you. ‘When a strong man, fully armed, guards his own house, his possessions are safe. But when someone stronger attacks and overpowers him, he takes away the armor in which the man trusted and divides up his plunder.’” The boy’s jerks and contortions did not resemble convulsing, as Oscar had first imagined. His bones instead shook beneath his skin, like an epileptic seizure or an oncoming body quake. Theresa rose from her kneeling position, her lips reciting speedy prayers only she could hear or understand. Father Bosco continued reading ages and invoking the Holy Spirit with prayers. He removed the Medal of the Immaculate Conception of Mary from

underneath his shirt as he would a shield before a violent confrontation. The intrinsic movement stopped as if the orchestration of instruments creating it found a common note. Oscar motioned closer to the child’s body, which had deflated into a lifeless corpse. Father Bosco remained in his stance, his legs bent in this position. About to recite his commands, a foreign voice interrupted his reading. “I have you now,” the boy said in Oscar’s direction, revealing his eyes, blue as his mother’s.

Chapter 4

Father Bosco continued with the excommunication, commanding the spirit to leave the body of the young boy and begin its descent into some ethereal underworld. But his words trailed into dry breath as he observed the child’s concentration upon Oscar, standing on the other side of the bed. Although Oscar realized he was the target of the spirit’s words, he refused to jump at the bait entrancing him to respond. If indeed, this was a spirit, it was trying to evoke a rouse or reaction from him. Oscar elected to remain silent in Father Bosco’s line of vision. The child’s face had transformed into another personality; the skin now a mask instead of a photo identification framed by the white outline of bed sheets. Oscar waited. “You will not recognize me unless you revisit your pain.” “What do you mean?” “Dr. Predest. Please,” Father Bosco spoke to stop him. Oscar leaned over the bed. “We have never met. There is a resemblance in your breathing.” “To whom?” “Your son.” “How do you know my son?” “I’m the one who killed him.” At once, the vessels transporting blood in his body overheated within him, forcing Oscar to lose his breath and hyperventilate in a fit of sweats. He kept

reminding himself not to show anything, not to expose his fears. Any revelation of weakness would fuel this type of mocking. This spirit couldn’t have known his son. This was a bluff intent on scaling the walls Oscar had erected to protect himself from considering the worst-case scenario—that his son was no longer alive. In an attempt to distract the spirit and direct the insinuations towards him, Father Bosco interceded, reciting the litany of saints. “You stand no match before the power of God and The Holy Spirit. I command you to leave this child’s body at the request of God’s most humble servant, St. Francis of Assisi.” “You are humble, yes. But I am not a demon, not yet at least, so your powers are wasted on me.” The voice assumed an adult tone and depth, regretful. It stimulated awkward contortions on the child’s face. The muscles and nerves delivered the words backward, with the wind behind them inhaled instead of exhaled. The body remained still, relaxed within the restraints, which bit into the child’s arms tracing bruised creases. Oscar had caught his breath enough to feel confident that his voice wouldn’t crack when answering the spirit. Father Bosco stared him in the eye with a saddened face, one of pity. “Please, Dr. Predest. There is no need to answer this spirit if it isn’t what you want to do.” Oscar leaned over the bed some more. The child’s once angelic face, stretched as if uncomfortable on the skull, stared back at him. Theresa cupped her hands over her mouth. “What did you say?” “I killed your son. I am the spirit of the man who killed your son. I took him from you and then I took his life.” “Are you trying to provoke me with these lies?” “If they were lies, they would fail to provoke anyone, least of all you.”

“Then why are you repeating them? They stand less to shock me the more you tell them.” “I need you to believe me.” “For what end?” “Mine.” “Yours? Who are you?” “I am a spirit with one last chance.” “At what?” “Forgiveness.” Outside of Oscar’s line of vision, Father Bosco had made his way over to the other side of the bed to pull Oscar away by the arm, but Oscar resisted. Oscar was sure now of his previous theory, which he had named after Aidan Jude, a forlorn patient of his, bipolar manic depressive, whom he managed to successfully hypnotize, only to discover a spirit had been reincarnated in his soul. In this particular case, collaborating colleagues who discredited the theory itted Aidan into a hospital to rehabilitate under the traditional protocols of sedation and counseling. Aidan remained in the hospital before earning integration into a society he found reason to escape from upon the first opportunity available. He had disappeared without a trace, severing all communicative ties with doctors, family, and friends. On occasion, Oscar wondered if Aidan was alive. If so, had he changed as a result of the treatment or grown ignorant because of it? In that one specific session, Oscar ed the spirit speaking just as candidly about its plight, citing the need for redemption through another life, citing choice, and once again, the “one last chance.” Father Bosco shook him into focus. He came to, after smelling roses in the priest’s breath. “I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize, Dr. Predest. Everything is under control. You blanked out. Are you alright?” “Yes, I’m fine.” Oscar glanced over to the child. He rested during this intermission. “What do you make of this?” Father Bosco asked. They retreated to the kitchen again. Theresa watched over her son, patting his hair back, searching for him to reappear from a hide and seek game to reveal he existed in the body. “I don’t know what to make of this, Father.” “Spirits are prone to lie in order to set up what they truly desire, Oscar.” “What is it that this spirit desires? He hasn’t demanded anything yet.” “Usually, it is survival in this present state. Casting a spirit out of a home and into the unknown is just as frightening to a spirit as it is to a human being. This could be a stalling technique.” “Why me, Father? I’m trying to figure out, for the life of me, why it is speaking to me?” “It may see an advantage this way, a means to confuse the exorcism, in order to buy more time.” Oscar observed Theresa by the bed. She looked at him as if embarrassed that her son had misbehaved amidst new company. “What if this spirit is telling the truth, Father? What if my son is dead?” “When is the last time you saw your son, Dr. Predest?” “Two years ago, now.” “Is there anything only you and this confessed killer would know about him?” “My son was down syndrome, Father.”

“No, that may be common information, easy to acquire from a newspaper or a missing child file. Something more personal.” Oscar thought hard about their private moments, the ones he had tried to bury in the woods of his property. When he walked over to the bed, he did so with a determined stride. Theresa moved out of the way, sensing his urgency. The boy’s eyes expected his return. “How much does Tobias love his Daddy? How much does Tobias love his Daddy?” “More than the whole world.” Something exploded within him, and Oscar fainted to the ground.

Chapter 5

Oscar woke up in a bed believing he resided in his cabin, in control of time and sleep. When his eyes focused, and he peeled the wet cloth from his forehead, he couldn’t escape Theresa’s blue eyes entrapping his space. Father Bosco stood behind her, with arms crossed, breathing through his nose. The coldness from the room chilled his wet forehead. Embarrassed, Oscar rose from the bed in a panic. “I’m sorry.” “No need to apologize, Dr. Predest. We understand,” consoled Theresa. “Listen. I’m sorry, but I have to leave.” “We understand, Dr. Predest.” Father Bosco repeated Theresa’s words. Oscar walked out of the room and found himself dead center in the living room. The child strapped to the bed no longer communicated in a trance. He was awake and replaced by a softer version. He sat up and stared at Oscar, not to recognize him. “This is Dr. Predest, Ryan. He is here to help us.” “Hi.” Father Bosco and Theresa stood hesitant with their hands idle at their sides. They appeared as concerned parents to a newly delivered child, tired but satisfied. Oscar wanted to ask if the exorcism had worked. Had Father Bosco dispelled the spirit? It appeared that way, although Oscar was well-aware that possession didn’t imply that the child was possessed at all hours of the day. He had read an article claiming Sister Theresa of Calcutta herself was possessed at one point, under the attack of numerous spirits, until a priest excommunicated them. She remained herself for the most part and the symptoms of her possession were subtle at best.

The child expected a response from him, so Oscar nodded. He saw the front door and directed his attention to it. He wasn’t prepared to stay and find out. He wanted to escape, and he needed to leave right away. As he did so, Father Bosco followed him to the door. Theresa remained behind, whispering to her son. “He isn’t free yet.” Oscar searched for his keys in his jacket. “Doctor? He isn’t free yet.” “I heard you the first time, Father. I’m sorry, but I have to leave right now.” “It could have been a trick to weaken you.” “It was no trick. I heard what I heard.” Father Bosco grabbed his arm. It was a strong grip keeping him there. “I will be here for some time, I’m afraid. I am staying at the local inn. A complete exorcism can take up to 21 days. In some cases, the entire exercise has been extended for months. But we can’t sedate him every time we attempt to dispel the spirit. I need your help. You need . . .” “I need to go, Father. That’s what I need right now.” “I’m sorry.” Father Bosco removed his grip and Oscar left, making sure not to look back. When he pulled his car out of the driveway, he forced himself to look forward to the road before him. The car ride home would be the first step to distancing himself from the situation and his thoughts upon it. He ed his own recommended process for trauma recovery. Begin with the physical disassociation from the traumatic effect. This was the first step to self-recovery. Next, recontextualize your consciousness with the familiar to stabilize the shocking effect of the trauma. The long oak trees lining the road contributed to the comforting effect, while Oscar remained focused on controlling his own physical reactions to the scenery. Breathe. Above all else, relax the nervous system with a Yoga-like breathing

pattern. This exercise will send relaxation signals to the brain, revitalizing its energy from the negative to the positive. He was offering himself his own therapy, but the vigor of his mind fought it. The long, towering trees bent over the road, and he needed to blink to move them back to their real representation in his perception. This was a common symptom of a traumatized patient–disillusioned perception. He sought to cleanse it right away by escaping to a scene absolutely positive in nature—a memory, a dream, a desired goal, or aspiration. Although he had divorced his wife six years ago, he transported himself to the last wedding dance at the end of the celebration. Staged outside in a garden, and surrounded by well-dressed friends and loved ones, some holding and toasting glasses, others linking hands and arms, singing along with the music, the last dance made him feel like he was encapsulated in a completely positive moment. He had removed his shoes and so did Cheryl. They were dancing on the soft soil of the vineyard. Tiny lights dotted the vines above them. The air was crisp and the grass dampening, while an orange hue in the distance spotted a purple sky. Every once and a while, she would step on his feet to feel the warmth of his bridges. He appreciated her trust, her icy toes, her need to touch him. Her face was so full of hope in the slow motion. He had reverted to that moment when they were tearing apart their vows with decisions based on personal secrets and disguised weaknesses. But the moment itself, as her hand rested on his shoulders, could never go away. The distraction had worked enough to get him home. The final step was to find a means to block out the exorcism. As a psychiatrist, he termed it re-creation, the restructuring of a real-life contravention. It would take some time, of which he had plenty in his little cabin in the woods. As he turned the corner and descended to the weak gate plastered with no tresing signs, he recognized a familiar vehicle parked to the side. A woman in a leather jacket emerged from the trees. It was Lauren, leading his new guard dog on a leash.

Chapter 6

“Did you forget I was coming today after work?” “Yes. I’m sorry, but I was called to be somewhere. And who is this?” Oscar knelt to the ground and the dog nuzzled into him. Lauren observed him as if to dissect a peculiarity in his appearance. “Are you sick? You’re paper white.” “No. Not really. Any update on Tobias?” “Oscar, you haven’t asked me about Tobias for almost six months now. I assumed you . . .” “Had given up? No, never.” Oscar walked away from her and towards his home, leaving his car and hers outside the gates. The dog followed with its leash dangling behind him, tangling between its hind legs. Lauren caught up to them. “Do you have a new lead?” “Isn’t that your job?” “Yeah, that is my job but you’re acting strangely today. I can listen.” Although Oscar understood why he was angry and motivated to lash out at someone, his instincts dictated his body language. This was part of the therapy; this was part of the forgetting. He needed to get the poison out. Her voice had changed from the methodical tone of a detective to the sincere care of the friend she had become. The dog circled them, roping its leash around their legs. Oscar took hold of it and knelt again to scratch its ears. It was a German shepherd police dog. Lauren had promised to procure one for him, for the property. Unfortunately, it arrived a day late.

“What’s his name?” “Sigmund.” “Sigmund?” “Thought you would appreciate the psychological allusion. But you can call him Siggy. He finished his police training yesterday. Top of his class.” She smirked at her own joke until she noticed he wasn’t laughing along with her. “Siggy.” He knew she sensed something was the matter, but she was patient and kind enough to wait instead of probing. She was the only person he trusted nowadays. She had led the charge to find his missing son two years ago and was diligent in reporting every lead that landed on her desk. Oscar wondered if she had grown accustomed to their conversations over tea or coffee, or those by his walking bridge, before which he now stood. “I have something to tell you, but I’m afraid you’re going to think I’ve gone off the deep end. Can you promise me to hold your judgment?” “Have I ever judged you, or any of your theories?” He knew she hadn’t. He had proposed many a theory regarding the disappearance of Tobias and she had followed up on every one of them, no matter how desperate some of them appeared on paper. Oscar worried she had risked getting in trouble at work for prioritizing his son’s case. Or perhaps she was simply motivated by pity, feeling sorry that an entire community had deserted the search when they had all come out at the beginning to help him. “This isn’t a theory. Or at least, I don’t think so.” “What is it?” “An exorcism.” “An exorcism? Are you serious?”

“Yes.” “This sounds interesting.” “I suppose it is, now that I’ve gained some objective distance from it. I’m trying to work it out in my mind. I feel like I am avoiding the right answer because I don’t want to ask the wrong questions. Does that make any sense?” “I suppose, but you were never one for making perfect sense, Oscar.” “You’re right.” Below the walking bridge, the creek flowed water over mossed rocks as it carved out a dirt canal along the edges. When the forest fell silent enough and the birds halted their chirping, he enjoyed the therapeutic sound of the water moving towards its mysterious destination. “Yesterday, I had a visitor.” “An unexpected visitor? Are you serious? Were they suicidal?” He crossed his arms. “No, I meant, it’s not often you have any visitors other than me. But go on.” “It was an elderly woman, or so I thought. She invited me to attend her son’s exorcism today.” “Wow.” “I know. I reacted the same. When I got there, I considered the possibility of some scam to get me to treat her son. Her son was strapped to a bed to protect him from hurting himself.” “Suicide watch?” “Exactly.” “So why did you go? Curiosity?” “Not really. She mentioned the Vatican had sent a specialist to conduct the ritual.

And I’m not sure if you’re familiar with the process, but . . .” “The archbishop needs to make the recommendation after numerous failed attempts.” “Yes. How did you know that?” “Long story, but when I was a beat cop I was assigned to stand by during the ceremony.” “You never told me that?” “It’s not something that comes up in conversation. I was a rookie cop.” “And what did you see?” “Nothing much. I mean, nothing like you would see in the movies. The subject was a woman, and she was subdued. She writhed on the bed and moaned, but that was the extent of it. It was rather quick.” “She didn’t say anything during the expulsion?” “No, but I spoke with the exorcist afterward. I had to drive him back to the rectory. He was a rather good storyteller and he happened to mention the work of a specialist from the Vatican. Some crazy, out-of-this-world, stories. Why? Was the specialist really there?” “Well, as I said, I convinced myself I would leave if he wasn’t the specialist. But there he was, a Father Bosco.” “That’s the same name. Supposedly, he is the best in this practice.” “He was impressive. After meeting with him before the ritual, I came to understand he was a man of great humility and prudence, almost saint-like. It was like he was thinking it out for me so I could be better prepared to witness the event. I agreed to stay, except there was one thing I forgot to mention.” “What’s that?” “The spirit possessing this young boy mentioned my name.”

“Your name? Come on, in what context?” “In no particular context. He requested me. That was the reason why the mother of this boy visited me the night before.” Lauren paced a little, before grabbing the leash from Oscar’s hand. “He needs to eat something.” “I have some leftovers in the fridge.” “Might as well put some tea on.” “Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of a stiff drink.” “Sounds good.”

While Siggy scraped the bottom of the bowl with his teeth, Lauren resumed the conversation started by the walking bridge. “I realize you must have thought this to death, so I’m not going to ask you about the findings of your analysis. I’m sure you considered it as a ploy to get you there, or this was some lady who did her research. So, I’m going to skip right to it. What happened? Because you looked like an albino a few minutes ago.” “That’s what the stiff drink is supposed to cure.” He raised his glass, and she simulated the toast. “You are gaining your color again.” “Thanks.” “So?” “Sorry. Father Bosco conducted the ritual and I stood in the vicinity, observing. However, the spirit inside this boy spoke in a different language and with a deeper tone, similar to that of an aged man.”

“Really?” “Yes. It was too surreal. I stood in the background, observing, when the voice addressed me directly, saying, “Now I have you here.” “Oh my God, what were you thinking at the time?” “Well, in my readings, and Father Bosco confirmed this, spirits are known to play tricks to discredit those attempting to disarm or expel them. I remained quiet, not provoking it any further. But the voice itted to something.” “What did it it to?” “Killing my son.” Lauren placed her hands over her face. Although she was athletically built and her voice was raspier than most women, her sharp cheekbones melted into her hands. When she removed them, her face was soft and pliant. As if allergic to the news, her eyes swelled with red rings. She rose from the table to pace straighter lines about the room. She stopped to stare out into the forested distance, where descending sunlight found it difficult to penetrate the ivy ground cover. “Lauren?” “I’m sorry. I can’t bring myself to believe . . .” “I know. I couldn’t either. But sensing I was weakening, Father Bosco pulled me aside to warn me. He advised me to ask the spirit something only Tobias and I would know. Like a secret.” Lauren turned around to face him. “What did you ask it, Oscar?” “I asked the spirit what I asked my son every night as I tucked him into bed.” “And what was that?” “How much do you love Daddy?” “And what did it say?”

“More than the whole world.” Oscar noticed a tear drop snaking its way down Lauren’s face and disappearing underneath her chin. “I fainted afterward.”

Chapter 7

“The question is, do you believe it as truth?” Lauren had followed Oscar outside. He deemed it necessary to do some physical work to offset his current mental stress. He proceeded to create an outdoor area for Siggy, a zenith point to guard his house against strange visitors like Theresa. Oscar cleared fallen tree limbs and leaf debris from the highest hill near the separated garage. Siggy followed him closer than Lauren did. She kept an adequate distance. He assumed she didn’t want to impose on his thinking space. He needed time and breadth to clarify the day’s events. Evening signaled its appearance with a dulling sky, but Oscar welcomed the transition into night, the click of the slide to a new, fresh outlook. He understood the healing value of time, which required more than a night’s rest. It was rude of him not to answer Lauren. She found a safe spot leaning against a tree, before deciding to help him clear the area. “It’s a question I can’t seem to escape in my mind, Lauren. Sometimes, I tell myself it was just a trick. But am I constructing my own self-defense mechanism? I’ve grown so accustomed to waiting, to missing him. I can’t accept he may be gone.” “I can’t imagine, Oscar, or relate to what you’re feeling, but I’ve grown close to this case, closer than I expected. I’m not sure what it is, but I feel, if this is possible, there is something kindred about this case. I can’t shake it from my consciousness. I’ve invested my whole self in it, and I can’t prepare myself for acceptance.” “I appreciate all of your time and work, Lauren. I’m not sure if I have expressed it enough.” She paused as if to hold herself back from saying something better served at another place in time.

“You know, I wouldn’t mention it if I didn’t feel this way, Oscar, but this recent experience of yours has confirmed something for me.” “What’s that?” “The value of intuition, or is it another term I’m looking for?” “What do you mean?” “I’ve never met your son. I was assigned the case after he disappeared. It’s been two years since his disappearance and we’ve had numerous cases of a similar nature, but I can’t seem to shake my attachment to his. I feel like I’ve been searching for one of my own.” “What are you saying, Lauren?” “I suppose I’m asking you a question, doctor. “ “Do I think there is some spiritual connection between you and my son?” “I know we’ve had many discussions and I’ve seen you transform before my very eyes. You were the only doctor I have ever met who had this spiritual light within you. You weren’t consumed by your science, but you were wise enough to see the marriage of it to something else. I think we’ve become good friends over time and . . .” “What are you asking, Lauren?” “Maybe it is time for us both to consider the possibility you once believed in. Maybe we need to confront the reality that what you heard was true, but there is a reason for it, a more profound, spiritual reason intended for you to connect with Tobias.” Although his initial reaction to her words was one of anger, he realized the reason for it lied in his spite for the word acceptance. It was a horrible term for him, implying defeat, or weakness, or appeasement of character. Most of all, it meant submission, a process of giving up, which he promised Tobias he would never succumb to. But Lauren had raised an interesting direction of thought. If this indeed was the

spirit of his son’s killer, lodged in this young boy, were there other spirits out there waiting to be found or rediscovered? He had always considered the possibility of predestination, but had he ever, in the back of his mind, considered the possibility of reincarnation? “Can you help me drag his house out of the wood shop? I built him one, so he would have an outdoor retreat.” “Lucky dog,” Lauren smiled. “Yeah.” Together they dragged the doghouse out of the nearby shed and placed it atop a rolling hill, descending downwards towards the creek. The sun had lowered beneath the ridgeline. Oscar ed he had left his car at the gates. “I’ll walk you back.” Lauren nodded as if to express content with the adjournment. She was right – she had become a good friend to him over this tumultuous period in his life. With every suspicion or request, she arrived at his doorstep prepared to chase a lead or jump on new research. On a personal level, he wanted to feel a deeper connection to her, but couldn’t do so naturally. There was too much vulnerability exposed between them, forging a dependency on Tobias’ absence as a source of conversation, friendship, even intimacy. Tobias’ disappearance had accelerated their relationship beyond their own recognition of it. Oscar appreciated how she spoke what she felt. And she didn’t appear like the type to run away to another part of the country, like Cheryl, his former wife. She wasn’t afraid to face things as they were presented to her. Above all else, she cared. He had met many people in his lifetime. He had learned it was as simple as that, she cared. When they arrived at the gate, the sun had set. Some of his timed up-lights were beginning to bronze the ridged textures of tree trunks. The dog had followed them there. Oscar wondered if Siggy would be upset Lauren was leaving them alone now. “Thank you for Siggy, what do I owe you?”

“Don’t make me laugh. I think he needs you as much as you need him. You do realize he is much more than a guard dog.” “Yes, of course, I do. “ Oscar sensed she wanted to resume their previous personal conversation, but it had been a long day. He escorted her to her car and opened the door for her. Before she backed out, she rolled down her window. In its frame, she appeared photographed, an image he would her by. “It was nice seeing you again, I mean, the way you were.” The window rolled up, and she reversed into the darkness. Siggy poked his head through Oscar’s legs like Tobias would do when he was anxious to play. Despite the crushing revelation from the spirit, Oscar wondered whether his lost son was alive somewhere, in a place he had never imagined to search.

Chapter 8

Although Oscar couldn’t sleep, the sound of the dog barking startled him. As he ventured over to his bedroom window, with a view overlooking his entire property, he could see nothing but pitch dark. Oscar worried that Siggy was a trigger-happy guard dog until the security lights instantaneously lit the area after the walking bridge, to spotlight the figure centering it. Father Bosco stood alone, revealed, as a magician would in control of his appearance. Oscar blinked again to test the reliability of the vision. The lights themselves were sensory detective ones and would have signaled the approach of an intruder long before this point on his property. Father Bosco must have entered by some other means to avoid them. Had he flown in from above only to descend at the spot where all the lights converged in one path? Siggy’s reaction to the surprise exposure softened. He whined as if saddened by the sight. Father Bosco remained in his spot while Oscar stared at him. In the light, the priest’s clothes appeared worn, faded, with many miles on them. Oscar descended the stairs in the ambiance of the bright light. By the time he reached the bottom, Siggy had already greeted his visitor. Father Bosco petted him with soft strokes, while the dog nuzzled into the cross on his chest. “He is supposed to be a guard dog?” Oscar explained with some confusion. “He is, no worry there.” “I was told he was capable of biting if danger presented itself.” “There is no danger here. Just an uninvited visitor. I hope I didn’t wake you.” “I couldn’t sleep much. To be honest, I was expecting you.” “I felt the same way.” Oscar motioned with his hand for Father Bosco to enter, and Siggy followed.

When he took a seat at the kitchen table, Siggy preferred to sit next to the priest. Oscar at once felt slighted. He wasn’t expecting the dog to possess such emotional attachments. He assumed guard dogs were trained to work against them. Perhaps Siggy’s training was defective. “This is fine craftsmanship,” Father Bosco noted, feeling the edge of the wooden table. “Thank you.” An awkward silence positioned itself between them while Oscar arranged the cups and filled the tea kettle with water. Father Bosco scanned the dining area, observing the carved wooden loons on the windowsills with interest. “You’ve become quite the carpenter in your isolation here.” “Yes. I feel there is a value in it that I once underestimated as an academic. Your focus is much sharper, and the distractions are more controllable when you are carving an image out of wood.” “It has always been my dream to achieve this silence.” “Really?” “Yes. The monastic life has always appealed to me.” “How so?” “The silence. There is much to learn in silence.” When Oscar delivered the cups to the table, he realized the need to light a candle. The lights blacked out behind Father Bosco, like a disappearing flash of lightning. Father Bosco’s face lit up well in the candlelight. Oscar welcomed the opportunity to speak to him without the pressure of the exorcism about them. “So why did you come here, Father?” “I don’t have to tell you why? I assume you are aware of the reason for this visit.”

“I suppose I am.” “You know, in my earlier days, I was called to perform an exorcism on a priest named Pio, Padre Pio. His fellow Capuchin brothers had complained to the archbishop that they were hearing strange noises from his cell. They would knock on his cell door and when he didn’t respond, they considered calling the police. Until a voice, other than Pio’s, asked them to leave. In the morning, they would see physical manifestations of torture. Cuts, bruises, some issuing fresh blood. So, it was assumed he needed an exorcist. I was young in the craft, but others had discovered this talent of mine against my own will. Some of my own Jesuit brothers had revealed this gifted ability after I excommunicated a spirit from a young boy in our village. I was called upon to meet with this Capuchin monk. But when I met him, he became angry with me.” “Angry?” “Yes.” “Why?” “He said, ‘don’t you dare send these spirits away that torture me. I will never forgive you.’” “Really?” “Yes. He pulled the gloves from his hands and showed me his stigmata.” “Stigmata?” “Yes. It was real, and present on his feet and sides. He had cuts on his head resembling those formed as a result of wearing a crown of thorns.” “Were you amazed?” “Of course, I was. I was standing before a saint, a real mystic, who could have easily removed himself from his own torture. But like Saint Francis, he invited it.” “I’m waiting for your punch line, Father.”

Father Bosco bellowed a hearty laugh. It excited Siggy. His tail flapped against the table leg. “Sometimes, there is a greater reason for pain, Oscar. And I am not speaking about penance, or redemption here. I’m speaking about connection.” “Connection?” “Yes.” Once again, his discussion with Father Bosco invigorated Oscar. Why is this so, he thought. He had conversed and collaborated with some of the greatest intellectual minds on this planet, and yet, Father Bosco continued to surprise him with new avenues of thought. Great minds were prone to doing this— introducing roads less traveled by. And yet, he found Father Bosco held many cards back to reveal them at a more appropriate time. Oscar did not feel tricked by this series of revelations. Instead, his appetite grew to receive more. He felt privileged for these graces, but safely suspicious of them. “Father?” “Yes.” “I’m going to ask you something and I need you to tell the truth.” “That I will do.” “I realize you came here tonight because you want me to come back.” “Correct.” “But I don’t feel like you need me to come back.” Father Bosco indicated embarrassment by looking away. “What makes you think that, Oscar?” “You could have dispelled that spirit yesterday, am I right?” “Yes.”

“But you didn’t, on purpose.” “Correct.” “You could have freed that young boy from the possession?” “Not necessarily. I could have endangered him further.” “How so?” “Removing the bullet doesn’t necessarily heal the wound.” He took a sip from the cup of tea and Oscar waited on his next words, wondering if this man sitting across the table from him, this specialist, was a man capable of performing miracles.

Chapter 9

Father Bosco fingered the leather-bound books shelved by the fireplace. Oscar wondered whether he would put together the connection to Oscar’s current state of mind. “All of them are fiction?” “Yes.” “Escape into another world?” “Precisely.” He returned to the table. Oscar observed every physical habit of Father Bosco and was surprised to find the priest was mechanical and square in his gestures, like his mind was dictating the movements as an athlete would when he was too fatigued to perform. Father Bosco seemed to move in an angular way, by degrees, although his soft and gentle personality suggested the opposite. He was a walking paradox, Oscar concluded: formal exterior armor with a pliant demeanor. Although both of his parents had died when he was younger, Oscar ed the presence of his mother in the room. It was a glowing one that made everything surrounding her better, or more appealing to his eyes. Father Bosco carried a similar aura, like he could make something happen without physical touch, just by his very presence in the room. Like his mother, all objects in the room, animate or inanimate, seemed to respond to him. Oscar was seeing his own home in a reformed light with Father Bosco sitting at his table. It was an honorable impression. “I don’t want to waste any more of your time, Oscar, although I am enjoying our conversation.” “Likewise.”

“I simply came to invite you back.” “Listen, Father, I’m not sure I can do that.” “I know it is difficult. I can’t even begin to understand what you must be feeling,” “Or thinking. That’s it, Father. I want to help, and I feel motivated to treat the child, although for a time I couldn’t even look at a child without thinking of Tobias; and of course, I am curious to hear what the spirit has to say about my son, if it is indeed the truth, but I’m afraid of my own mind, what it’s capable of doing to me.” “Let me help you. I can counsel you along the way.” “I appreciate the offer Father, but I can’t ask you to do that.” “Are you afraid I am incapable?” “No, on the contrary. I feel this strange reassurance when you are in the same room.” “Then let me help you. I’ll watch you from this point forward. When it is time, and you feel comfortable with the process, I can step in and dispel the spirit.” “Are you sure we are not risking this boy’s life?” “This spirit will not harm the child. It has another agenda.” “What do you think that agenda is?” “I’m not certain, but I believe we have much to learn because of it. It may alter the landscape of many belief systems, which frightens me.” “Your faith? Are you worried about compromising your faith, Father?” “No. I am worried about knowing something I shouldn’t.”’ “A certain degree of ignorance is necessary to maintain sanity.” “Precisely. So here we are, Oscar, the both of us presented with these personal

risks. We have something in common, but my hunch is we have been selected to entertain this choice.” “Do you truly believe that, Father?” Father Bosco nodded as if concerned with his wellbeing. He crossed his hands and sighed. “Have you ever performed a miracle, Father?” Father Bosco smiled, rose from the table, and offered Oscar his hand. Oscar shook it feeling strength in the muscles, but brittleness in the bones. Although he was alight with faith and belief, Father Bosco’s body told the story of a tired man, forced into a vocational duty to better serve everyone else but himself. The security lights behind him blanketed the grounds outside as if expecting his leave, while Oscar thought about calling someone to fix them the next day.

Chapter 10

Although Oscar wanted to call Lauren and speak to her about his decision, he stopped himself. They had grown close over the years of his son’s absence, and he was worried he was beginning to develop a dependency on her presence in his life. If he were to help this child, he would have to focus all his energy, both emotional and intellectual, on the process of diagnosis. He needed to diagnose what this child was suffering from and in turn offer therapy that could help him find a measure of self-esteem to base some confidence upon. The drive to the farmhouse was serene and sunny. The grass glistened with softening frost this early morning, while Father Bosco waited outside to greet him. “I’m glad you are here, Oscar. “ “Thank you, Father. I feel the same way.” “The boy is ready to see you. We’ve decided to remove the restraints.” “Good thing. I realize our focus will center on the spirit, but my intuition says we need to aid the child first before he endures the trauma of expulsion.” “I couldn’t agree more.” Father Bosco motioned for Oscar to enter the house first. Theresa and Ryan were having breakfast at the kitchen table. The boy seemed ravenous with hunger, while Theresa appeared domestic in a cream-colored nightgown. The removal of black attire revealed more youth in the exposure of her arms. “Good morning, doctor.” The boy spoke first to him, before addressing the priest with a fearful nod. “Hey, Ryan. What are you eating there?”

“Bacon and eggs.” “My favorite, do you mind if I have some?” “Sure.” Father Bosco took a seat next to the boy and everyone pulled bacon from the centering plate. Theresa rose to procure some tea and coffee, while Oscar attempted to make the child feel comfortable. “So, Ryan, how did you sleep last night?” The young boy swerved to establish a line of vision to his mother, who returned the same coded, facial expression. “Let me guess, you had some nightmares.” “Yes. How did you know?” “I get them all of the time. Do you wake up all sweaty and everything too?” The boy nodded as if ashamed. Oscar assumed he was hiding an embarrassment more personal in nature, like wetting his bed. “You know, when I was a boy like yourself, I was afraid to go to sleep. My mother bought me this clown for my birthday and when you pressed its stomach, it let out this evil laugh. At night, I stared at it because I was afraid it was going to laugh on its own. And I would always have nightmares about it. Sometimes, I would scream out loud in the middle of the night. I sleepwalked out of the house. My mother just opened the door because you’re not supposed to wake anyone when they’re sleepwalking. In the morning, I woke up early because I wet my bed. I how I felt because I was like twelve years old.” “Twelve years old?” “Yup, but my mother took me to see a doctor, like myself, and we talked, and before long, I didn’t wake up cold.” Ryan grinned.

“That’s when I decided I wanted to help kids, Ryan, because that one doctor helped me.” “You were twelve years old?” The boy asked again. It was apparent to Oscar now that he had guessed right. The story had empowered the boy as he rose from the phoenix of his previous embarrassment. “Almost thirteen!” “Wow.” “I know, but the doctor kept saying to me ‘don’t be embarrassed.’ It is common, and some adults were doing it after nightmares too.” “Old people too?” “Yup.” Ryan crunched on another strip of bacon. His posture had straightened, while Theresa placed a cup of steeping tea before Oscar. Father Bosco surveyed the fruit at the table as if deciding if it was a banana or apple day. Oscar felt at home in this surrogate setting. The scene itself resurrected a memory of his own traditional family infrastructure. His mother serving food, his father sitting stoically at the table watching him eat, the mixed scent of oil and herbs in the air finding a consensus with coffee or tea. The feel of linoleum on his feet and the sun warming the room from the outside. He had tried to recreate such simplicities in his own cabin by making everything, both inside and out, as natural and homemade as it possibly could be, but he was missing the people, the spaces between them, the invisible habits taken for granted. “Are you going to help me, doctor?” “Yes. I’m here to help and talk if you like?” The child nodded yes. It was obvious the boy required a male presence in his life. He latched onto Oscar and there was little “feeling out” time in this new relationship. His trust was established, perhaps before Oscar related his personal wet-the-bed story.

“We are going to do some interesting things, Ryan. We are going to talk, and then, I am going to help you sleep since you are not sleeping so well at night.” “Are you going to hypnotize me?” Oscar was surprised he knew the term. He had probably overheard it from his mother. “Yes, I will. And when you wake up, you’re going to feel so good, like you had the best sleep ever!” The boy smiled again as if excited by the prospect. He must have dreaded sleep as much as Oscar had despised it over the past two years. In his previous career, Oscar would have feverishly taken notes during such a conversation in his office. The boy would be relaxed on his leather sofa or chair, and Oscar would be sitting behind him, out of view, with a notepad on his lap. Although such positioning was important to the therapy, he was beginning to believe more in the eye-to-eye exchange. And although it was less formal, the conversation was just as relaxed and relieving to both patient and counselor. More importantly, the therapy had already begun at the kitchen table. Ryan was offering him plenty of information to help him determine a proper diagnosis. Oscar realized in this special moment at the kitchen table that it was far more beneficial to treat a patient one on one, and one only, than ten of them per day. He could see more clearly the intricacies of vulnerability in Ryan’s eyes, and less analysis on paper. “Will I have nightmares when you hypnotize me?” “Of course not. You will be fast asleep, and I will deal with your nightmares.” Oscar raised his fists to simulate a fight. The boy found it funny. “You’re going to fight my nightmares?” “You got it. With all my might.” Ryan raised his arms in the air as if to claim victory, before settling down to chew on another strip of bacon. He received a cue from Theresa.

“Thank you, Doctor . . .” “You can call me Oscar, like Oscar the grouch.” The boy smiled forcing Oscar to the possibility that his own son was no longer alive. He fought hard for the child not to see the sadness on his face, so he got up from the kitchen table to stare at the landscape outside. It was blinding bright now, and he hoped the warmth from the window would help him recover.

Chapter 11

The boy found it most comfortable to be in his bedroom for the session. Although a small space, which forced Father Bosco to sit on a chair in a tight corner, Oscar appreciated the comfort zone. He wanted to change the child’s negative association with his own bed. Having the sessions in the boy's room, apart from the hospital bed with steel bars, would increase the comfort zone calming effect. Excited to have Oscar in his room, Ryan gave him the grand tour. “That’s my favorite baseball player. Jose Bautista. He plays for the Toronto Blue Jays.” “Yes. I see. Are you a big baseball fan, Ryan?” “The biggest.” Ryan retrieved a glove from his tiny closet and smacked a fist in it. “I like baseball too. Maybe we’ll play some catch outside later.” “Really?” “Yes.” “You really want to?” “Of course. I wouldn’t have asked.” “I have my Daddy’s old glove too.” Ryan retrieved the older, larger glove from his closet, and Oscar recognized a strong, nostalgic connection to it. Little anecdotes and stories were written on it, like tiny parables. Oscar wanted to read through them to decipher a hidden message, but Ryan monopolized his full attention, as most kids did on their own turf. What Oscar noticed by touch, however, was that the glove wasn’t cast away. It was preserved in the boy’s closet, freshly oiled, as if the boy were expecting

his father to return to claim it. “Where did you get it?” “My mother gave it to me. She said it was his.” “This is a nice glove.” “Yeah. My Daddy was a good baseball player. At least that’s what my mom says.” “So that means you must be good too.” Ryan smiled, nuzzling his chin into his chest. “Hey, I have an idea. Do you want to wear the baseball glove while we talk? You can work it in more with a ball if it helps you to relax.” “Sure.” Oscar motioned for the boy to lie on his bed, while Father Bosco sat statuesque in the corner, as if asleep with eyes open, or within a concentrated interest. Oscar proceeded to pull a chair to the bedside, placing Ryan’s father’s glove on the nightstand. Ryan punched the ball into the middle of his glove. “Okay, Ryan. I understand you have been feeling sad.” “Yes.” “Again, it’s all right to feel sad. If we didn’t feel sad, we wouldn’t know what feeling happy is, right?” “Yes, doctor.” Ryan stopped punching the ball into his glove. He ran his hands along the laces. “What makes you sad, Ryan? It can be anything.” “Sometimes everything, sometimes nothing.” “What do you mean, everything?”

“Sometimes, I wake up and I don’t feel like being happy. I feel like being sad first.” “Why?” “I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.” “That’s why I’m here, Ryan. I’m here to help you explain, so don’t worry, okay?” “Okay.” “So, describe the feeling for me, can you?” “I will try. It feels like I am sick, but not in my stomach and not in my head. But I feel like my arms want to fall off, or like my legs are too heavy to walk in. That sounds stupid.” “No, no. It doesn’t, Ryan. Keep telling me how it feels.” “I can’t laugh. Even if I am watching cartoons, even my favorite cartoon. I can’t laugh and I don’t want to eat or drink. All I want to do is sleep, but then I can’t sleep.” Ryan had dropped the ball to the bed while explaining the symptoms of his depression. Oscar tried to guide his description further. “Do you want to see anyone, Ryan? Like, do you miss school or playing baseball?” “I don’t feel like playing baseball or going to school. They laugh at me at school, anyways.” Oscar could see several environmental factors already at work here, but there was something intrinsic motivating this morose heaviness. At the risk of going too deep into the first session, he elected to focus on Ryan’s treatment at school. “What do the kids say to you at school, Ryan?” Ryan was embarrassed to it anything at first. He was holding something

back. “Do they say something about your mother, Ryan?” “How did you know?” “I told you. I am here to help. It’s my job to help.” “Yes. They make fun of her.” “What do they call her, Ryan?” “They call her the crazy church lady.” “And how does that make you feel, Ryan?” “Like I’m like her because she’s my mother.” “Ryan, do you think your mother is crazy like the kids say?” “No, but they don’t know her. They just see her at church.” “And you go to church with her.” “Yes.” “You know, Ryan. What people say and what you know as the truth are two different things. Your mother, myself, Father Bosco, we are different people, and at one point in our lives we were all teased.” “Really? What were you teased for?” “Reading books. I loved stories when I was your age, so I went to the library a lot. But the kids made fun of me, and I was too quiet to answer them.” “I feel the same way. I want to say something, but I feel like I can’t talk. When I come home, I feel really bad because my Mommy is sad too.” “Stop, Ryan. Listen, we won’t talk much about this anymore today because I don’t want you to get nervous. I need you to stay relaxed, promise?”

“Yes, doctor.” Oscar leaned in closer. “Your Mommy loves you, and I know you love her. It’s okay that you do, even if she is different. The kids at school don’t know your Mommy as well as you do, right?” Ryan nodded. “They don’t know she takes care of you, all by herself.” Ryan nodded again. “All they see is the clothes she wears, right?” Ryan nodded again. “The kids at school find it hard to accept anything different, which is why they tease and make fun of you Ryan. It’s not you that they make fun of–it’s the clothes your mother wears, that’s all.” “Really, doctor? You think they like me?” “I think it’s hard for them to understand. When they get older, when you get older, all of you will understand that different is actually better. Those same kids will find you special in a few years, just as I do now.” “How are you sure, doctor?” “Because I had a son once who the kids teased.” Ryan’s eyes sharpened with interest. “You see, he was different too, except he was different because God made him different. He looked different, he talked different, and he was slower in school.” “Did he have Down’s syndrome?” Surprised that Ryan could piece together the condition, Oscar continued. “Do you have those kids at school, Ryan?”

“Yes, one, and they make fun of him sometimes too.” “You know, Ryan. I would get upset when a teacher called me, telling me someone had made fun of Tobias, but then I realized, the kids didn’t understand Tobias. They didn’t know him as I did. They just saw he looked different. After a little bit of time, they got to know him, and they loved him more than anyone else.” Although Oscar harbored a revised opinion on this statement, he decided not to get into how hurt he was by how the community he served as a therapist abandoned the search for Tobias after such a short time. It was true, everyone had grown to love Tobias at school, at church, over extracurricular activities. But he had always believed it was Tobias’ “Downs” in the end dissuading those same people to continue the search. Oscar had always assumed they had not found him valuable enough to the community to save. The initial light in Ryan’s eyes faded now, signifying a relaxed state. Oscar assured him the subject of this session had concluded. “Okay, Ryan. I am going to help you fall into a deep sleep now.” The boy nodded. Father Bosco sat up in his chair as if intent on observing the practice of hypnosis in greater detail.

Chapter 12

Although he hadn’t hypnotized a patient for quite some time, Oscar realized he had established trust with Ryan. Their conversations about baseball and his father had solidified this mutual trust. Oscar was a firm believer that what happened before the actual hypnosis was as important as the procedure itself. Trust could be cemented by numerous means. Oscar had trained many a doctor and a few celebrity performers to achieve this trust in as little time as possible. A relatable story could establish trust instantly; expressing self-deprecation could also achieve it. But more often than not, sincere conversation managed to create a lasting effect that could be revisited over and over again culminating in numerous successful sessions. Whether the patient responded well to hypnosis introduced another challenge altogether. Older, more mature patients found it difficult due to their beliefs and expectations about the process of hypnosis itself. Ironically, they needed more assurance than a child patient in order to establish confidence in the person providing the suggestions during hypnosis. Oscar elected to skip some common formalities. He omitted asking Ryan if he had ever been hypnotized and decided not to assure the boy he would everything transpiring during the hypnosis. Due to the nature of this case and a spirit possession, Oscar was sure Ryan wouldn’t want to know what was happening within him. Yet, Oscar felt he was violating the boy’s trust in doing so. He hoped, against all odds, this secret, known otherwise to Father and Theresa, would not disrupt the trust. Any doubt could set the boy back and destroy the connection they had established. He did choose to reassure him of one thing. “Listen, Ryan, I am going to help you sleep now.” Aware he would never ister the procedure if a patient showed symptoms of fatigue, Oscar knew equating sleep with hypnosis would create a better

association for the boy. At present, the boy saw sleep as synonymous with a nightmare. “Are you going to hypnotize me now?” “Yes.” “Cool.” Ryan found it fascinating, like a school field trip triggering excitement in an unknown destination. His candid demeanor indicated little fear, while a naïve ignorance would benefit his reception of the suggestions, providing him with a safety blanket. Ryan squeezed his eyes tight in anticipation of some magic trick, once again, indicating full trust. “Okay, Ryan. Just listen to my voice. We are going to think of light, and all things bearing light.” “Okay.” “Follow my voice. Follow my voice to the light.” “Follow my voice and imagine a baseball diamond in the middle of the afternoon.” “Follow my voice and think of a lake with sunlight glistening on the surface.” “Follow my voice and feel the warmth of the light on your face.” “Follow my voice and smell the fresh air and the breeze from the lake.” “Follow my voice and touch the soft grass of the field.” “Follow my voice and stay in the light, where it is safe.” “Where it is safe?” Oscar could hear Father Bosco behind him rising from his stiff wooden chair. The voice issuing from the boy in a smoky, exhaust-like manner, was deeper, raspier. Although the voice should have startled him, so early in the hypnosis session, Oscar didn’t flinch. It was as if he expected the spirit to resurface in a

confrontational manner. He had prepared himself for it. Father Bosco moved closer. His shadow hovered over Oscar. “Who are you?” “Tell the priest to sit down. I can feel his closeness.” Father Bosco heeded the warning before Oscar could turn and advise him to sit. The spirit did not request the religious presence to leave the room altogether, so Oscar deduced this meant it needed Father Bosco to act as a witness. “Who are you?” “I am the spirit of a man once named Nathan Corso.” “Where is this man?” “Dead.” “Then why are you alive?” The boy’s face contorted again against the soft grains of his complexion. The stretching of the skin worried Oscar as he felt the need to protect the boy while he was asleep and vulnerable. If Ryan were to wake up and feel something bruised or injured after the experience, he would be reluctant to participate in further sessions. “I am alive because I escaped my fate, my destined place.” “How did you manage to do that?” “Oscar, can I have a word with you?” Father Bosco rose from his chair again, but the spirit didn’t seem to mind the interruption. Ryan’s eyes dimmed, and a slight grin appeared on his face. “What is it, Father?” “Be careful what you are asking for, Oscar.” Flushed in the face, Father Bosco shook, as if sick with worry. “What do you mean?”

“There is a reason why we remain ignorant of certain knowledge. Our ignorance saves us, in many cases, from ourselves. If we learn or discover something we are not meant to discover, we may find ourselves in a precarious position facing consequences therein. Beware, lest he tempt you to the flood.” Father had quoted Shakespeare’s Hamlet in his warning. “Are you suggesting I back away, Father? Are you saying we will be punished for pursuing this further?” “Yes. We are taking more risk with our own spirits than this forlorn spirit is taking with his. He sounds like an anomaly, an exception to the rule.” “I was thinking the same, but I can’t step back now, Father. I know your concern, and I appreciate it. But I can’t stop. I carry this void within me since Tobias’ disappearance. Maybe my spirit has departed me as well. Please, I need your here.” Although strong in the exorcism practice, Father Bosco continued to pale, like he was transfiguring into a spirit himself. His holiness sweated through him visibly, leaving his skin shiny, human in its perspired scent. “Okay.” He took a seat again in his chair and crossed his hands in his lap. Oscar made his way back to the bedside of the young boy. The boy’s eyes opened at the sound of the chair creaking. “Are we ready?” The voice was sarcastic in tone, a severe contrast to the innocent and eager voice of the boy when he was awake. The spirit was an anomaly, as the priest suggested, and its status more like a body invasion than a spirit possession. “Yes. If you died, I mean, Nathan Corso died, how did you manage to escape the same fate?” “I saw an opportunity.” “You saw an opportunity?”

“Yes.” “An opportunity for what?” “Redemption, forgiveness, renewal.” “Maybe I am asking the wrong questions.” “Maybe you are.” “This fate, or destiny you refer to, are you speaking of Hell?” The boy laughed and his whole body convulsed until it escalated into a cough. “You can call it that, sure.” “What do you call it?” “Nothing.” “What do you mean?” “I call it nothing. The most frightening end.” Oscar glanced back at Father Bosco, whose body language indicated increased interest in the conversation. Although Oscar was interested in the conventions of this afterlife, he couldn’t hold his own, personal curiosity at bay any longer. He needed to know. “Where is my son?” “Dead.” “You said that to me earlier, but I don’t believe you. Where is he?” “Dead.” “He can’t be if you are alive.” “Very true, doctor. Very true.” “So, you didn’t kill him?” “Yes, I did.”

“Why? Why did you kill him?” “Have you ever reviewed the news to see a shocking story, of how a mother kills her own child, or how a man rapes and kills a minor?” “Yes.” “Do you have an explanation for such atrocities?” “Madness. Temporary insanity, maybe. A lifetime of abuse.” The boy laughed but he didn’t breathe out, which caused him to choke on his own air. His mouth seemed to vacuum in air to stimulate the vocal cords. “It’s so easy, isn’t it?” “What is?” “To dismiss the foulest of crimes with the madness exemption.” “How else can you explain it?” “Inspiration. I was inspired to kill your son.” Oscar rose from his chair. The scent of the room had changed from a boy’s clean laundry folded on his armoire to one metallic and institutional in texture. The conversation with the spirit managed to play with his sensory signals. An innocent child no longer rested before him, although the body remained in the same supine position. A surge of instant violence rushed to Oscar’s hands, provoking him to restrict this awful voice by force. This compulsion to kill carved at something very sore and painful within him, electrifying a nerve end. “You see, you are feeling it yourself. I can sense your animosity towards me. Be careful, doctor. When there is a hole inside, something jumps in to occupy it. And if that something spreads roots, the occupation becomes a coup. It takes over everything that is good in you or was good in you.” “I want to know where he is. If you did kill him, I want to know where he is.” “I’m assuming you mean the body?”

“Yes, the body.” “Is that important to you, doctor?” “Yes, it is.” “Will it help you to focus on me, if I told you?” “Yes.” “Do you promise me your full attention afterward?” Growing frustrated with every request, Oscar bit his tongue to resist the temptation to strike a dormant child. The spirit had belittled his request and was mocking it with his tone of voice. “Yes. Tell me where my son’s body is.” “You have to understand our science, doctor.” “What is that?” “My memory is not like yours.” “What do you mean?” “My nature is based on influence and association, and my memories are not linear like yours. They are scattered and more intuitive. I will tell you where I feel his body to be, but you must feel it yourself to find him.” “Feel what myself?” “Your connection to him.” “How do I do that?” “You will know when the time comes.” “What can you tell me?” “I can tell you what I was permitted to see in a moment and what I felt at the

plummeting edge of his death, but I cannot provide you with directions. Only associations.” “But you ed my name to call me here, and his name. You must have a memory to do this.” “Right now, I am influencing this boy’s memory. Our natures are not as you believe. We recognize reality poetically, in association with thought, and emotion, and touch, like a dream.” “Poetically?” “Yes.” “Where is my son?” Although spiteful of the spirit, Oscar realized what he was learning would require more intense thought and analysis on his own time. At this point, all he desired to know were the whereabouts of Tobias. He was close to him; he could feel it as the spirit suggested. “I will tell you, but you will help me afterward. If not, I will hurt this boy.” “Is this what you call redemption?” “This is what I call negotiation, doctor. I need you to stay and you need me to leave. We have something in common.” “If I promise to return and help you, you need to promise not to hurt the boy.” “I believe that is fair.” “Where is my son?” Like Father Bosco in prayer, the child fell into a temporary trance. “I will describe the place. There is a tiny garden in the forest, a spot where light escaped from above because of a fallen tree. It was remarkably high, the highest of mountains, the most perfect place to reconsider the act of killing. A spot of enlightenment.”

“There are many mountains here.” “The highest one.” “Are you sure?” “Yes.” “How are you sure?” “I wanted to talk to God.”

Chapter 13

Oscar called Lauren after the session. As shocked to hear of this new lead, she didn’t question the source or the vague description of the place. He waited for her at the fenced entranceway to his home. His hiking and camp gear was stuffed into a backpack. Siggy was fed and ready for the journey. When Lauren arrived, she limped over to him, sullen at first, as if hurt by the reality of the news. Her hiking boots sunk into the soft soil before him, forcing her to stand too close to him. She refused to look him straight in the eye, shy as a child. “I brought a lot of water.” “Me too.” “Did you pack enough food for Siggy?” “Yeah, it’s all packed up.” “Oscar?” Oscar stopped pressing her backpack and his in the trunk of the car. He didn’t want to face Lauren. Her hair was tied back, and she maneuvered athletic in her gear. “I know what you’re going to say.” “You do? Do you know why I want to say it?” He was stumped. It must have been annoying dealing with him, Oscar concluded. He was always thinking beyond himself and anticipating what other people were thinking, like some rude mind reader. Worst of all, he must have come across as a know-it-all in the process. When he took an English course in university, he ed a lesson about the fool in Shakespeare’s tragedies. The character who claimed to know everything often knew nothing at all, or

couldn’t see the obvious before him, while the one who knew everything played the fool on purpose. He wanted to listen to Lauren, he really did, but he was afraid of what she was going to suggest. “Do you think you can handle this, Oscar?” “Unburying my son, is that what you mean?” “Yes. I could call a complete squad to scavenge the area. We can find out rather quickly whether this spirit is telling the truth or not.” “I don’t want anyone else to find him. Does that make sense? If he is dead and buried, as this spirit suggested, I want to be the one to find him. I’m not sure you understand, but it’s personal. It is a promise I need to keep.” “I realize that Oscar, but . . .” She approached him by the side of the car. He could see the iration in her eyes mixed with that common look of pity. He had grown immune to that look and was prone to questioning the sincerity in it now, which horrified him. “If it is true, it could be damaging.” “I know it will hurt, and I know I have no clue as to how much it will hurt. But I want to find him and bring him home, is that so much to ask? I mean, I’m not doing it alone, right? I called you.” Lauren embraced him and forced a smile when she came out of it. It was the hold of a friend, or better yet, family. The winding drive up the Mountain of the Cross, as it was called from the way it was drawn on a map, was a long one due to the silence in the car. Oscar appreciated it. He wasn’t in the mood to be social, and he was too focused on feeling his way to his lost son once he placed himself in the right vicinity. He pulled up to the dead-end parking area before they would have to go the rest of the way on foot. The drive was an hour north of where he lived but the terrain was a complicated brush of towering evergreen trees and pine needled ground cover. Lauren spoke up.

“My Dad and I used to hike all of the time.” She had mentioned to Oscar that her father was deceased, but he knew nothing about her family other than her iration for him. “You must miss him.” “Every day. He was mother and father to me because my mother was always sickly. Sometimes I would call him Mr. Mother.” Lauren hauled her backpack onto her shoulders and bounced up and down to straighten it. Oscar removed the map from his pocket. Different shades of green highlighted the area with no straight lines or paths indicated. “He gave me no specific coordinates.” The red circled area indicated the highest spot, closer to the western peak of the mountain. “That’s the point of the cross. Do you think he intended that on purpose?” “Not sure.” “It’s quite a hike,” Lauren observed. “We better get going so that we can set up camp before dusk.” Siggy was barking inside the car, so Lauren let him out. He ran circles around them before relieving himself by a nearby tree. Oscar was glad he had brought Siggy. Since Siggy entered his life, Oscar was beginning to feel less and less alone in his decision-making. They breached the wall of the forest and found some walking paths. The forest itself was thick and dark with shards of light slitting the foliage. Lauren walked on ahead and Oscar and Siggy followed behind at a slower pace. In this natural silence, Oscar reviewed his conversation with the spirit possessing young Ryan. Was this a trick or distraction, he considered again, to play with his vulnerabilities? It couldn’t be, Oscar thought. The spirit seemed sincere in its need to “negotiate,” as he put it. But something else was bothering Oscar at this point – the spirit’s name, or the name of the man the spirit once inhabited. Now that he

had known it, he was curious about the man who abducted and killed his son. When they stopped to offer Siggy some water, he needed to ask. “Lauren, did you find anything on that name I gave you?” She pulled a file from her knapsack. “Was waiting for you to ask. I wasn’t sure you wanted to see it before . . .” She handed him the manila folder. Not a thick file, but when he opened it, he saw the black and white mugshot of the man’s face. “Much of it is typical, of course. Abusive, broken family. Petty crimes, car jacks, and so forth. But then it all stopped, I mean, the run-ins with the law. He found a job, married, and no more arrests. It was like he settled down.” “That’s strange. Nothing in the file suggests a psychotic break, escalation, or any hint at violence, except for the abusive upbringing and time spent in juvenile detention centers. Why would he abduct Tobias?” “It may be something we need to look into further.” “Where is he from?” “Canal city, Thorold South, not too far from here.” “How did he die?” “Suicide. Double barrel gun shot in the heart.” “Where did they discover his body?” “On this mountain.” “Maybe we should keep walking.” “Yeah.” When dusk fell, Lauren prepared a tiny clearing on a bed of brown leaves to set up camp. Like a girl scout, she started a fire, laid out her sleeping bag, and procured Siggy some treats from her backpack. When the night settled into a nocturnal quiet, they sat across the fire roasting hot dogs on a stick, sharing

water. “I haven’t roasted hotdogs on a stick since I was a kid.” “Me too.” The forest thickened to a deeper shade of black as the fire illuminated upwards with a reaching flame. The warmth of the fire relaxed Oscar’s nerves. Once the spirit had revealed a tangible location, Oscar began erecting defense mechanisms to prepare himself for the shock of finding Tobias. He realized that no matter how well he prepared himself, there was no denying the truth in the finding – his son had died. Yet, something out of body was happening within him he couldn’t quite explain to Lauren, or anyone else for that matter, as he inched closer to the fire. The skin on his legs had warmed beyond a comfort level, to a singing heat, although he invited it against the oncoming chill of the night bearing down on his shoulders. Perhaps, as Father Bosco warned, it was the belief in the spirit that altered or skewed his ability to feel the normal stages of mourning. He wasn’t angry or in denial, and he had moved beyond acceptance. He was experiencing some other stage of grief he couldn’t pinpoint, a new stage of acceptance reflecting a deeper belief in the afterlife. It was as if the enormity of death had lessened when compared to the curiosity he now harbored for this alternative supernatural existence. “You know, I cried when he was born.” “All parents cry at the birth of their first born. Nothing to be ashamed of.” “No, I cried. I mean, I was sorrowful.” Lauren focused on her hot dog over the flame. “Why was that?” “I was so excited. My wife and I had done everything to prepare for him. We decorated a room, bought him enough clothes to last a lifetime. The bottles were lined up at home, gifts everywhere. We were so giddy. When he was born, I held him in my hands, and I felt like I was holding everything important to me in the

history of my life. He personified everything for me, all of my dreams and hopes. It was an incredible moment.” “It must have been.” “It was so adrenalizing, the entire experience. I being dressed in my suit and tie. I had to rush over to the hospital from work. I ran from my office straight there. I had forgotten I could have driven my car.” Lauren poked at a piece of wood threatening to shade the light from the fire. “The doctor returned with a frowned face. She had whispered something to my wife, and I became still. I stared at my wife and her smile stretched wide, from ear to ear. She spoke through it, the smile. It was frozen and her words unnatural.” “He has a space between his big toes,” she said. “What?” “Doctor Predest,” the obstetrician said, “the nurse noticed double lines across your son’s palms.” “What does that mean?” “He was born with Down’s syndrome,” the doctor explained. “I looked to my wife, still smiling. It had frozen on her face. And she was nodding yes. I couldn’t understand why at the time.” “So, what did you say to her, Oscar?” “I said everything was going to be all right. I said it didn’t matter.” “And what did she say?” “She said, ‘It doesn’t matter,’ over and over. I excused myself from the room because I told her I needed to make some calls. But when I left the room, I broke down. I broke down and cried. I was shaking. I was in shock, and I wanted to go back into the room, but I couldn’t stop crying. Every time I tried to talk, even to

a nurse, I broke down. When I finally returned to the room, my wife was breastfeeding him. She asked me what we should call him, and I said Tobias, because it meant God is good. “After we gave him his name, I felt better. I held him, and I felt guilty for crying. I realized how much I loved him. I thought we would be all right. I thought we were both ready for the challenge. We were educated, we were financially fine, and we could all his special needs. He became an instant blessing, a real gift, and I believed everything was going to be all right. She kept smiling. It wouldn’t break open.” “You’ve never told me this before.” “I haven’t told anyone.” “So, what happened between you two?” “I didn’t see it coming again. As I said, everything felt like it was all right. We brought him home and she was motivated to be a full-time mother. Before he was born, she insisted on breastfeeding, and she was adamant, despite his struggle with it. She was so strong, and I envied her strength, how she saw through the reality of his future. I didn’t tell her, but I was consuming literature on Down’s and consulting all my colleagues about it. But she didn’t want to hear anything, she simply wanted to care for him. And then one day, I came home, and the nanny was feeding Tobias from a bottle. Although Cheryl was absent, I knew she wasn’t out for groceries or some other errand. I opened the freezer door, and it was full of frozen breast milk—a great supply. She must have been planning her escape from the very beginning, from the day he was born.” “Where is she now, Oscar?” “She sent me a letter sometime later from the West Coast, Santa Cruz. She didn’t tell me why she left or a reason for her decision. It was a formal letter, asking that we go our separate ways, that we forget we ever existed together. She didn’t make one mention of Tobias. It was as if she never gave birth to him.” “Wow. How do you explain that, Oscar?” “I can’t. I mean, I tried to reconcile the behavior with something post-partum, or post-traumatic distress, and that’s the best I could come up with. But I kept the

letter for the return address and when Tobias disappeared, I sent her another to let her know and to see if she could help me with the search, but I received no reply.” “Do you think she knows?” “I’m not sure if she received the letter, or if she would have seen or read it in the news. We were collecting leads from all over the country, do you ? With the Amber alert, news traveled fast, and we were taking calls from as far as California.” “I’m so sorry you had to go through that, Oscar.” “Ironically, I leaned on my memories of him to get through it. He was always so happy, so innocently happy. It was impossible to find sadness in his presence. “ Oscar rose from the fire and cooled off in a dark pocket away from it. He felt an oncoming surge of emotion and he wasn’t prepared to let it go at this moment. Lauren didn’t chase him, but she rose to speak above the fire. “It wasn’t you. It wasn’t because you cried when he was born. And it wasn’t because you didn’t see his mother’s intentions before she left. You can’t control what other people do when you’re not thinking about them. They exist beyond your thoughts.” “Do you think he is alive?” “I’m a detective, Oscar. Seeing is believing for me.” “But do you think he is alive, even though we may find him dead?” “There is no doubt in my mind.” “But I thought you said you need to see to believe?” “I don’t need to see, to know.” Oscar returned to his spot by the fire. By this time, the hot dog was charred beyond an edible state. Siggy shunned it when Oscar offered it his way.

Chapter 14

In the middle of the night, Oscar removed the map from his backpack. He couldn’t bear to wait until morning, and he couldn’t sleep again, which made it that much more difficult to exercise patience for the dawn. Lauren slept soundly, zippered into her sleeping bag by the fire. Siggy slept a few feet away, in a cooler area. Oscar could see the dog’s stomach rising with air and collapon its release. When he found the flashlight at the bottom of the backpack, he decided to continue the search on his own. Although he anticipated Lauren would be upset by this decision, he couldn’t stall his will any longer. The forest ground was soft under his steps, and he appreciated how the ecosystems respected his intrusion by not reacting to his presence. By accident, he rubbed shoulders with visible tree trunks, having to change his direction on the flash-lit path due to the emergence of a detouring fallen tree. When he looked back, he could see the fire and smoke from their impromptu camp, pluming upwards through the filter of the tree branches. The sight sunk below him, but the scent of the smoke followed him as if attached to his clothes. After having stopped to look at the map again, he ed the words of the spirit possessing Ryan. “I buried him by a fallen tree so that I could find him again if I needed to.” It was a strange way of revisiting your guilt, Oscar thought. It was as if the spirit was trying to exonerate himself from all the blame by claiming that he actually cared for the victim, or was it preparation to preserve closure? Why did this spirit, who claimed to work against the free will of Nathan Corso, a newly married man who converted from a life of petty crimes, not succeed in preventing the murder of an innocent child? As he walked on, Oscar couldn’t piece together the puzzle, one of his special talents as a young child. He was often left alone as an only child with an intricate and complex puzzle to keep his mind busy. His mother must have recognized the need to do this, to keep his restless mind from turning on itself. She must have

seen how his mind worked from an early age, always in high gear with little idling or neutrality. Oscar wondered why Nathan Corso had selected Tobias to abduct in the first place. There seemed to be some strange, conspiracy at work within this man that created this conflict in character. It was as if Nathan’s spirit escaped into young Ryan and now sought forgiveness, out of fear, rather than remorse or guilt. He acted like he was forced to commit the crime against his free will or was convinced beyond his own moral conscience to enact it. But by whom? Or, by what? After stopping in his present train of thought, Oscar understood how necessary it was to learn more about the conventions of this afterlife—even if it meant dire consequences in its discovery. The relationship between spirit and body would shed light on a number of other puzzles, like the motivation behind choices, or the decisive moment when thought personified itself into action. In the area where he found himself now, he swiped away branches with his hands. A branch retaliated in a boomerang fashion to sting him in the face. He was close. He could sense it in his bones. A part of him was nearby. Surveying the area with his flashlight, he flinched when he recognized Lauren staring at him with her arms crossed. Siggy was at her side on a leash. She must have followed the flashlight up the mountain. “Why did you leave without me?” “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to wake you, and you were both asleep.” “Why do you insist on doing everything on your own, Oscar? It’s like you’re purposely trying to hurt yourself.” “I couldn’t sleep. I can’t sleep, and I feel like I’ve forgotten how. It was just so hard to stay awake without my books nearby, or the television or my writing to distract me. I want to find him now, most of all. I couldn’t wait any longer.” “Don’t you think I would have understood that, Oscar? After all of this time?” “Yeah, I knew you would understand.” Siggy tugged on the leash. He sniffed about the ground, sweeping the area.

Lauren let him be, releasing her grip on the leash. “Is this one of his talents?” “He was trained to be a police dog.” Siggy walked past Oscar and ventured into a flatter area characterized by a fallen tree. When Oscar approached it, he did so in a careful trance. Lauren stood behind him, her hands pressed on his back as if holding him upright like a puppet on a fragile string. The dog circled an area numerous times before sitting on its hindquarters. Lauren grasped Oscar’s hand and they made their way to a spot covered in leaves. Ground cover grass emerged from this makeshift garden and tiny white and lavender blossoms extended from a moss patch closer to the trunk of the tree. It was one of the few spots in the forest to have boasted color, Oscar surmised. The fallen tree had opened a wider area in the foliage to expose this specific area to some sun. This was no coincidence. This area was selected for this reason, Oscar analyzed. There was a sincerity to it, a selection based on an artistic, or a poetic perspective empathetic to nature. Hesitant, Oscar laid the flashlight on the fallen trunk so that it pointed to the spot. When he looked up, Lauren observed his next move, her hands over her mouth. He dug with his shovel, not in a hurried manner, but dreading an unnatural sound. Before the blade of the shovel reached a foot underground, he saw his reflection on the transparent plastic underneath the soil. Oscar dropped to his knees and removed the dirt with his bare hands. His son appeared on the other side of the plastic; his green eyes open as if expecting him.

Chapter 15

Oscar buried his son near the flower garden on his own property. The one his son first suggested they plant to introduce color to a rather green and wooded home life. Tobias had come home from school one day with a paper cup, filled to the brim with grainy dark soil. He was so excited, Oscar ed. He was so anxious to reveal the “secret” underneath the soil. “What is it, Tobias?” “A secret, Daddy. There’s a big secret underneath the dirt.” “What’s the secret Tobias?” “I can’t tell you now, Daddy.” He laughed and danced in the spot. “Why not?” “Because it needs to grow first.” “What does?” “The secret, Daddy. Don’t try to trick me.” “I’m not trying to trick you, Tobias. What do you want to do with it?” “My teacher said to water it and put it in the sunshine, but . . .” “But what?” “There is no sunshine?” “Of course, there is, Tobias.” Oscar understood what Tobias meant, that the forest where he built their cabin was completely immersed in shade for the better part of daylight hours. Oscar

looked out the window and saw a patch of sun by a tree. “How about over there? What if we plant your secret by the tree? The sun patch?” “Great idea, Daddy.” Oscar retrieved his shovel and Tobias watched him create a hole for his paper cup. He didn’t remove the soil from the paper cup itself, but instead, buried it just enough to see the ring of white. “You have to to water it, Tobias.” “I will, Daddy. I promise.” “You won’t forget, will you?” “No Daddy. I want you to see the secret. You have to see the secret.” And so he did, a short time later. Tobias watered it every day and Oscar found him sometimes staring at the spot during the day to make sure it wouldn’t be harmed. When the first string of green emerged from the soil, Tobias announced it to the entire forest, like he had invented the magic trick. He kept watering it and when it budded into a singular daffodil, Oscar made sure to reward him with a title. “From this day forward, you are the gardener of the forest.” Tobias was so proud, and he insisted on performing the magic trick over and over. Oscar relented; despite the fact, it had become an obsession for his young son. The patch blossomed into an array of colors, a hodgepodge of flowers and colored petals. Tobias deserved to rest here, buried with his valued secrets, the gardener of the forest adorned by the colors of his own plantings. After removing his son’s body from its previous grave on the mountain, Oscar asked Lauren not to call it in to the police. He had prepared for this moment in a strange, reverse psychological manner. In his shed, he had built a coffin hoping that if he prepared for the death of his son, it would never happen. After he unveiled it, Lauren was surprised to see the amount of detail carved into it. There seemed to be a question on the tip of her tongue, which Oscar assumed might

come across as an accusation for his lack of faith in her work, but she held it back. “You made this for him?” “Yes.” “Oh, Oscar.” He dug the hole with a shovel and insisted to Lauren that he do it alone. She wanted to help but stood back at his request. In between breaths, Oscar glanced up to see if she remained in her concerned spot. As he dug deeper, she disappeared from the angle of the grade. But when Siggy would hang his paws over the edge and whine, she was there to pull him away before he fell into the hole. When Oscar finished digging the grave, Lauren helped him lower the coffin into the hole with rope. After he refilled it, he carved his son’s name on the bark of the tree centering the garden. He would order a proper gravestone to commemorate Tobias. The flowers straightened as his eyes adjusted to the sight of the grave aside the garden they had planted together as father and son. There were many secrets buried in this area, Oscar believed. He hoped, in a metaphorical way, the burying of the body would seed a rising of the spirit through the soil. But that was wishful thinking, childish in its suggestion. At the risk of disrupting his grieving silence, Lauren disappeared into the house, perhaps to retrieve water for Siggy. Oscar sat next to the grave, his hands dirtied, sweat soaking his back, his heart pressing against his chest. That old, familiar anger with God had resurfaced. But it dissipated on its own as if overused in the past. He wasn’t angry that the spirit entrapped in young Ryan had told him the truth. He was relieved. Was he hoping that his son had died? Or was this his disturbed mind at peace with its greatest fear? Or was it the forbidden knowledge of the afterlife altering his once ignorant classification of life and death? If Nathan Corso’s spirit managed to exist beyond death, where was the spirit of his son? “I know you are alive somewhere, Tobias. I’m not finished finding you.” Oscar rose from the soft soil, picked a flower, and placed it in the center of the grave. He returned to the cabin to shower and change. Lauren sat alone at the

wooden table, staring into the forest. “Are you ready to talk?” He hadn’t said much to her after finding Tobias. “I would like to call Father Bosco over for a blessing. Would you mind staying?” Lauren smiled before crying with her next breath. Her brief emotional breakdown resembled a fractured bone, a hard snap, a silent, snaking line of sadness, tapering off to a whimpering sigh. Oscar comforted her by the fireplace, breaking down himself in her embrace. He didn’t have to say anything, and he didn’t want to hear anything. No selection of words, or their arrangement, could offer the same release he was experiencing in Lauren’s arms. For the first time in his entire life, he had let go of something without pulling it back. He had come to with this first step and saw love on the horizon as a destination that could save him. Oscar called Father Bosco and he appeared at his doorstep, carrying a buckled suitcase. Over his right eye, a bandage covered a fresh wound and a deeper cut. Oscar could see the blood soaking through the bandage. “What happened to your eye?” “A slight accident.” “Was it Ryan?” “No. Of course not. I’ve checked up on him and he is doing well. The spirit seems to have kept its promise. I suppose it isn’t playing tricks after all.” “No, I suppose not.” Father Bosco walked in to see Lauren at the table. “Hello.” She rose to introduce herself. Her face had blotched red from the tears. Father Bosco noticed, offering a soft hand. “Hi, my name is Lauren. I am the detective who oversaw the search.” “Yes. It’s a pleasure.”

In a stalled exchange, Lauren hesitated to shake Father Bosco’s hand. She offered him a hug in greeting and Father Bosco accepted it as he would thanks from a grateful parishioner. “Shall we bless the child?” Father Bosco performed the last burial rites and blessed Tobias with sprinkles of holy water. While he did so, Oscar felt assured again that his son was receiving the best, spiritual treatment. Afterward, they took tea at his table. A trickle of blood leaked from the bandage and into Father Bosco’s eye. Lauren got up from her seat. “Let me get you another bandage.” “It is okay, a towel will do.” Oscar insisted that Lauren sit, retrieving a towel and another bandage himself, although he sensed Father Bosco did not want to be treated. After patting the blood dry himself, he was ready to talk again. “I know this must be overwhelming, Oscar, but I’m sure you will agree, there seems to be a deeper purpose at work here. Finding your son after his disappearance two years ago will never fill the void created by his absence. Nothing will, I understand.” “I don’t know what to think or feel, Father. It’s numbness, which is the only physical sensation I am sure of.” "When it wears off, it will strike you with pain, a violent pain I’m afraid, but you can transform the pain.” “Transform the pain?” “Yes. It is a gift.” Oscar felt uneasy with Lauren in the room during this confessional session, but she remained fascinated with Father Bosco’s presence, locked on his every word. She shrunk when he spoke, her body retreating into itself, like a coy girl’s. “Is that so? How is it a gift?”

“You mustn’t look on this suffering with fear or trepidation. I realize you are a doctor, and that you believe in the release of pain and suffering through therapy. But I am telling you not to do so. Your suffering is intent on burning the darkness within you. Without it, you will never heal as you should.” “Burning the darkness?” “Yes.” Father Bosco swabbed his forehead with the towel again. “Yes. We must suffer for each other. If we avoid it, we leave an emptiness in the balance, holes never again to be filled, and no fruit is grown in a barren land.” Oscar stood up and paced about the kitchen. “Why him, Father? Why Tobias?” Father Bosco continued to dab his head with the towel. He took his time with his words. “It is hard to explain the unexplainable. Why we choose to kill anything that’s alive. I’m not going to patronize you as a priest and say it is God’s will. But I will say there may be reasons we are not supposed to know. Those reasons may carry perilous consequences.” “What if I want to understand them, Father?” Lauren inspected the wound on Father Bosco’s head as if to pity its inability to stop bleeding. “He was your son. As much as I want to warn you against it, I can never advise against love.” Father Bosco caught Lauren staring at him. She swiped the hair from her face and turned away. Oscar paused upon the thought of his next duty. He didn’t want to do it. “I have to let her know, don’t I?” “Yes, you should tell your former wife.” Lauren nodded to agree with Father Bosco. “But she abandoned him after his birth. She decided to never see him again. She hasn’t once ed us, even after he disappeared.”

“I think you need to do this, Oscar.” “I know I need to do this, but what about the boy?” “Maybe you should see him first.”

Chapter 16

Although Oscar made arrangements through Father Bosco to see Ryan the next day, on the drive to the valley, he decided to detour to the airport. Unprepared to explain this sudden change of plans to anyone, he followed the command of his anger, playing out so many scenarios with his former wife in his mind. How he would confront her; how he would tell her what he truly felt about her decision; how he would defend Tobias’ honor against his own biological mother. Without luggage or her address, Oscar caught the next flight out to Santa Cruz. While he sat on the flight next to an empty seat, he couldn’t help his anger from imagining every possible confrontation. He would knock on her house door and ask to see her. But before she could invite him in, he would break the news that their first-born child had been found dead. He would use the shock of this news to disable her before barraging her with blame, before piling it on further by mentioning the additional traumatic shock of how he managed to find out their son’s whereabouts. He wasn’t sure if she had remarried and he was uncertain where he would find her, but he was sure he could make her listen to him. He was sure he could conjure up enough anger to frighten her to tears, level her to her knees to beg for forgiveness or mercy. In another scenario, he would approach her at work, in the company of her medical peers to embarrass her in a professional setting with a personal ghost. He would accuse her of never caring, of abandoning her family out of her fear for imperfection. He had known her to be a lifelong high achiever, but her fulfilled ambitions, especially in emergency medicine, would do little to defend a most severe crack in her armor–the fear of failure. Was it this reality that motivated her departure, or was she embarrassed to present an imperfect boy, a mentally disabled boy, to her academic peers? Was she afraid they would see her as inferior? Why couldn’t she see beyond the Down’s and to the child himself, what he would mean in her life, his

unconditional love? Another alternative would have been to catch her in a lie, or in the act of ignoring his communication. He could call and ask to see her and when she would offer him an excuse, he could be right there, as the perfect interruption to her day, to her life. He could force her to listen to him. He could surprise her in the act of desperation and weaken her defense against his accusations. He imagined the look on her face. He imagined the desire in her eyes to escape. He imagined her as this aged woman who had grown older and vainer with the guilt and regret she harbored for abandoning her family. She was everything he hated at the moment, personified in memories by her hospital bed, where he believed, just by the way she held Tobias, that she was the stronger one who could help him come to with the shock of Tobias’s condition. He perspired in the cool wind from the air exchanger above him. He asked the airline attendant for a drink, but she said the plane had landed and they would disembark soon. He was too distracted to acknowledge the landed. He needed a drink to settle his nerves. A tightness ached at the base of his neck. Outside, a white heat created a translucent glow radiating from the asphalt runway. He could see worn white planes ing through this gassy air as if vibrating from the flux in the atmosphere. People in single file inched towards the door. Others slammed overhead carriages removing bags. For a second, he panicked at the thought of having forgotten his wallet in haste at the Springfield airport. He felt his pant pockets to ensure he had some means of returning home. His stomach tightened when space became available in the aisle to get up and resume this outrageous attempt at emotional revenge. In his other pocket, he felt for his phone and found it vibrating with a call. It was Lauren, but he couldn’t talk to her. He needed to get this over with on his own. He should have confronted Cheryl in another lifetime, but he had let her slide off the hook. He had agreed without resistance and signed his name on the divorce papers without a cost or consequence volleyed in her direction. “Are you ready to disembark, sir?” “Yes.” He walked on ahead of the airline attendant.

“Did you not carry on, sir?” “No.” But I could argue differently, he thought to himself. He had carried on heavy emotional baggage, and he was tired by how it bent his resolve to fight. It was time, at the very least, to let it explode by its own trigger mechanism. It was time to transfer this ticking bomb to the only person who could relieve its strapping hold on his shoulders. It wasn’t his fault, he kept repeating to himself as he walked the tunnel to the outside world in sunny California. It wasn’t his fault she had left them both for another life. He typed her name into his phone and pages ed with her maiden name in neon blue font. He assumed she had taken it again to rebuild her identity. He took a seat on a random bench to avoid people traffic brushing up against him, to resume his research. She had founded her own clinic. In this article and accompanying photo, she was cutting a ribbon with an oversized pair of scissors. Her hair was straight blonde and her skin artificially tanned. She had always complained about her blanched skin. Despite the aesthetic improvement, she remained icy professional in the photo, respected. The men surrounding her were older, thin-haired. Perhaps doctors as well. Skimming through the article, he discovered she had opened the clinic a year ago, amid his search for Tobias. As he bowed out of his profession, she rose to another level in her respective field. Clicking onto another link, he located the address of the clinic. He could exercise one of his preconceived options, by confronting her at her place of work, but he was worried his anger was far more courageous and bolder than his conscience. He didn’t want to embarrass her at work. It would lead to a conversation she could avoid by escaping to an appointment, or an oncoming surgery. He needed to speak to her in private, although she would never agree to such a meeting. She would avoid him like she did his previous phone calls and letters. And she could easily dodge messages, or repeated phone calls, with an eager secretary buffering them for her. As he scrolled down the list of articles, most of them praising the clinic and its specified focus, A Sick Kids hospital, Oscar became confused by this alien

identity. Was this the same woman he knew, with lighter hair? Had he searched the right name, but found the wrong woman? It read like the same woman, the ambitious doctor, the one who valued care above medicine, patients above bureaucracy. But something didn’t match. He discovered her home address after reviewing an article describing a hosted fundraiser staged in a tented celebration. Pictures of her made-over appearance, similar-looking colleagues holding glasses of wine amidst tweed jackets and pipes, and a big check valued at one million dollars summarized the event. Oscar scrolled down the article to find the address—2550 Grouse Lane. He got up and hailed a cab. “Grouse Lane please.” “Sure.” Oscar sat back in the vehicle and auditioned his first line. It would make all the difference.

Chapter 17

When Oscar arrived at Grouse Lane, he pointed to the house gracing his phone with the picture. “That one.” “Doctor Reddy?” “Yes.” “Do you have an appointment?” The question coming from the taxi driver surprised Oscar. “Why do you say that?” “Everyone wants to see Dr. Reddy. The Sick Kids Hospital?” “Yes.” “Can you please give her this for me, if you see her?” “What do you mean?” “We’ve been trying. My wife and I have been trying to get an appointment with her. Our son is ill.” He handed Oscar a letter with a picture of his son, paper clipped to the left corner of the page. “What is wrong with your son?” “He needs more tests.” Oscar surmised the man’s hesitation to reveal details with an absolute stranger.

Oscar stretched his hand over the armrest, leaving a generous tip. The window squeaked down a short time later, revealing a middle eastern face, apologetically weak. “No one can figure out what is wrong with him. Are you a doctor?” “Yes. I am.” “They say he is sick, so they gave him medication to calm him down, relax him. Another doctor says it may be a rare blood disorder. Another said it is a version of schizophrenia. But we can’t get a confirmed diagnosis.” “How old is your son?” “He is eleven years old.” “Do you mind if I look at this file myself?” “Please.” “I assume there is information here.” “Yes. Thank you, doctor.” The man removed himself from the car to embrace Oscar. In that brief moment, his demeanor revitalized. “I will do my best to put it into her hands.” “Thank you. God knows I’ve tried, but you know how these doctors are.” He pointed to the rod iron gate bolted between two ten-foot stone pillars. A security guard stood behind it in a tiny booth. Oscar surveyed the area while the cab hummed away, leaving a scented trail of propane in its disappearance. The property wasn’t a wide area, but it was definitely deep because Oscar couldn’t see the home as he approached the gate. A matching wrought iron fence surrounded the perimeter with stone posts differentiating the pattern. Behind the fence and enmeshed in taller pine trees he could espy security cameras disguised therein.

The security guard retrieved a clipboard from his booth and met him from the other side of the bars. “Name, please.” “Oscar Predest.” He scanned the lines with his finger, flipping the page. “I don’t see your name on the list of appointments today.” “Does Cheryl, I mean, Dr. Reddy see all of her patients at home?” The security guard stared at him as if to insinuate that the request breached protocol. “I will have to ask you to leave now, uh . . .” “Dr. Predest. I am a former colleague of Dr. Reddy’s and her former husband.” A perplexed grimace hardened the guard’s face into the stillness of the stone post. Incapable of improvising in the moment, he returned to the booth and took up the phone. As Oscar waited, he scanned the area behind the gate. A long, winding asphalt driveway disappeared down a rolling hill. Sporadic tree gardens on either side. Why the high level of security? Why the security guard? Oscar anticipated what the guard would say upon his return. He needed to think fast. He needed to prepare a backup plan. Although he might have found a kink in the surveillance system if he managed to walk around the area, he realized that the cameras would be focused on his motion. He could think of only one other alternative to the gates, but he wasn’t sure he could perform it under these preliminary circumstances. Could he establish trust with a complete stranger? What had he learned about the security guard so far? He was astute, loyal to protocol, young, and one attuned to a rigid routine. The way he held the phone implied austerity, a belief in proper posture, discipline. That was it, discipline. He would have to disguise the attempt at hypnotism with a story rooted in the theme of discipline. The security guard replaced the phone with a pen in his hand before re-

approaching the gate. He was going to ask Oscar to sign something, the polite way to fend him off with a hint to call back for an appointment. The security guard breathed fresh mint from the other side of the gate before reengaging. “Doctor Reddy has an entire day of booked appointments.” “Is that so?” “Her secretary has asked for you to sign your name and provide a number. She will you soon.” “Of course. That would be fine.” Oscar took the pen from the space in between the bars, while the security guard slid the clipboard through it sideways. His posture was straight, almost militant. In his former career, Oscar had acquired plenty of experience with military patients, with numerous cases involving post-traumatic distress syndrome. He had treated soldiers with various therapeutic strategies and was surprised to find how pliable they were to hypnotism, although they ridiculed the suggestion with outright macho resistance. Oscar was aware that to some degree they were already hypnotized by their training, mesmerized into a behavior system requiring due allegiance to command and suggestion. He found it easier to hypnotize them and offer his own suggestions, and by doing so, he managed to alter their rigid stubbornness when it came to the release of guilt, regret, and trauma from their locked-up memories. “Anywhere fine?” “Actually, on line two, in the blank space provided, and print clearly please.” “You know, when I was in the army, my lieutenant-general made me rewrite a commission letter over fifty times because he believed the margins were not square enough, do you believe that?” He laughed. “I mean, I set the measurements on a typewriter, but he didn’t trust the typewriter. He wanted me to set the margins with a ruler.”

“Fine general you had there, sir.” “Yes. I assume you were in the military.” “Yes sir.” “Fine vocation.” “Thank you, sir.” “Discipline is the first measure of greatness, don’t you agree?” Oscar noted in a softer tone. “Excuse me, sir?” “Discipline is the first measure of greatness,” Oscar repeated the phrase, tapping the pen against the clipboard. “Discipline is the first measure of greatness,” he repeated until the security guard grimaced. “Discipline is the first measure of greatness,” the security guard finally repeated him. Oscar said the phrase again, tapping the pen twice, always twice. After repeating the suggestion a few times and feeling like he had failed, Oscar ed the clipboard and the pen through the gate, repeating the same phrase with one last, Hail Mary attempt. The security guard gripped the clipboard and the pen, but his thick hand had softened. He could barely hold both at the same time. Oscar reached for his other hand in between the bars, repeating the same phrase in a soothing voice. The security guard shook it with a limpness that slipped through the grasp. Deeming him not ready for further suggestion, Oscar continued with his story. “The general told me that self-discipline is the first measure of true greatness.” The guard nodded, his eyes blank. “When I say that discipline is the first measure of greatness, you will do what I will instruct you to do. When I say that discipline is the first measure of greatness, you will trust that what I ask you will be the right thing to do, the right thing to do within the first measure of greatness. When I say that discipline is the

first measure of greatness, you will return to the booth and push the button to open the gate. When I say that discipline is the first measure of greatness, you will sit in your chair after the gate closes behind me and fall asleep until I return and wake you with the line, ‘discipline is the first measure of greatness.’” Oscar let go of his hand and the security guard stood dazed behind the gate. “Discipline is the first measure of greatness.” As if by counted steps, the security guard returned to the booth, sat down, and pressed the button to open the gate. When Oscar walked by him, the former soldier sat upright in a deep sleep, his eyelids closed. Oscar still had it.

Chapter 18

Oscar walked the long, winding driveway. The house at the end of the rolling hill, with a white stuccoed façade, was not as massive as the land dimensions and security surveillance implied. Also, no cars were parked within sight. He knocked on the door and a lady answered it. She was young, hurried in her mannerisms, like an assistant. “May I help you?” “I am here to see Dr. Reddy.” “She is occupied by an appointment right now.” “I can wait.” “Let me see.” She waved him in. As he stood in the marbled entranceway, he watched her disappear down a glass-tiled hallway. A voice echoed from a corridor. “I told the security guard I had an appointment this morning.” Two young toddlers dressed alike in plaid shirts and white shorts raced unbalanced through the same hallway. They must have been two or three years old. Both the assistant and Cheryl rushed after them until Cheryl recognized Oscar at the door. She paused and swept some hair from her face. “Jocelyn, can you please take them to the playroom?” “Of course, Dr. Reddy.” “How did you get in, past the security guard?” “I found a way.”

“Yes. You were always good at that.” “May I remove my shoes? I’m not feeling any hospitality right now.” “Yes, of course. Can I get you something, a drink?” “That would be good, yes.” “Brandy?” “That will do.” “Follow me.” Although Oscar had imagined the meeting to be much more hostile from the start, he realized that furious confrontations were better reserved for the movies. He was calm in her home, which was white and off-white and bleach-white and grey-white. Artistic black and white photographs of newborn babies, twins, graced the walls. They were enclosed securely in stainless steel frames. She led him to her office, populated by off-white furniture with lighter pastel accents, blue and green. She poured him, and herself, a tumbler, while offering him a seat before her desk. He felt like a patient about to hear some horrible news, except he was the one delivering it today. She spoke first. “How have you been?” “Fine. Yourself?” “Busy, as you can tell.” The toys scattered about the room disturbed the motivation inspiring the design —calm. “I assume your appointment this morning was reserved for your children.” “Yes. I work part-time now.” “Really?”

“Yes.” He was surprised to hear this. She was never one to consider anything part-time. The brandy tasted sweet and woodsy. But her sips were quiet and polite. He waited for her to ask about Tobias. He expected her to make mention of him, but her face wouldn’t indicate the slightest concern. She presented herself as a woman with no history but the present, no existence but the now. He had always known her to be a modern woman, with minimalist tastes. In this soft, maternal context, she assumed a different identity, an alter ego. The sounds of the twins playing in a mysterious room prompted her to leave the chair by her desk to fasten the door. When she returned, he expected her to open up. At the very least, he expected her to ask why he had visited her alone. She postured into professional small talk instead. “How is your practice?” “I retired, early.” “How so?” “I needed some time to myself, to tend to personal matters.” She nodded, taking another polite sip of brandy. “You look different, Oscar. There is a glow about you.” “Is that so?” “Yes. I it, from a long time ago when we were in school.” “I’m glad to see you manage to on occasion.” He couldn’t help himself. He realized they were playing chess in this conversation and forging quiet deliberation upon every move. Had he forecasted his next, strategic option with this emotional stab? To recover, he diverted the subject of conversation back to the polite formalities. “I see you started your own clinic, congratulations.” “Yes, for sick children. It is growing beyond my control, I’m afraid.”

“You’ve remarried.” “Yes.” “A doctor?” “Yes.” “I suppose further congratulations are in order. The children are beautiful.” “Thank you.” As if noticing an inappropriate detail, she rose from her high back desk chair, to separate the long, silk drapes disseminating the daylight. The gardened grounds of her isolation appeared like a horticultural presentation. She spoke to him from her reflection in the glass, her back facing him. “You know, I was always one of the best doctors at achieving immunity from personal limitations thanks to you.” “Yes, I our conversations.” “I was so naïve. Crying myself to sleep when a patient died on my operating table. Brooding by myself when I had to lie in order for a patient to find hope. Is it possible to kill what ails you by locking a door?” The conversation eerily funneled into one of his past therapeutic sessions with her. He had counseled her through those dark days when they were first married. Every shift introduced a new trauma to her psyche and one that carried another challenge for him to solve. As he sat comfortably in her cushioned chair, he tried hard to drum up his anger. The hate had sunk deep down into his belly. Reencountering the estranged mother of his child created a reverse hypnotic effect on his own, conscious faculties. She had never said goodbye in person or offered him a means of closure. He supposed this type of enigmatic behavior characterized the story of his life, which involved listening to human puzzles, and not fully sealing emotional wounds that continued to bleed, weakening his resolve. “I’ve found that locking doors doesn’t necessarily keep the noise out.” This was true in the moment. They could hear the children through the walls. The sounds lent credibility to his words.

“You were always easy to talk to. I wish I would have talked to you like this, then.” “Me too.” “You’ve come to deliver news, I assume.” “Yes.” She took another sip from her glass. The brandy lightened in its movement, to a golden brown. “I no longer live in that lifetime, Oscar. I would prefer not to hear it. I made myself forget my former lives. I realized, at one point in my breakdown, that we live many of them encapsulated into the illusion of one. I believe that more than ever. We can create new lives to lead if we dare to shed our former skins.” “Do you honestly believe what you are suggesting?” “Yes.” “Then what happens when a former life reincarnates. How does your theory explain that phenomenon?” “What do you mean? Are you speaking of Aidan Jude?” “So, you do that study?” She walked about the room picking up picture frames and resetting them in the exact spots from which she removed them. Sparkling glass figurines adorned the bookshelves. Angels and cherubs and trinkets she would have scoffed at in a drugstore shopping aisle before. She was the one who suggested modern living, cement floors, sharp angles, glossy kitchen cupboards, stainless steel everything. A house with a flat roof. Now she enacted the antithesis of that identity, just as she proposed in her theory. She had removed that skin and transitioned into another identity, another life, another existence, by the very virtue of her will and imagination. But did she really believe she could do this consciously? Did she genuinely believe she could erase memory, wipe it clean of associations, to restart, renew, reboot, or in

computer , restore her mind to its original, manufactured version? It sounded absurd to Oscar, but here she was, doting over a picture of the twins, not once mentioning Tobias. It was as if he never existed to her, although she had carried him for ten months. He needed to test her hypothesis. “Was it a difficult birth, twins, I mean?” “Caesarian birth, but like they say, your first child, or in this case, children, is the most fascinating experience.” Oscar wasn’t sure who he was talking to in this room. He was sure this was his former wife, the girl he had charmed at the university pub one night to slow dance with him when there wasn’t a dance floor, amidst jeering and ridicule from his friends. This was the same woman, with different colored hair and skin, but her memory was defunct or intentionally shortened. She was more hypnotized than the security guard outside. “Are you in therapy, Cheryl?” “No, of course not.” “Are you hypnotized?” “No. You know I never believed in the practice.” Oscar stood from the chair, but she wasn’t in the least threatened. “Is there something wrong, Oscar?” “Yes, there is.” “What is it?” “Your son, our son Tobias, is dead.” She smiled and her eyes indicated no cleverness or malice. “We never had a child, Oscar. That was the reason why I left us.” Oscar removed his wallet from his pocket. He fumbled it back to his other hand

as an internal surge of rage trembled beneath his skin. As this emotional imbalance attacked his ability to offer a rationale to this conversation. She must have branded an acceptance of this new afterlife of hers in California, into her own memory. Had she undergone shock therapy or an alternative method of memory deletion to achieve this blank acceptance of the past? He removed the picture taken at the hospital. She held Tobias in this tableau, his patchy red face in the cradle of her arms. Oscar had his arm around them both, as he stood next to the hospital bed. He hated his fake smile in this picture. It was a forced one, a guilty one. He hated it for it represented his initial reaction to the news that his son wasn’t perfect. “This is Tobias. He is in your arms!” He placed the picture before her eyes, but she didn’t react. She squinted at it like she required reading glasses to interpret it clearly. She looked up to him, confused. He wanted to strike her. He wanted to shake her awake. Some devil had drugged her into this comatose state, where she retained permission to function as a normal human being. The sounds of play from the other room rose in intensity. One scream sounded like a distant cry, a wailing. He hoped it could startle her back to reality, but nothing penetrated her new skin with evidence of a reaction. “He was kidnapped. You left me because he was born with Down’s Syndrome. You left me, you left us, to come here and start anew. You sent me the signed divorce documents. I sent you letters asking for your help to find him when he was lost, but you didn’t respond. He was six years old. He was beautifully happy, despite everything. He loved flowers and swimming, and he could hold his breath under water longer than the so-called normal kids. They loved him too, all of them. But I found him dead. Dead! I found him dead because the spirit who killed him told me where he was buried, all alone, in the forest on Mount Cross. He is buried in my garden now. Do you need to see him? Do you need me to dig him up and run a blood test to prove that he is yours too?” “I’m sorry I can’t help you, Oscar. I have another appointment scheduled.” “I’m not looking for your help. You are his mother and I wanted to let you know so that you could mourn him, and mourn the loss of you in him, like I am doing right now. He was my only hope. He has always been my only hope.”

“I don’t recognize him. I am staring at this picture. I can see you and I can see me, but I can’t see him. He might as well be another child that I’m holding.” Oscar raised a fist. He couldn’t help himself. But instead of hitting this unrecognizable woman, he tore the picture of his family from her soft, silky hands. “You may live a hundred lives, a thousand lives, but you can’t forget the ones you leave behind. The past is alive and continues to live in our memory, and you can’t deny it, no matter what you say, no matter what you’ve built here, no matter where you escape to. Even ghosts have the courtesy to stick around and haunt you until you close your eyes and rest in peace. So don’t tell me you don’t your own son. It isn’t possible and you are just putting up more walls to protect yourself from yourself. It’s beyond selfish. It’s unforgivable.” Oscar stomped out of the room. He knew his former wife wouldn’t follow him to apologize. She wasn’t about to chase him down the winding driveway as he sprinted away from the most mortifying experience of his life. The phone in his pocket buzzed, forcing him to stop near the gates to catch his breath. “Oscar?” “Yes, Lauren, what is it?” “A call came into the station. Ryan’s been rushed to the hospital. He is in critical condition.” A beep interrupted the words. When Oscar glanced at his call display, he knew it was Father Bosco with the same news.

Chapter 19

Oscar cabbed it to Saint Michael General Hospital from the airport. Paramedics sat in chairs outside the automatic doors, while ambulances parked alongside the curb as if sobering from the day’s activities. At this late hour, several slouched patients waited for their names to be called. Oscar rushed to the plexiglass window. “Ryan. Ryan Venneri.” She typed in the name. “Only family is permitted in ICU.” “I realize that. I am his doctor.” “ICU unit 3.” A clot of people assembled outside the enclosed waiting room, just before the ICU units. Lauren was amongst them, her badge exposed at her hip. Other policemen in uniform stood with arms crossed, their radios blaring coded voices from their hips. Theresa was speaking to Father Bosco in the waiting room, one on one. Oscar could see them through the glass. He wanted to talk to Father Bosco, first, but knew he would have to Lauren and the police contingent to do so. He wasn’t prepared to give statements, and he wasn’t sure what they knew about Ryan’s condition or the attempted exorcism. Oscar assumed it was another suicide attempt, having trusted the promise from the spirit not to harm the child. But was the same spirit responsible for the murder of his son trustworthy? Lauren waved him over. “Attempted overdose. He’s stable but critical in the coma.” “Has he woken up yet?”

“No.” “Why are they here?” Oscar whispered. “His mother made the 911 call. Protocol and follow up.” “But your boss is here.” The chief of police approached him with a handshake before Lauren could explain his presence. “Dr. Predest.” “Oscar, please.” “Oscar. I have been told you have been treating this patient.” “Yes, I have.” “I assumed you retired.” “I am retired.” “Then why are you counseling him?” “Because his mother asked me to.” The chief of police scanned the area in search of her. He spoke while he fixed a stare at Theresa through the glass partition. “Are you her doctor as well?” “No.” Lauren interrupted, “We found her pills, her antidepressants, and he—” “Took the whole bottle of them. They had to pump his stomach. His body was already in a state of septic shock.” Oscar worried they might have witnessed something while the boy suffered in this vulnerable state. Lauren nodded to ensure him their ignorance remained

intact. “I suspect some foul play here, Oscar.” “From whom?” “That’s why we’re here. Can you help us with this investigation?” He said this as if to imply that Oscar owed him for something, perhaps for the amount of resources spent on trying to find his son. “I can, of course.” “Who is this Father Bosco? Is he a priest in our parish? I don’t recognize him.” “He might be a visiting priest, why? Priests travel to different parishes all of the time.” “I know. But the Vatican medal is pinned to his lapel. That’s a special medal.” The chief was testing Oscar to see if he was lying. He was also being investigated. Lauren must have caught on as well. “There are many feasts that celebrate saints in the area. Perhaps he was invited.” “Yes, invited,” Oscar agreed. “I would like to speak to the boy’s mother if you don’t mind.” “Yes, of course. Nice to see you again, doctor, I mean, Oscar.” “Always.” “And Lauren will be sure to inform you of any new leads we may have regarding your boy.” “I appreciate that, thank you.” Oscar left the conversation, approaching Theresa first with a hug. It was a long hug, as her arms gripped onto his shoulders. She pulled him down to her height but at the same time tried to pull herself up to his. After removing himself from

the embrace, he extended his hand out to Father Bosco, which surprised the priest at first. Oscar blinked, and Father Bosco caught on to the hint. They were being watched, so Father Bosco increased the effort as if to portray the formality of a first meeting. “What happened?” “Everything was fine, Oscar. And then he started to turn pale and blue. I was scared to death, so I called Father Bosco and he advised me to call the hospital after we found my pill bottle under the bed.” “How many pills were in the bottle, do you ?” “It was full, a new prescription filled. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” She held her hands over her mouth, choking cries into them. Father Bosco consoled her with a half hug. “It’s okay. He is going to be all right.” “Why would he do that, Theresa? How was he over the past twenty-four hours?” “Antsy, nervous, so much so that he was almost out of breath. He snapped at me several times, over little things. It was as if something were burning him, and it wouldn’t cool off. He paced about the house. He asked about you, Oscar. I told him you had to go away for a little while, but you would be back soon to talk to him—” Father Bosco interrupted her. “It’s not your fault, Oscar.” “I know, Father. Thank you. What do you make of it?” “I suppose we are going to have to find out for ourselves.” He pointed to the young boy lying in the single light of the ICU unit. A nurse sat at a desk filling forms at the foot of his bed. They would have to find a way to achieve some privacy here in the hospital. Oscar searched for curtains and waved Lauren over to him. They needed to remove the nurse from the room, lest she witness a vision she would probably never recover from.

Chapter 20

“We cannot remove the nurse from the ICU unit. We follow a strict protocol.” “Then let us move the boy to another room.” This suggestion disgusted the doctor making his rounds on the ICU floor. But Lauren insisted. Oscar had hoped that her police influence could sway the decision better than his medical credentials. “We can’t do that. The boy nearly overdosed, and we need to keep an eye on his progress or lack thereof with a trained triage nurse.” “We understand, doctor. And please, we are not attempting to challenge the hospital’s protocol.” “What else can you call this?” “Therapy?” “He’s unconscious.” “Subconscious therapy.” “Are you kidding me?” “No, I’m not.” Oscar felt it the right time to impose his own medical interpretation into the discussion. He hoped the doctor would humor him or find him tedious and harmless enough to continue his rounds elsewhere. “I understand you are a psychiatrist, Dr. Predest, and I fully respect your area of practice. However, can the therapy at least wait until the boy is out of his coma?” “Actually, Doctor, it can’t. The nurse can stand just outside the ICU unit, but we

need absolute privacy.” “Can I speak to you in private, doctor?” “Sure.” They left Lauren to walk down the hall and into an alcove of payphones. “Why are you insisting on this, Dr. Predest?” “We are dealing with an extraordinary prognosis, here, doctor.” “Extraordinary?” “Yes. I’m going to have to ask you to trust me. I promise you; we will not harm the child. If anything, we might help him come out of this state.” “With therapy?” “Hypnotism.” “Hypnotism?” “Yes.” Doctor Tatzel paced about the enclosed area as if pondering whether he should make a phone call to a lifeline. “I will give you fifteen minutes.” “We may need more time.” “That’s all I can afford you.” “Thank you.” “No need to thank me, Dr. Predest. You will be held responsible for anything that goes wrong.” “I understand that responsibility fully.”

Oscar returned to Lauren shielding a thumbs up. Within the hour, and after rounds were checked and other forms completed, Oscar sat next to Ryan alone. Father Bosco and Lauren were not permitted to enter the ICU room, nor was anyone else for that matter without a yellow robe. Oscar circled the bed with the rolling drape, isolating the two of them. Although he had hypnotized patients in the past after they had fallen asleep, and delivered the suggestions during their somnolent state, he had a feeling he wouldn’t need to do so this time around. When absolute privacy was achieved, the boy’s face contorted again, as if awaiting the end of the preliminary preparation. The voice emerged from the disted mouth, this time in a whisper, “The prodigal father has returned.” Oscar didn’t appreciate the sarcasm. “Did you do this to him?” “Do you think I would hurt him to get your attention?” “Yes, actually.” “I tried to stop them, I mean him, but I don’t seem to be very good at influencing the body.” “Them? Influencing the body? What are you hiding?” “It’s a unique marriage, body and soul. Unfortunately, we don’t see eye to eye on many things.” The voice paused. “What could I possibly be hiding?” “Why did you choose Tobias? It wasn’t a random choice.” “Do you really want to know?” Father Bosco couldn’t sit in on this session, but Oscar knew how he would advise him. Perhaps the priest was right in this personal counsel. He could suffer for seeking out this forbidden knowledge. This was information best left for ignorance, Father Bosco would recommend. But Oscar needed to learn more of this apparent marriage, this union of body and soul. The quest for an answer to his questions, or a verifiable explanation, was too great a temptation to withstand. “Of course, I do.”

“Will it speed your forgiveness?” “I’m not sure? Why is it so valuable to you, my forgiveness?” “Because I need your forgiveness to stay. It needs to be sincere, and not because of what I am about to tell you.” “Stay? Stay where?” “Here. Within the boy.” Oscar rose from his seat, running a hand through his hair. “Why would you want to stay?” “Because I have work yet to do.” “Haven’t you done enough?” “Are you speaking about your son?” Oscar refused to answer him. “Have I not been truthful to you from the start? Did you not find his body buried by the fallen tree?” Oscar remained quiet. “Did you not see the marks on his neck?” An insurrection of anger fermented inside of Oscar, unsettling his nerves, sending hot flashes up his chest, and what felt like a rash spreading from his neck. “What else do you need to hear to trust me?” “Trust you?” “Yes. I confessed to the crime, although he wouldn’t listen to me either. I take full responsibility for killing your son because I couldn’t stop him.” “You couldn’t stop him? Who are you talking about now? You said you killed

Tobias.” The spirit stopped talking and Ryan’s face froze as if still by death. By instinct, Oscar checked the monitors. The lifelines remained consistent and patterned. After this brief pause, the spirit resumed, taking more time between words. “I tried to stop my body from listening to the invasion.” “The invasion?” “Yes. I asked you why people commit unexplainable crimes, beyond our human imaginations?” “Go on.” “They are unexplainable and unimaginable because they are motivated by supernatural forces that invade a vulnerable shell.” “The body?” “Yes. But you were right. It wasn’t random that Nathan sought your son. Or by coincidence, that he pursued him.” “What are you saying?” “Evil hunts good but occupies the weak.” “Are you saying Nathan was directed by evil spirits to abduct and murder my Tobias?” “Yes.” “Why?” “Because he was pure good. And Nathan was empty weak.” “But why Tobias? Why my son?” Oscar buried his face in his hands as he sat down. He was beginning to understand the logistics, but not the function of the spirit lodging in a human being, nor the rules of such an existence, especially in the context of this so-

called “invasion.” “I tried, even while his hands pressed into your son’s throat, to stop him. And when he died, it was your son’s spirit who showed me the way to escape. I followed him.” “He led you to Ryan?” “Yes.” “A troubled child? To find me?” “Yes.” “But I still don’t understand, why Tobias?” “He is just one piece of the plan. There is a greater invasion at work.” Oscar stretched his face with his hands. “You’ve asked me for sincere forgiveness, but I can’t seem to offer it from within me. Something is missing to make it true. I can say it, if that is enough. I can say I forgive you.” “I don’t want to hear it. You can’t save me by saying it. That’s not enough.” “What is enough?” “That you reach it on your own, the acceptance of it.” “What if I never do?” “Then I will perish as a failure.” “What will happen to you?” “I will never live again.” “Again?” “Yes.” “Why did Ryan try to overdose, he was fine before I left him.”

“He was alone and dark inside. I could barely find a connection to him at one point. They victimized him to do something unexplainable, unimaginable.” “Why didn’t you escape from this invasion?” “Listen to me, I don’t have much time. The boy doesn’t have much time. What will it take to earn your forgiveness?” “I need to know why Nathan Corso chose my son. You need to tell me why he did it. I’ve got to know everything.” “I’ve told you all I know. They manipulated his free will.” “His free will?” “Yes. We are all born with it.”

Chapter 21

Father Bosco managed to sneak into the ICU unit when it was requested that he ister last rites to a patient there. Through the curtains, Oscar could hear his voice offering blessings. The spirit continued with its explanation. “There is no rationale to forgiveness. I know you are seeking some kind of formula, but it doesn’t exist. You must experience forgiveness. There is an epiphany, a breaking of the darkness into light. Right now, your spirit is languishing in darkness.” Is the spirit psychoanalyzing me right now? Oscar thought. It was as if he assumed the supine position on the bed, awaiting the next suggestion. “Do you know my spirit?” “No.” “Why not?” “You have incarcerated it with your thoughts, your fears, and your worries.” “What if I don’t have one? What if, like you, my spirit left my body and lodged in another?” “That is impossible.” “Why is that?” “You haven’t died yet.” At this juncture in the conversation, Oscar could hear Father Bosco’s whispering voice calling his name from outside the curtain. “Excuse me.”

“The priest is a distraction.” “He needs to speak to me.” “You need to speak to me.” Oscar motioned to exit the curtained cocoon he had made, but before leaving, thought it best to offer a warning. “If you injure the boy, we will have no chance at salvation, the both of us.” “I would never hurt him.” Father Bosco waited for him outside the ICU unit. He hadn’t discarded his yellow robe yet. “How are you doing in there?” “He is trying to convince me to forgive him.” “Is that so?” “Yes. He claims it is his only means of staying in the boy’s body.” “Why would he want to stay in the body?” “I suspect there is another motive, a more personal one.” “Is he willing to divulge?” “Doesn’t appear so now. He seems obsessed with my forgiveness. I feel he has put me in a no-win situation, Father. If I forgive him, he stays to inhabit and disturb the boy. If I don’t forgive him, he hurts him instead. Worse yet, I don’t know how to forgive him or what it means to forgive.” “Forgiveness is synonymous with love, Oscar. It has always been, at least in our belief.” “He said he couldn’t see my spirit within me. He said it was too dark to see it.” “What do you mean?”

Oscar ed now how he wanted to keep this part of the conversation private. But he couldn’t help himself. Contrary to what the spirit suggested, he might have died after finding his dead son. He felt a deep drop in himself, a heavy weight rooting him to the ground, threatening to pull him further down into an unknown abyss. “You’re not answering. Did he tell you about his nature? Did he reveal secrets to you?” “Yes.” “Oscar.” “I apologize, Father. I couldn’t help myself. I don’t understand how he could have killed my son, my poor little boy. I can’t fathom it, even though I have treated violent patients in the past. The gall to beg for my forgiveness. I can’t find a link between the two, what I think of him, how I want him dead and burned, with how his words feel, like truth, convincing me to listen. Am I being tempted father, as you suggested, towards the flood?” Father Bosco’s disapproving facial reaction froze still. A red emergency light flickered in timed sequence down the hall, coating an innocent wall. “Perhaps we should leave the boy be. Maybe it is his fate, and we are preventing it by interfering.” “But the boy was full of life, Father. When I spoke to him last, he wanted to live, and to live his age. Where is this need to kill himself originating? The spirit mentioned an invasion.” “An invasion?” “Of evil spirits. To me, it appears like a battle between good and evil on another playing field, but the effects of this war of reincarnated spirits influence us indirectly, our own life patterns, affecting us like innocent bystanders.” Father Bosco nodded towards the quarantined area. Yellow robes walked by them, judgemental. “I don’t want to lose you, Oscar.”

“What if I am already lost, Father?”

Chapter 22

“I cannot forgive you without reason.” “You will never forgive me then, and the child will die.” “Will you kill him too? Are you leading this invasion?” “I will never kill him, but I won’t be able to stop them either if they return.” “Why can’t you?” “The priest warned you about this, Oscar.” The wobbling screech of wheels echoed in the quiet ICU unit. They had delivered another patient. Oscar imagined this particular area as a waiting room for some transitional phenomenon about to happen, like a supernatural subway station. “I need some time to learn about him.” “Who?” “Nathan Corso. The man you inhabited.” “Will that help you find forgiveness?” “I think so.” “We don’t have much time. When the boy wakes, he will be weaker and less resistant to the fight.” “The fight?” “Yes.”

“To live?” “You are learning.” “Why must he fight to live?” “Without a fight, there is no reason to live.” Oscar rose from his stiff chair. Footsteps sounded outside the curtain, while the clicking of hookups and beeping mechanisms created white noise around him. “I’ll hurry back.” “Please do.” Oscar exited the room to find himself face to face with Dr. Tatzel, holding a clipboard. He glanced at Oscar and dismissed him by returning his attention to the new patient. Oscar walked out of the ICU unit, discarded his robe, and placed it in the recycling bin. He did the same with his latex gloves. Father Bosco and Lauren waited in the room across from the nurse’s station. They were sitting on the same side but hunched over and turned to one another in a private, confessional conversation. Lauren seemed relieved in her posture, relaxed. Father Bosco appeared as her father, concerned. When they realized his presence in the room, they didn’t move. They stared with tilted heads as if to notice evidence of aging. He ed that scene in the Ten Commandments when Charlton Heston returned from the mountain with a beard after having seen God. Oscar felt his chin and found stubble, but no other tactile change. “What is it?” Lauren smiled. “Nothing, we were just talking.” In the car with Lauren, Oscar explained his conversation with the spirit. Father Bosco remained behind in the hospital. Where most people longed to leave the imprisonment of such a setting, where the very atmosphere alone imposed exhaustion, the priest appreciated his time there. He had volunteered his priestly

services in the ICU unit, and he filled the dead time counseling families and friends who were in a state of shock over a recent tragedy or crisis. Theresa spent most of her time in the universal chapel before a statuette of two hands reaching out from the wall. Oscar assumed this was the hospital’s symbol for their acceptance of every religion. Theresa didn’t seem to mind. It was a lowlit, quiet place for her to escape to and pray. Oscar had wanted to assure Theresa that everything would be fine upon his return, but he didn’t want to interrupt the concentration of her prayers. She was the only one in the chapel, and she hadn’t heard the heavy door opening. “We have to go to his hometown,” Oscar recommended to Lauren. “Whose hometown?” “Nathan Corso’s.” “What are you looking for, Oscar?” “I keep looking for reasons, but it’s the wrong approach. I need to learn more about him. I’ve got to see Nathan as he was before he committed this act. I think it will help me find out why he did it, how this “invasion” influenced him to do it, and in turn, why I should forgive him.” “It’s like a spiritual autopsy.” “Yeah.” After a brief silence, she tilted the subject of conversation. “What do you think it’s going to take, Oscar? For you to forgive him.” “I don’t know. I wish there were an easier way to accept it. With all my training, who would have thought the biggest challenge in my life would be to discover the nature of forgiveness?”

The ride was smooth and the roads winding again as they traversed the mountainous area to reach the sun-bleached valley of Thorold, the town with a

canal running through it. “What were you talking about with Father Bosco?” “It was just girl talk.” “With a priest?” “Yeah. It made me miss my dad.” “Why don’t you ever talk about him?” “It’s hard to, the way he left us.” Oscar felt selfish for never asking before. He had taken for granted her devotion to his case and Tobias. Her badge gleamed from her belt, but her commitment and duty to his cause shone from within her. “The way he left you?” “Yeah. It was the strangest day in my life.” “I’m all ears, and we still have a ways.” Her hands loosened on the wheel. She shook her head so that her hair fell behind her right shoulder; so that her face presented an exposed angle to him. “He died in my arms.” “How old were you?” “Seven.” “Where were you?” “In the bathroom.” “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” “It’s okay, Oscar. There was a time when I made every excuse in the book not to tell anyone. In some cases, I made up different stories to brush off the questions.

Some of those stories were real doozies, let me tell you.” “What’s changed now?” “I don’t know. Maybe it’s Tobias or this situation we are in. I feel a surge of belief he’s all right now.” “Father Bosco warns me that we shouldn’t know certain things and that there are consequences for knowing. Do you agree?” “Yes. Of course, I do. But those consequences don’t have to be grave. They can be openings to new avenues of thought, or perception.” “True.” “Yeah, true.” “So, he died in your arms?” “Yes. When he returned from his time in the service, for good, we were so happy. We threw a party for him. I him in his uniform. It was so stiff and creased. Everyone in the neighborhood came out and it was the happiest day of my life. He was so important to me that day. He was such a hero. People surrounded him the entire day and I couldn’t seem to reach him. I could see him catching my eye and winking, smiling. He knew I wanted to spend time with him alone but there were so many people. I made a sign that said Welcome Home Dad, all by myself. I traced it first and spent so much time getting the lines straight because I knew he would appreciate the attention to detail. “I wanted him to think it was ordered and made professionally, and to be surprised it was me who made it for him. But I couldn’t get a moment with him. Finally, he took two steps and reached over several people to lift me in the air. I could feel my dress in the swift breeze. He wouldn’t let go of me the entire night. When everyone left, he looked up at the sign and accused my mother of spending too much money on the party. She said I made the sign, and he was so proud. It was the first time I saw my father cry.” “Your memory is so precise, Lauren. He must have meant the world to you.” “He did, and I every detail, every scent, and every word. It’s alive in

my memory. Every once and a while a trigger sets the memory off and I find myself falling, feeling heavier. Have you ever felt that way with Tobias?” “Yes. There were days where I felt so heavy, I couldn’t drag myself out of bed.” “Exactly.” “So, what happened, Lauren?” “He was always locked in the bathroom, sometimes for hours. And I was always knocking on the door to get him to come out. I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t open it for me, why he required so much privacy. At the party, he was desperate to see me, to hold me, and now that there were no people around, he locked himself away in that room. I asked my mom, and she dismissed my curiosity. “I tried once to pick the lock, but he heard me at the door and yelled from the other side of it. Finally, I climbed the apricot tree outside, to the very top, and I peered into the window. He was breathing in vapor from the sink. The room billowed clouds of steam; I could hardly see him. And then he saw me, and he rushed to the window to slam it shut. When he did so, I saw something in his arm. It was a needle, dangling from it.” “Oh, Lauren.” “He was in pain, Oscar. I knew he was in pain. I could feel the same in my own bones, but I was too young and too afraid to do something about it. He never spoke about his feelings. He never came to my room. He never yelled at me. From that day forward, he wore long-sleeved shirts, even on warmer days. “One day, he wore a white shirt while we were picking apricots from the tree, and I saw black spots beneath them, like welts. It horrified me and I started to cry. He said that apricots were nothing to cry over and that the soft ones from the top would eventually fall to the ground on their own. That if I caught them before they hit the ground, I could eat them before they bruised.” Lauren’s eyes glistened as she retold her memories, but they wouldn’t release tears. “It was funny, you know. When he first came home, he lifted me onto his

shoulders so that I could reach for those apricots. They were more orange at the top and I was afraid to reach higher for fear of falling from his shoulders. He told me that the sweetest ones were always near the top, but that it was dangerous and risky to go there. That sometimes, in life, it was best to wait for things to fall. I wondered why he told me this if he didn’t expect me to try and climb the tree myself. So, I did. “One day, when he was locked in the bathroom, and when I reached the top and picked one, I knew I was high enough to look into the window. I wanted to show him I had courage, just like him. But I was more curious to know what he was doing without me in the bathroom. He closed the window, and I dropped the apricot. It tumbled through the branches. When I found it on the ground, it was bruised on one side, but I took it to my room and ate it anyway. It was sweet, even on the bruised side.” “How did you find him in the bathroom, Lauren?” “I had come home from school, and once again, I could see the light under the door. I knew he was inside, but in a way, I thought no one was inside. It was too quiet. Sometimes I would just sit outside the door hoping to hear him walk or run the sink. But it was too silent. I called my mom and she hesitated to call on him. I think she was afraid to disturb him. When he didn’t answer her, or snap at her, she started to cry. She rushed to find a neighbor and I followed her. I climbed the apricot tree again and slipped into the window. “He was on the floor, convulsing, with needles in both arms. I pulled them out right away and threw them into the toilet. I tried to talk to him, but all he seemed able to do was smile. In his eyes, I saw some relief, but also my reflection. When they broke the door open, his head was in my lap, but I wasn’t crying. I was strangely happy that he let me take care of him.” The car descended on the other side of the escarpment and Oscar wasn’t sure if Lauren realized she was accelerating down the hill. Although they were only ten miles over the speed limit, her press on the pedal made it feel faster, like they were heading for some collision at the bottom. “You felt something, didn’t you? As you held him in your arms. What was it?” “A goodbye, even though he didn’t say it. I felt like he left the room, and I swear I could see him watching me from the apricot tree, holding his heavy head in my

hands.” “Lauren?” “Yeah.” “We’re going downhill.” “Do you feel that way too, like things can only get worse?” “No, I mean we’re going downhill. No need for more speed.” She recognized the gauge, slammed the brake, and when the car settled down to a glide, she swallowed a deep breath, before breaking out in tearful laughter. Oscar couldn’t help himself as well. “Sorry.” “It’s okay. Pretty scary though.” After this brief reset, she turned from the main road and onto another that led to the brink of the canal. Oscar leafed through the file on Nathan Corso. “Do you think his wife still lives at this address?” “That’s where I’m heading. I hope so.” “You said he had married, and everything settled in his life, no?” Oscar asked. “That’s how it reads, from the file. But often what is listed in the file is a screen for other, more damaging details that require some groundwork.” Lauren kept her eyes on the road. “I hope she can help us understand him, and why he did it. Do you think she knows, Oscar?” “It looks to me like this was something more personal, so I’m going to guess no.” Oscar ran his finger down the file. “They had no children.” “That’s what we have in the file.” “I suppose it starts and ends here, I’m afraid.”

Lauren slowed the car down to troll a street of townhomes bordering Lock 7 of the canal. Bold warning signs not to touch electrical fences, and graffiti-stained cement landings characterized the area as a place to escape for restless teenagers looking for trouble. When they exited the car a rusted steel ship entered a lock after a release of water slushed to open a age. Oscar noted the number on the mailbox, 13, and an unkempt porch with a rickety La-Z-Boy chair and a loose leash. “Dog?” “Don’t hear one barking.” Oscar knocked on the front door. A leather-skinned woman with tufts of blond hair answered the door. “Can I help you?” “Mrs. Corso?” Lauren stepped in front of him to address the lady with her police officer “read me my rights” voice. “Yes.” “Can we have a word with you?” “About what?” “Your husband.” Lauren flashed her badge for extra effect, but the woman was not fazed by it. She calmly held the screen door open to let them into her home.

Chapter 23

Oscar took a seat on a cigarette-stained couch, although the house didn’t smell of smoke. Mrs. Corso walked worn-out paths in bare feet on the linoleum floor before finding softness on the carpet. Lauren sat next to Oscar, leaning forward onto her knees. He assumed this was her manner in the practice of interrogation. Aggressive body language. But Mrs. Corso wasn’t intimidated. She offered them water, or tea, in a trailing voice. Oscar wondered whether she was medicated. She sat across from them straightening her posture and crossing knees, like a gentlewoman preparing herself to receive bad news with dignity. “Are you investigating his death?” Her eyes widened hopefully. Oscar assumed the role of gentle cop. “Yes, you can say that we are. We would like to ask you a few questions about your husband, and your marriage to Nathan, if you don’t mind.” “I don’t, thank you.” “When did you marry?” “Four years ago.” “How did you meet?” “I was his tutor.” “His tutor?” “Yes, I worked in the Literacy Center, as an instructor.” “Where did you work?”

“At Thorold Community College. His probation officer referred him to us, as part of the PTW program.” “PTW?” “Preparation to Work program.” “Was he a good student?” “Yes. He wanted to be better when he first came in. It was as if he was motivated by a stronger reason.” “Did he ever tell you this reason?” “No.” “Did you ever ask?” “No, I assumed his past.” “Did he ever talk about his past to you?” “Yes, but only about his mother, and nothing about his father. He never knew him. All he knew were substitutes, a few stepfathers – all of them unfriendly to him, a few abusive.” She crossed her hands in her lap. Her voice remained monotone. “How about his time in prison?” “He was well-liked in prison. We have a detention center here in Thorold. He made many friends there, who would visit on occasion after his release. Good people, like him, again, dealt a bad hand. I’ve helped many of them myself, just like I did him. “ “Did he ever relate to you his experiences while he was in prison?” “No, he didn’t. But they changed him for the better. We decided to give back and volunteer our time at the detention center. It was his suggestion. He found such salvation in books, and he wanted me to show the people in prison the same way out. The guards loved him there, too. He never said a bad word about any of

them.” “You said he often spoke of his mother, in what capacity?” “He ired his mother, her strength. But he also felt sorry for her. He saw her as a victim, like what happened to her only victimized her further in his mind. His father left her; her boyfriends left her. They verbally abused her in his presence.” “Solely verbal?” “He never spoke to me of any other type of abuse, where it concerned her. If anything, he would tell me he bruited the physical abuse so that she wouldn’t. He never told her how her boyfriends, or how his subsequent stepfathers abused him. He kept that secret from her because he didn’t want her to know. He had always felt like she had endured enough.” “Is his mother still alive?” “Yes. She resides in the old folks’ home down the street, The Sun Parlour.” “Did he put her there?” “No, never. He would never do that. After he died, she itted herself. She didn’t want to see me. She blamed me. She never liked me, but what mother-inlaw likes the woman her only son would marry? I thought she would be proud that he had turned his life around, and that I had helped him, but she never appreciated me, or us for that matter. Maybe she thought I stole his affection.” “Do you visit her?” Mrs. Corso sighed. “Yes. I talk to her. My parents have been dead for a long time. She’s my only family left. When I do make the effort, she is always unfriendly. She criticizes my appearance. She reminds me of where I went wrong with her son. Oftentimes I leave her, crying in the elevator or on the walk home. But I continue to go back. Maybe I am a glutton for punishment.” With one hand, she pulled on the fingers of the other, as if stretching them beyond their bone resistance.

“Would she see us?” “Oh yeah, she will see and talk to anyone. I would have to introduce you, of course.” “That would be great.” “Maybe you can convince her it wasn’t my fault—if that’s possible?” “What do you mean?” “Her son’s death. She claims I weakened him to the ways of a cruel world.” “We’ll do our best.” Oscar rose and Lauren did the same. “Do you mind if I get myself ready? She nitpicks.” “No, please.” Oscar turned to Lauren to gauge her initial reaction to the conversation, but she was just as confused by the normalcy of Nathan Corso’s life after prison. “Do you think we have something with the mother-son relationship, Oscar? What do shrinks like you call that complex?” “The Oedipal Complex?” “Yes, do you see something there?” “Maybe. Everything else leads to a full conversion, doesn’t it? I was expecting to find some monster, and usually, that entails abuse to animals, spousal abuse, increased sexual repression, addiction to porn, etc. And there is no evidence of self-inflicted trauma. His criminal record is littered with petty crimes, none of them violent. His abusive past may play some role in it, but he seemed to break the cycle of violence in this marital relationship. He found another nurturing figure in her. So, there must be a deeper secret we haven’t excavated yet.” “How about you, Oscar? What are you feeling about all of this, personally?”

“What do you mean?” “Is it helping you?” “To find forgiveness?” “Yes.” “I think so. Or at least, I hope so. I empathize with her. First, her husband dies, and I can tell she feels deeply responsible for it. And then she continues to take care of his mother. She loved him. It’s as if the only way left of showing love to him is to show love to his mother, despite nothing but insults in return. She continues to hold on, and she is struggling with the same mystery I am – why did he do it? Except, she doesn’t know about Tobias.” Mrs. Corso returned, made up with bright colors on her face and a sun hat disguising the flatness of her hair. She wore sandals with artificial flowers on the buckles. “Shall we walk? It’s down the street.” “Of course, after you.” She left the house first, not concerned about locking the door behind them.

Chapter 24

The old folks' home was a boarding house with a dried-out water fountain marking its distinction from other aluminum-sided homes with window shutters. The stale scent of old bread met them in the foyer and extended as far as the kitchen, where it was replaced by soup stock and cigarettes. Mrs. Corso stopped in the common area where the residents dined together at one long table. She asked Lauren and Oscar to wait there. Mrs. Corso returned with the elder Mrs. Corso, who sat delicately in a wheelchair. Her hair was curled, fresher than the younger version, and her face was powdered white, in southern belle imitation. “This is Detective Lauren and Dr. Predest, mother.” The younger Mrs. Corso rolled the elder to the table. She retrieved a drinking cup from the refrigerator, unpeeled the top, placed a straw in it, and placed it aside the elder’s hands. Oscar noted a strange resemblance in dainty mannerisms between the two. “Are you here to talk about my son?” “Yes, we are.” Oscar nodded. “What would you like to know about him that isn’t already known to the townsfolk, or the papers? He shot himself, on Cross Mountain.” “We know that,” interjected Lauren. “We simply need to ask you some personal questions.” “There was no doubt he did it. It was his granddaddy’s old war rifle. Never knew it was still in that damn shed.” The older lady reached into the front pocket of her yellow robe to pull out a pack of cigarettes. She offered it around the table, skipping the younger Mrs. Corso.

“She doesn’t smoke. Pure one, this thing.” The younger Mrs. Corso smiled as if proud to have received the backhanded compliment. Oscar and Lauren waited for the elder lady to inhale a few puffs before they introduced their questions. Oscar began. “Is there anything you can tell us about your son, Mrs. Corso, that will help us understand him better?” “What’s there to know? He was a bad seed turned soft.” “Soft?” “Yeah.” “Mother.” “I’m not your mother, dear. Your real mother is dead.” The younger Mrs. Corso walked away from the conversation to clean up some leftover dishes in the sink. “What do you mean by soft?” “He was a good kid. Yes, he got himself into some trouble, but nothing major. He was tough in those days. After his Daddy left us, he became a leader, overnight. He was no follower, my boy. He tried to take care of me, that I know.” Although Oscar wanted to ask questions regarding her son’s relationship with her boyfriends, he didn’t want Mrs. Corso to revert into defense mode. They would never get an unbiased answer out of her. So, he decided to approach the delicate situation from the back end. “Do you hail from the south, Mrs. Corso?” “Can you tell? My accent must have given me away.” “Actually, it is the way you present yourself. Southern girls are very particular about their appearance.” “Indeed, we are. Unfortunately, women these days, let what’s important fade

away.” She puffed on her cigarette as she directed this comment in the direction of her daughter-in-law, who remained a safe distance away finding things to tidy in the kitchen. “You must have had many suitors after your husband left you.” The elder Mrs. Corso smiled coyly, in a rehearsed way, as if the skill were learned from a mentor. “Did you manage to fall in love with any of them?” “Yes, over and over I’m afraid. I was quite the attention seeker if you know what I mean.” “How about your son, Mrs. Corso? Did he inherit some of that southern charm?” “Of course, he did. He was quite good with the ladies.” She expressed this loud enough so that the other Mrs. Corso could hear it above the water running. “Any, in particular, he was interested in, say, before he met Mrs. Corso?” At this point in the questioning, the younger Mrs. Corso, preoccupied enough not to show interest while she was cleaning up, slammed the tap shut. It silenced the room. The elder Mrs. Corso leaned in some more, her whisper discreet but almost fearful of another violent reaction. “Well, he was sweet on a few but one, in particular, he was crazy about as a teenager.” Mrs. Corso made her way back to the table on tiptoes, as if in a sneak attack. The elder Mrs. Corso hadn’t noticed her. “I can’t recall her name. An old woman’s memory. But that’s what started some of the trouble. After her, he complained about money all the time. All of a sudden, he needed it badly. I gave him some, but it was never enough. He said he was going to drop out of school and find a job. When I asked him why, he said he needed to buy a car. That’s when he got caught trying to steal one.”

“Sorry, but this girl you mentioned. Did you ever meet her?” “Never. Nathan never took any girls home to meet his mother. Just this one over here.” As if fed up with her decision to whisper and spare her daughter-in-law’s feelings, the old lady spoke out loud to fend off the young Mrs. Corso, who was creeping in from behind her on the conversation. “Is there anything more about this girl you could tell us, Mrs. Corso?” “No, just a mother’s instinct. You can sense when your boy is leaving you for another woman. And God knows, I could tell.” “Wait a minute,” Lauren jumped in. “You thought he was leaving you for this girl?” “Like I said, a mother knows.” “But what happened?” The younger Mrs. Corso finally reed them by sitting at the table. “He couldn’t have her is my guess. She was too good for him, so he went on and settled for someone who couldn’t have babies instead.” As expected by everyone in the room, even the senile woman sitting in a corner and drooling onto a bib, the younger Mrs. Corso rushed out of the room crying. Lauren followed her out, leaving Oscar and the elder Mrs. Corso alone. “Is she gone?” “Yeah. Why did you say that?” “Because she is soft, too soft.” She paused for another puff of the cigarette. “I don’t want her to hear what I’m about to tell you.” “What’s that?” “My son impregnated this young girl.”

“Are you sure of that, Mrs. Corso?” “No.” “Then what makes you think he impregnated this girl?” “Like I said, a mother’s instinct.”

Chapter 25

The waitress at the diner delivered the drinks to the booth but the Coca-Cola was clear. “Sorry, it needs syrup.” She pulled a plastic ketchup bottle from her apron and squeezed a thick, dark syrup into the drink. A line of it floated its way to the bottom of the glass in phantom strands of black. She stirred it thoroughly until the entire drink was dark. “There you go.” Oscar observed Lauren as she drank the manually made Coca-Cola, to see if it tasted different to her because of this traditional preparation. She didn’t react so he assumed it was fine. They had found this old-time dinner on block stilts embedded in the forest. It resembled a portable classroom on the outside, or a storage facility, but it teemed with local customers. As they waited for their lunch, Oscar recalled his private conversation with the elder Mrs. Corso and the possibility that Nathan had fathered a child. He had revealed this secret to Lauren right away on the drive to the diner. “Are we searching for his son or daughter, now?” Lauren asked, “How old would the child be right now?” “Not too old, if it was a teen pregnancy. Nathan was pretty young, in his midtwenties. The kid could be ten or so years old.” “Have you called Father Bosco or Theresa to check up on Ryan?” “No. But I told them to call me if there was any significant change in his condition.” The waitress returned to the table to deliver freshly baked bread in a basket, and to fill coffee cups. “Okay, if Nathan did have a child with this girl, we should go to his high school

and ask some questions. He dropped out. Someone must him there.” “Are you speaking of Nathan Corso?” The waitress stopped her pouring. “Yes.” “The man who killed himself this past year?” “Yes, we are. Did you know him?” “Thorold is a small town, honey. Everybody knows everybody’s business here.” In the distance, a foghorn sounded to prepare the locks for an incoming ship. The portable diner shook, and glasses rattled from the reverberation of the base alarm. “What can you tell us about him?” “He was always in here. With his mamma and a different man. His mamma was a very popular woman in these parts, from the south originally, I believe. She was different than the rest. The men loved her golden locks.” The waitress expressed this with some hostility in her voice. “Did you see him in here with anyone else?” “Yeah. His wife. She would pick him up from work and take him out for lunch on Friday. He worked for the city for a time, and at the locks. Just about every jailbird has worked the locks at some time or another.” “Sorry, I didn’t mean recently. I mean, did you ever see him in the diner with someone other than his wife, when he was a teenager, maybe?” “Actually, yes. Some farm girl. Tough Catholic family. German, I think.” “Do you know her name?” “I’m afraid this old lady’s memory doesn’t get that good. Pretty girl but very quiet. Mousy looking. Family came and went. No roots.” “Do you know anything else about this girl?”

“Nope. Like I said, everybody knows everybody’s business around here. If she had some, you would know it. She didn’t stick around long.” “What do you mean?” “We got new people coming in here all the time, mostly vineyard farmers, for the land. The soil is sandy, perfect for grapes. But sometimes they rape the land and leave for somewhere else. It’s not that hard, they can hop on a boat and take the canal to another dream, if you know what I’m saying.” “Yes, I do. Thanks.” “No problem. Sad thing what that young man did to himself, and to his wife. She’s a sweet lady. Those two were like puppies in love. Always smooching. Very happy. To leave her all alone like that. Shame on him.” The waitress bounced to another ading booth. Oscar grew more frustrated. Serendipitously, they had come across new information only to have it lead to another dead end. It was time to retrace what they knew. “Okay, if we piece things together in a timeline, his father was nowhere to be found. His mother took on many suitors, even a few stepfathers. This was about the same time that Nathan started to get into trouble, but they were petty crimes. This must be the time when he met this young girl, whom he presumably impregnated. After that, he found himself in jail and when he got out, he wanted to change his whole life. He met Mrs. Corso and she taught him how to read and write. He found some work along the way, and then it all sinks into a black hole. How did he go from point A, which is getting his life back, to point B where he abducted and killed my son?” Lauren returned to the file on the wood- table. Their lunch had arrived, and the waitress knew better to place it aside from the folder, so as not to disrupt her. “I can’t believe we missed this.” “Missed what?” “He was jailed because he violated his probation.” “Yeah, I reading that.”

“He was charged with assault.” “Yes. We’ve been through this.” “But we never considered who he might have assaulted.” “Is his lawyer’s name in the file?” “Right here.” “We need to talk to him.” Lauren placed the file folder to the side and slid her lunch over. She picked at some of the fries and played with the sandwich. “You haven’t said anything about your visit to your ex-wife.” “I suppose I lost track of it in the chaos of finding this man’s identity.” “If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand.” “No. It’s not that at all. It was a strange meeting.” “How so?” “I expected she would be living another life, with another man or children for that matter. But I never believed she could make herself forget her former life.” “Her former life?” “With me, and Tobias. I told her. I told her what happened to our son, and she wasn’t pretending when she couldn’t him in her life. She completely blocked it out of her consciousness—and I mean, completely. I’ve dealt with patients who have deluded themselves into believing an alternative reality, but this was as close to absolute as I have ever seen.” “So, you’re saying it wasn’t an act, to prevent her from confronting it?” “If so, she deserves an Oscar for it. She ed our relationship, and I could sense she felt regret for our separation. But she was distant from the reality we had a son. It was as if it never happened. When I expressed my obvious anger over her reaction, it confused her, like I was the crazy one. She had destroyed the

memory, vaporized it, with no vestige or evidence of it ever existing.” “That must have hurt you deeply.” “It did, but I feel sorrier for her now. All of this supernatural material we’re dealing with has got me thinking outside the box again. Maybe the spirit within her, her optimistic outlook on life, the one I fell in love with before we married, left her to abide somewhere else. She was dispirited when I confronted her. There was an emptiness in her eyes and a darkness in her movements. Is it possible to live as an empty shell? I mean, we are investigating a murder-suicide here, and the man’s spirit is alive and entrapped in a ten-year-old boy. But is it possible to expel our spirit, like a personal exorcism, before we die?” Lauren took a big bite into her sandwich. “Hungry all of a sudden?” “I get hungry when I’m nervous.”

Chapter 26

The law office of Mr. Mike Gobbo was as isolated as the diner, with a boarded veneer and a cursive written sign indicating its legal importance to a simple, rural area. When they entered the tiny, one-room office, Oscar and Lauren faced him from the other side of a desk littered with coffee-stained paperwork and envelopes. He didn’t have a secretary attending to his obvious need for organization. Boxes overflowing with files occupied the rest of the space, piled as high as the window. Despite this chaotic working area, he wore a three-piece striped suit with a patriotic red and blue tie. “Mr. Gobbo?” “That’s me.” The hint of new business inspired him to butt out the warped cigar he was smoking into a rather large, ceramic ashtray. He pulled his vest down to cover his belt before pointing to the two chairs on the other side of the desk. After they took a seat, he opened a window after pushing over a few piles of boxes. “I apologize for the smoke. It helps me think better.” “My name is Detective Lauren Hay, and this is Dr. Oscar Predest. We’ve come to ask you a few questions regarding a former client of yours, a Mr. Nathan Corso.” Mr. Gobbo flinched back, before realizing he hadn’t done anything yet. “Sad thing, what happened to that young man.” “Yes.” “How can I help? Are you reopening the investigation? It was deemed a suicide.” “Was there any question to the contrary?” Oscar interjected.

“No. Just sad. Never saw it coming. Never got paid in full either. No life insurance.” Mr. Gobbo rose from his desk, pulled away a few boxes, and retrieved a file. Although it was an unconventional filing system, it worked for him. “Here is the case file.” He handed it to Lauren as he turned his attention to Oscar. “What is it you practice?” “Psychology.” “Psychologist or psychiatrist?” “Both, I suppose.” “Interesting. Maybe we can refer each other business. Your patient is my client. Get me?” “It says here he was convicted of assaulting a young girl, but it doesn’t mention her name.” “Yes, detective, it was stricken from the record to protect the victim.” “Why?” “For confidential reasons.” He answered Lauren’s questions in Oscar’s direction, winking. “Are you attempting to secure a bribe from a police official, Mr. Gobbo?” she asked. “I didn’t say anything, and I was speaking to the kind doctor here.” “We need to know the name of the girl he assaulted.” “Why is that?” “We are investigating a link to another crime.” “This would make me a legal informant, so to speak.”

Oscar removed his wallet from his pocket and placed a bill on the lawyer’s desk. Mr. Gobbo slid the bill towards himself in a delicate way, folded it precisely, and placed it into his suit pocket, patting it flat like a handkerchief. “I don’t recall her first name, but her last name was Rosebush. They moved out of the area and haven’t been seen since.” “Is there anything more you can tell us about this girl?” “Yes. She was pregnant with his child at the time, or so he claimed. Tests were never done to confirm the DNA. I think he was more upset about the restraining order than the accusation of assault. He didn’t mind going to jail.” “Is this all you know?” “Yes.” Oscar and Lauren rose from their chairs. Mr. Gobbo walked them out, posing one last question of his own. “What crime are you investigating. If your client needs a lawyer—”

Chapter 27

Oscar watched Lauren drive away from the hospital. He appreciated her help and how she devoted her time to this rather unusual investigation. A chase pursued to evoke forgiveness for his son’s killer. He had never imagined the afterlife to be a system of reincarnated spirits rooted to human capabilities. Perhaps, the transition from one life to another involved an evolution from mortality to immortality. In this evolutionary process, remnants like forgiveness, mercy, and love from the mortal world remained intact. He assumed spite, hate, and sin did the same. But where was the missing link in the evolutionary chain? The one from ape to human? From body to soul? Did it lie in the subconscious? His curiosity accelerated upon every analytical thought. As the gears of his understanding reached overdrive, he could hear the squealing echo of Father Bosco’s voice advising him to be careful, cautioning him against the dangers of knowledge, dissuading him to seek out preternatural answers. But he couldn’t help himself from biting into the genesis apple some more. Father Bosco sat asleep in the waiting room, where Oscar had left him. As Oscar neared the priest in this somnolent state, he recognized fresh scars on the priest’s forehead. The scratches were gouged much deeper, like fresh punctures. Two of them marked the priest’s temples. Not wanting to disturb or wake him, Oscar proceeded to find a nurse. Ryan had stabilized beyond the critical stage, although he hadn’t woken up from the coma. Oscar surveyed the ICU unit, encased in glass and embalmed in low, mood lighting. A stationed nurse centered the four beds in Ryan’s specific area, and she kept busy completing paperwork. Oscar worried about achieving some private time with the boy, and the spirit’s voice. He had no other choice but the obvious. If he wanted to speak with the spirit, he

would have to sneak himself in. He dressed in a yellow robe and mask and approached the nurse on duty. “I am Dr. Predest. I am looking after Ryan.” “Yes, I have been made aware of that.” She was polite and younger. She was also rather new to the position, Oscar observed. Her notes were thoroughly written. She was eager. He would have to gain her trust. “I my first year after medical school. Expectations were so high. I felt like everything I did was wrong.” She stalled in her notetaking. Her straight hair was tied back in an elastic, and she was wearing brand new, white sneakers. She was definitely trying to fit in by adopting all the right clichés. “I know what you mean. I’m walking on eggshells every day.” “That’s normal for a while, until you witness others having a rough time. Trust me, that makes you feel better.” She laughed, relaxing her shoulders a bit. “Do you like The Beatles?” He pointed to her key chain. “Love the Beatles.” “Do you the song ‘Let it be?’” “I love that song.” “Got me through most of my studies, let me tell you.” “Really?” “Yeah, ‘let it be.’ I repeating it to myself whenever I was nervous, or anxious about an exam. Just ‘let it be. Let it be. Let it be.’” Oscar repeated the phrase until it became a monotonous chant.

“There will be an answer,” she continued. “Let it be,” he repeated, making sure to fix his eyes upon hers. “When I say, ‘let it be,’ I would relax. You could relax?” “I could relax?” “Yes, when I say, ‘let it be,’ see if it works, close your eyes, and try to relax.” She was game and did as she was told. He held her trust, he managed to establish a repeated tone, and now he had her waiting for the next suggestion. “It feels good to hear ‘let it be,’ doesn’t it? ‘Let it be.’ That’s all it takes to relax, ‘let it be.’ When you hear ‘let it be,’ you will relax and continue to take notes. When you hear ‘let it be,’ you will not question what you hear, who is speaking, or any noise in the ICU. You will relax. You will ‘let it be’ and continue with your work. If someone should ask you a question, you will answer it as you normally would, except you will understand that you will ‘let it be’ afterward and not question what was asked of you.” Her eyelids flickered. Oscar positioned her for the final command, to resume her work under the hypnosis umbrella. “You will open your eyes, but you will close them once again when I say, ‘Let it be.’ When someone asks you a question, you will keep this in mind, ‘Let it be.’ You will awake from my suggestions when I say, ‘Don’t let me down.’ Is this understood? Nod ‘yes’ if you understand.” She nodded. “Okay, open your eyes and let it be.” The nurse opened her eyes and she appeared as she was before the hypnotism. “Can I help you, Doctor?” “I will be seeing my patient now if you don’t mind.” “Of course, but I’ve been advised to stay right here while you do so, doctor.”

“Yes, of course.” Oscar disappeared behind the curtain, surprised to find Ryan’s eyes awake, expecting his visit. “Very clever, doctor.” Oscar pulled the chair closer to the bed so he could whisper. “Where is Ryan?” “Right here.” “No, where is he? Is he alive?” “Yes, he is. He is healing in his sleep.” “Are you holding him captive this way?” “Why would you ask that?” “Because of the coincidence, the convenience to speak.” “As I said before, I would never hurt him.” “Why? You have no vested interest in him.” “Is this some form of reverse psychology, Doctor? You forget, I am a spirit. Our sensibilities are different than yours. We are far more perceptive of intention; we are stronger in intuition. Are you trying to outsmart me?” “No, of course not.” “Is that so?” “Well, I’m having difficulty coming to with Nathan Corso and you, his spirit. As of right now, I feel like I am trying to learn about two separate beings, and this is making it hard for me to find the forgiveness you are expecting.” A vaporized breath puffed from the child’s mouth. “What did you discover, doctor, that I could have told you myself?” “I need an explanation of your nature first.”

“Of my nature?” “Of who you are, how you came to be, how you managed to escape his body and find yourself in this one?” “Everything the priest warned you about.” “Yes.” “As I told you before, I am the spirit of Nathan Corso. We were one and the same. I was only a part of who he was, though. His body was another part. His mind was another part. His heart was another part, until he blew it apart, of course.” “But you took responsibility for the death of my son.” “Yes.” “Why?” “Because we are one and the same. Like your body, the parts are not compartmentalized. They exist in unison, each functioning in a certain role and to a certain degree. And when a part fails this role, there is an imbalance. Oftentimes, the other parts compensate for the weakness, or assume more responsibility for the weakest function.” “Is that what you tried to do?” “Yes, unfortunately, in both cases. In the defense of your son. In the defense of Nathan’s life.” “Why couldn’t you stop him?” “I was overwhelmed with the darkness created by the invasion. Too many imbalances. You have to understand, we are counselors, like yourself. We counsel our bodies indirectly and not with an active voice. We press upon certain feelings or trains of thought, but our influence is limited to certain functions, in the same way that a liver acts as a filter, whereas the lungs circulate oxygen in a body. What is happening now is an anomaly. Me speaking to you so openly, so directly.”

“He impregnated a girl.” “Yes.” “What was her name?” “I don’t know her name.” “Why not.” “Because I don’t have that kind of memory.” “How did you know my name, then?” “I asked another spirit for it.” “What spirit?” “The one you spoke to once.” “Aidan Jude?” “Who is Aidan Jude?” “The boy whose spirit I believed to have spoken to in a session.” “Then it must be him.” “Where is he?” “I don’t know.” “When did you talk to him?” The body of the young boy contorted like it was tied down and in need of stretching relief. Ryan breathed in longer intervals, to the level hyperventilating, forcing the machine to beep louder. The nurse, Oscar was sure, wouldn’t rush in unless she heard his command and woke from her present trance. Oscar worried another nurse outside the ICU unit would hear it and interrupt the session. “What’s wrong?”

“You have to hurry.” The monitor flatlined. Oscar pulled the drape to see an unsuspecting nurse taking notes at her desk. “Don’t let me down.” As soon as she heard the release command, she rose from her seat, searched for the origin of the sound, and attended to it without any regard for his presence. Within seconds, she had pressed the red button on a cord attached to his bed and a host of other nurses and late-arriving doctors circled the area. Oscar slipped in behind the circle to watch the revival process. The defibrillator jolted the body several times until Ryan’s pulse resumed a regular rhythm. Oscar left the bedside to find Father Bosco behind the glass. Theresa rushed to the scene in arms with a nurse, who must have retrieved her from the chapel. “What happened?” “He’s fine. He stabilized.” Father Bosco pulled Oscar to the side. “What happened, Oscar?” “I was speaking to the spirit, and the boy started to convulse.” “What were you talking about?” “His existence. He was explaining to me how he tried to stop Nathan, how he tried to prevent both murders.” Father Bosco lowered his head, running a hand through his hair. He flinched back when he rubbed the sore wounds on his head by accident. “What happened to you, Father?” “Nothing, a clumsy accident at the Inn where I am staying.” “A clumsy accident?” “Yes.”

Oscar trusted Father Bosco to be a man of truth and integrity, but it was easy to discern when he was telling a lie. It resembled a lie told by a young child to a parent. “Who did this to you, Father?” “Never mind me, Oscar. We have a boy in grave danger, and worse yet, a stubborn man in graver danger.” “The spirit spoke about the invasion again, and these imbalances. He said when one part of us isn’t functioning properly, there is an imbalance of purpose. As I told you before, there is a deep void in me. I can’t seem to fill it. I it these conversations are addictive, but they help fill what’s empty in me.” “At what cost, doctor? What if they are causing further imbalances in you, ones you cannot level? Where does that leave you?” “Where I’ve always wanted to be.” “Where is that?” “With my son.” A doctor interrupted their conversation with his white-robed presence. It wasn’t Dr. Tatzel but another, younger doctor on call. “Ryan has woken up from his coma and would like to see somebody now.”

Chapter 28

Theresa rushed to Ryan’s side first, while Oscar and Father Bosco stood at the foot of his bed. “I’m sorry.” “There’s nothing to be sorry about.” The sudden buckling of her knees undermined her attempt to be strong for her son. Father Bosco rushed to her aid and lifted her from her knees, while Oscar made his way to the side of the bed. “You scared us there, Sport.” “Doctor Predest?” “Yes.” “Did you hypnotize me again?” “No. Do you anything?” The boy raised his taped hand to his head, grimacing while he did so. When it finally occurred to him, he paused and understood why his mother collapsed to the floor. “I’m so sorry, Mommy.” Theresa reprimanded herself under her breath. Father Bosco tried his best to calm her down, looking behind him to see if this disturbance would force the supervising nurse to intervene. Oscar took a seat close to Ryan. “Do you want to talk about it?” “Yeah, but only with you.” “Sure.”

Oscar met Father Bosco’s eyes, and the priest understood to escort Theresa out of the ICU unit. “Ryan, your mother is crying because she was worried and thinking the worst. She isn’t sad or upset with you. She is just releasing all of the emotion that builds up after a scare like this.” Ryan nodded. “You managed to get some sleep, though.” Ryan nodded as if to imply the acceptance of a consolation prize. “What did it feel like, being in a coma?” “Lots of dreams.” “Good dreams, or bad dreams?” “Mostly good, but I can’t them all.” “That’s okay.” “I did one because it was so strange.” “Do you want to talk about it?” “I was playing baseball and I kept looking to the bleachers to see if my father was watching. I was standing on first base and the base was soft. I could feel it on my cleats. A ball came my way and I needed to dive for it. It was spinning fast so I reached out and closed my eyes. I could feel the ball in my glove, and the glove closed on its own. Everything got quiet and I thought the game was over. When I opened my eyes, everyone was clapping, so I looked to the bleachers and tried to find my dad again, because I could feel that he was cheering for me, clapping for me, except I wasn’t sure if he was there.” “Why?” “Because I had never met him before. My mommy doesn’t even have a picture of him.”

“Do you often imagine what he looks like?” “Yes.” “In your mind, what does he look like?” “He looks taller than me. In every one of my dreams about him, he is taller. But his arms are skinny, like mine, and he has ears that stick out, like mine when I put my baseball cap on.” “Can you close your eyes again, Ryan?” “Are you going to hypnotize me again? The last time was fun, and I had so much energy after. I couldn’t sleep.” “No. Not this time. We’re going to try and find your father in those bleachers.” “Really?” “Yes, it’s called visualization. It’s nothing major, or scientific, just a sharpened focus to help you .” “What if it doesn’t work?” “If it doesn’t work, that’s fine too. Not everything has to work the way you want it to work. Sometimes, things work out better when they’re not perfect. My dad had this lawnmower, and all of the neighbors would warn him to change the oil, or else they said the lawnmower would break down and he would have to buy a new one. But my dad was stubborn. He said it was an old lawnmower that worked with the old oil. New oil would break it, he would say. Do you believe I have that old lawnmower, and it starts on the first pull?” “Wow. Do you think there is something broken inside of me, Doctor?” “I think if there is something broken, it would be better not to fix it. I think sometimes, you have to trust that it’s broken for a reason. Don’t worry. It’s not a bad thing. The broken piece might make you live a better life in the end.” Oscar feared he was becoming a little too philosophical with the young kid. Ryan was a bright boy, wiser than his age would suggest, which explained his

extreme sensitivity to his internal struggles. In his studies and practice, Oscar had found that most of the children he treated were of extraordinary intelligence, with little capacity to sustain it. Such intelligence worked against a slowerdeveloping emotional or physical intelligence, which in turn, created an imbalance, as the spirit suggested. “Now close your eyes and trust me, okay?” “Okay, doctor.” “We will revisit your dream. Sound good?” “Yes.” “The ball is coming your way. You can see it, a line drive?” “Yes. A knuckle ball line drive.” “Okay, a knuckle ball line drive. Tell me what you see in front of you.” “I see the umpire standing up behind the bat catcher. He sees the ball too.” “Excellent. What else do you see?” “I see the batter’s hip and dust coming up from his shoe.” “Great. What about the field?” “I’m in the dirt between bases, but there is high green grass in front of me. I know if I dive, it will not hurt me.” “Very good. Okay, you snag the ball. Before you close your eyes, what does it feel like?” “I am lying in the sand. It feels soft again, but it’s in my mouth and I want to spit it out.” “Do you?” “No.”

“Why?” “Because I don’t want anybody to see me do that.” “Fine. You look to the left. Now tell me who is standing in the bleachers.” “My mother is there but she isn’t wearing black. She is wearing a pink dress and glasses.” “Who is standing next to your mother?” “A boy.” “A boy? Like you?” “No. He’s not old enough to play.” “What does he look like?” “He has small eyes, but he is smiling.” “Excellent. Who is standing next to the boy?” “Another older kid.” “What does he look like?” “He looks like a teenager, like the older kids at school.” “Why is he not playing?” “Because he is too old to play.” “What is he doing?” “He is pounding a baseball into his mitt.” “What does the mitt look like?” “It’s hard to see.”

“Okay. Pretend your eyes are a camera lens. You are focussing on the glove. Can you see it?” “Yes.” “Okay. You will zoom in with your camera lens. On the glove. Are you ready?” “Yes.” “Okay, on the count of three, your eyes will focus on the glove.” “I’m ready.” “One, two, three.” A silence. “Can you see the glove up close?” “Yes. I can see it.” “What does the glove look like?” “It has scribbles on it.” “Stories?” “It’s my dad’s glove!” Ryan’s excitement forced him to wake from the visualization. “Why did I open my eyes?” “Congratulations, Ryan. You just met your daddy.”

Chapter 29

Oscar found Theresa in the waiting room sitting alone. Although he had checked the chapel first, he was happy to find her in a private place where they could discuss personal matters beyond a whisper. He needed to talk to her in a forthright manner. There was a connection to finalize in his psychoanalysis, and her honesty was vital to the equation. “How is he?” “It isn’t the spirit who is hurting him.” “What do you mean? We heard it speak through him. You can’t expect me not to believe what I heard and saw.” “The spirit is trying to keep him alive.” This theory confused Theresa. She couldn’t pray while he spoke. “Where did he get the baseball glove, the one with the stories written on it?” Theresa rose and walked away from him. She reached for the universal entity in the room but the symbolic hand sculpture protruding from the wall could not replace the softer ones of Father Bosco. After speaking with Ryan, Oscar had searched for Father Bosco in the waiting area, but he must have returned to the Inn. Over the past couple of days, he hadn’t left the hospital, not even for a shower. Theresa traced her fingers on the stained-glass door. “It was sent to me.” “Sent to you?” “Yes. I received it in the mail.” “From whom?”

“From his father.” “You keep in with his father, why didn’t you tell me?” “Because his father is dead. It was sent to me, from his last will and testament, along with some money.” “Theresa. I think we need to talk about this.” “I can’t right now. I need to take care of my son.” Theresa rushed out of the waiting room and away from him. He would give her some time to think about it, before approaching her with the subject of Ryan’s real father. He walked over to the glass wall that separated the ICU unit from the central nurse’s station. Theresa sat next to her son’s bed and stroked the hair back from his face with her hand. Ryan slept still and peacefully. At the very least, Oscar thought, I have found an opening that might have explained the despairing feelings occupying this young boy. Theresa removed a rosary from her purse and in a hurried, emphatic rhythm, thumbed down the string of beads. Her zeal evoked the urge in Oscar to seek out Father Bosco at the Inn. He couldn’t keep what he had learned from Ryan away from Father Bosco anymore.

When Oscar checked in at the front desk of the Inn, the keeper regarded him with apprehension. So, Oscar felt the need to explain to him the reason for his visit. “I am a friend of Father Bosco’s.” “A friend?” “I am also a doctor.” “A doctor?” “Yes. A psychiatrist.” This identification relieved the Innkeeper for a second, before he settled into a gatekeeping role, grabbing a pen.

“What is your name please?” “Oscar Predest.” “Thank you.” Oscar questioned why the Innkeeper took the names of Father Bosco’s visitors. “Has he had other visitors?” “Yes, too many if you ask me. I’ve told him they need to check in first before they see him.” “Why is that?” He shook his head side to side a few times. “No reason. Just a lot of noise coming from his room late at night.” “Noise?” “Yes. Disturbances. Some of my part-time residents have complained.” Oscar found this peculiar because Father Bosco never spoke of any acquaintances in the area. He was a man committed to his work and vocation, and his free time seemed extremely limited. He hadn’t even slept at the Inn for the last couple of days, spending all his time at the hospital counseling families with languishing in the ICU. Oscar ed the cleaning lady who nearly collided with him as he walked the cemented pathway bordering the rooms. “Sorry, sir.” Of Jamaican descent with a strong accent, her fragrance breathed bleach cleanser and pungent lemon. “Is he inside, number six?” Her jaw dropped, revealing a bright pink tongue and gleaming white teeth. She lowered her head and skipped to her cart, pushing it away from a potential detonation. Oscar listened for any “noise” before knocking on the number six. The Jamaican

cleaning lady watched him from the corner of her eye. Father Bosco opened the door but stepped back defensively before he realized it was Oscar. “Oh, Dr. Predest, please, come in.” When Oscar entered, he was surprised to find that the priest was not as tidy as he presented himself in public. Clothes were strewn about the floor. Furniture was not in its standard place. It was pushed off the wall for some reason, revealing historical cracks in the plaster. The bed was a tangled mess of twisted sheets. In one corner of the room, a small leather-bound suitcase sunk into the carpet, outcast, displaced. It was locked by steel buckles. “I apologize for the mess.” Not dressed in his habit, Father Bosco wore a white V-neck shirt. A red circle collared the skin on his neck like a rash. “I came to see you because Ryan told me a few things, or rather the spirit did, and, well, I thought you should know.” As he spoke, Oscar searched for a chair but the only one in the room was broken into three pieces. If Oscar had walked in without knowing Father Bosco had taken residence there, he would have thought he had entered a rock star’s room after a late-night binge. A sharp, curved line had sliced the dresser mirror in two. Father Bosco frantically scavenged the ground debris to find his collar. When he did so, he dressed like they were in a rush to arrive somewhere on time. “Are you all right, Father?” “Yes, of course, I am. I haven’t been here in a few days, so I left it a mess. And the Innkeeper doesn’t have room cleaners come in every day.” Oscar had just seen one on his way to the room. Why was Father Bosco lying to him? “Shall we go somewhere cleaner?” “There is a diner down the road.” “Fine. I haven’t eaten anything for days.”

At the diner, Father Bosco ate very little, despite his hint at an appetite. Oscar observed him in the fluorescent light. Father Bosco had aged since their first meeting. He seemed drawn out. Physical exhaustion weighted his body posture and face, darkening patches there. “So, what have you learned, Oscar?” “The spirit defined its role in the person. Like most parts of our biological makeup, there are limitations to the spirit’s ability. The spirit cited no memory, but only the capacity to influence decisions with intuition, sensitivity, and enlightenment.” “Is that something you didn’t already know, Oscar?” “I suppose so, but hearing the spirit explain the science of it solidified an appreciation for me.” “Let me ask you a question, Oscar?” Father Bosco took a sip of his coffee. He flinched his mouth as he did so, as if to suggest a sore tooth or an abscess lingered on the inside of his lip. “Sure, Father.” “Is it more empowering to know the intricacies of this new development, or was it more empowering to have faith in it beforehand?” “Well, there was more of an emotional, spiritual investment in the idea when I didn’t know the details. Now, there is a mental satisfaction, an assurance of something I can’t yet pinpoint.” “The nature of the afterlife?” “Yes, I suppose my curiosity has found a target. I will it, this experience has eliminated some innocence in me. Knowing how this other world exists makes me hungry to know more.” “Like an addict?” “Like someone who is starving for nutrition to function. Speaking of appetite, I

thought you said you were hungry.” “It was a fleeting feeling, sorry. Would you like to eat mine?” “No, of course not.” Father Bosco rolled the commitment ring around and around on his finger. “I tried to talk to Theresa about Ryan’s father, but she refused.” “Do you think there is a connection?” “To his suicidal attempts, yes. The spirit explained a ‘void’ theory exploited by invasions, and how emptiness can eat away at the functions of every other part of our existence. The child is a bright, sociable kid. He has interests, he is physically well, but there is something within leaking life from him like a disease. He told me about a good dream. We revisited it with a visualization exercise. I think one of the people in his dream was his father.” “How did you arrive at this conclusion?” “The baseball glove. The teenager in the dream is holding a baseball glove, except this baseball glove has stories written in it.” “Like Allie’s glove?” Father Bosco alluded to the famous baseball glove from Catcher in the Rye, Holden Caulfield’s brother’s glove, except his brother wrote poems in it instead of stories. “Yes. I think there is a connection. His father must have read that book, found something in it to replicate the idea with his own glove. He left it to his son in his last will and testament.” “Did Theresa reveal this to you?” “Yes.” “She is holding something back from us. Maybe she will feel more assured to share if I am there.”

Oscar was thinking the same, which is why he came to visit Father Bosco in the first place. Except, he wasn’t prepared to see Father Bosco so weakened and unstable. “Why do you have scars on your head, Father?” Father Bosco blinked repeatedly before answering. “I’m having a tough time with something, Oscar, but I can deal with it. Should I need help, I’m confident you’re the one to call.” He forced a smile to convince Oscar he was fine before standing up from the table. As Oscar followed him out of the diner, he couldn’t help but see the transformation in every facet of Father Bosco’s demeanor, as if every part of him was preparing for a forthcoming collapse or a last breath of peace.

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When Oscar and Father Bosco arrived at the hospital, they found Theresa in the chapel. The room was warm in its wooded design, but cold in the absence of anyone else. The nurse at the desk had notified her of Ryan’s transfer to a stepdown unit to gain his strength before dismissal. Theresa returned to the generic chapel to offer a prayer of thanks, or so she explained to Father Bosco when he asked about her son. Oscar stood behind Father Bosco during this conversation, hoping this recent good news and the priest’s presence alone could convince Theresa to open up about Ryan’s father. There was something missing from the elaborate design, and Oscar was sure Theresa had something to offer. For Ryan to make progress, the void left by an absent father required address. How else could he overcome the inclination to give up? The emptiness would surface until it drowned both spirit and boy. His forgiveness of the spirit also played a vital role in strengthening Ryan. Never had Oscar worried so much about achieving forgiveness in his life before. Treating children with therapy and or medication was a scientific solution, a tangible one. He had always downplayed the importance of a confession, regarding it as a release of regret and guilt and not a solution to a conflict. However, as he investigated the deceased murderer of his son, Oscar had learned much more about motivation in his analysis of Nathan Corso. He had learned about Lauren’s motivation along the way, her apparent void as well, not to mention the one growing darker and deeper within him. In the past, he had understood the implosive effect of a traumatic event on a person’s psyche and how a traumatic event could trigger sensitive disorders, even debilitating diseases, like cancer, MS, or other nerve-related conditions. He was also well aware of how it could motivate someone to search for answers in a life’s vocation, relationships, or in the procurement of money. Could the solution to these “voids” have existed in the simple concept of forgiveness? In all his studies, he had never regarded the importance of this traditional,

religious concept. But the data collected from his improvised analysis pointed to the same, invisible target – the nature of forgiving someone without conditions. He grappled with this concept, trying to equate it to the ability to love. Father Bosco equated them in a previous conversation. Did love and forgiveness both require the word he had despised in the context of imagining his only son dead – acceptance? This secret “knowledge” Father Bosco alluded to had branched upwards and sideways within him. He could feel it growing to stretch the vacant sky of his mind and heart, to reach beyond his previous, limited understanding of life’s enigmas. Worries and fears failed to hold him back. And only clarity could push him forward to a level of acceptance like those on the brink of death. An absolute trust that it was meant to be. Everything living was meant to be. And life would go on, on earth as it is in Heaven, just like the prayer. “Oscar? I’m ready to tell you my story.” Oscar pulled up a chair with his back to the porcelain hands extending from the wall, indicating God’s need to reach out to his forlorn people. “Was Nathan Corso the father of your son?” Oscar asked her. She stilled, upright in her chair. “Yes. How did you know?”

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“I met him at the market,” Theresa began. “Every Thursday my family loaded the cart and we led it by horse to the county market in the valley. My father was a very good farmer, one of the most ired outside of town. Our crops were overgrown and meticulously prepared. It was my job, as the only child in the home, to ready them for the farmer’s market. “It was tough for me, bearing the responsibility of “heiress” to our homestead. I wasn’t supposed to live. My mother nearly miscarried me three separate times. She was bedridden for most of her pregnancy because she spotted early. “My father expected me to be a boy. He was disappointed when I was born, or so my mother revealed to me when I was old enough to understand that a farmer needed a boy to raise as a replica of himself. When the doctor revealed to my father that my mother would never bear children again, my father increased his hours in the fields. He worked himself into the land, as if more sweat and toil would prepare it for his eventual absence. “He came to love me. I know he did. But my parents saw my birth as a punishment from God. To the townsfolk, my mother hailed it as a miracle. She claimed that if I could survive the trauma of her troublesome pregnancy that God would provide our family with a man to take over the farm. She convinced my father I would be pretty enough to attract an ambitious young man, and my father was satisfied. “However, I was a sickly child. I was diagnosed with leukemia at a young age and isolated from the world for fear I was too weak to survive in it. Although my cancer went into remission, I found myself in the hospital frequently treated for pneumonia and other ailments. “This, of course, cost my family a lot of money and I often saw blame in my father’s eyes. He was a stern man of original German descent. He was very square in his perception of life and my persistent illness horrified him, I believe. His affection for me changed. He touched me less, like I was contagious with

bad health – or bad luck – as his superstitions seemed to interpret it. My mother tended to me with stories and prayers, and she devoted herself to my bedside. “I woke up many mornings to see her asleep, her face flattened on a page in a book, or pressed onto a string of rosary beads. If it weren’t for my mother, I would have never known God, or the ability to dream of rising above my condition. I dreamt often of a life filled with everything I didn’t have, the freedom to move, the freedom to speak my mind, the freedom to fall in love. “My mother decided to homeschool me for the sake of limiting our visits to the hospital. I once heard her arguing with my father in the kitchen. He had become tired over the years, tending the farm on his own. He couldn’t hire additional help because most of what he earned was reserved for another lurking health attack. I felt so responsible for breaking their bond, destroying their love. They spent less time in the same room and only coned when an argument presented itself, more often than not, about money. “I thought about running away, removing the curse from the family. I too considered committing suicide, and I feel responsible now . . .” Theresa stopped at this moment to cover her mouth with a hand. Father Bosco rubbed her shoulder. “You are not being punished for those thoughts,” consoled Father Bosco. “Those thoughts were born from the pain of your situation. You did not betray God, or yourself.” “But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t leave them, and I couldn’t bring myself to do, you know. So, I found the only escape that could protect me from my father’s judgment. I told them I wanted to enter the religious life. My mother was proud and so was my father, who must have assumed at the time that it would bring our family good luck. And it did. My father’s reputation as an honorable farmer grew. He worked just as hard, but the rewards were plentiful. “We sold our crops at the market before any of the other farmers, and my mother noted reserves before our arrival. My health improved to a consistent normalcy. I was growing into my body, eating more, and never strayed from my prayers or my devotion. “I attended church every morning and every evening, and on my walks there, I

prayed my rosary. Sometimes, I would see children leaving school and I longed to know them outside of the market. They regarded me with auspicious stares. I believed they judged me for not attending school with them. I’m sure many rumors circulated in community circles as to why my parents kept the miracle child away from public events outside the market. Because they respected my father’s business, I never heard anything that could hurt me. “I must it, I was lonely for the company of children my own age. On my walks to church, I could hear the sounds of children during recess and the noise excited me. I longed for a friend outside of my parents’ strict supervision, and my parents knew this. Sometimes, they introduced me to other children from other farmsteads at the market, but never a boy. I latched onto the stories my mother read to me at night, some chapters from her favorite adult novels. They were tragically romantic. I was so entranced by them. I could relate to not having what you longed for. “To keep my time in check, and as I said, when my health stabilized, my parents decided to give me a job, alongside my studies to prepare for my ission to The Sisters of the Sacred Heart. I was placed in charge of preparing our stock for the market and I took great pride in pleasing my father. He appreciated my desire to present his hard work to our local buyers, which is why I panicked one day when I managed to drop a basket from the cart. “We were at the market early, as always, and my father was delivering boxes and bushels to those who had made their orders. One of the boxes burst a hole from underneath and several tomatoes fell to the ground. As I retrieved them, I broke down in tears because many of them were bruised. I was afraid to tell my father of the mistake. I met Nathan during this minor crisis. He saw me crying over the tomatoes. He helped me collect them before my father returned, but I knew they couldn’t be sold the way they were. “Why are you crying still? I him asking. “Because they are ruined. No one will buy them now. “My mother will take them. “Although I was only sixteen years old then, I realized what he was doing. He was going to buy them to save me the trouble of telling my father they dropped on my watch.

“But they are bruised now, I saying. “It’s okay. My mother won’t know the difference. I cook for myself most times anyway. “It surprised me to hear this. He was too young to take care of himself. “I can’t let you do that, I said. “Here. He reached into his pocket and paid for them. Is that enough? ‘This is too much. “It’s okay. You can give me the difference another day. I have to go to work. “I couldn’t help myself from asking. Do you go to school? “Yes, I do. Don’t you? “I shook my head no, embarrassingly, and that was the end of our conversation and the beginning of my interest in him. He lugged the bushel of bruised tomatoes away, saving me as he did so. When my father realized how much I had received for the bushel, he was so proud that he wanted me to run our stand at the market. “He thought it would do me good to learn this aspect of our family business. I think he and my mother were a little concerned I was too isolated at our farmstead. This promotion would help me to learn social skills under the protection of trade and sales, a necessary skill in the farm business. “I saw Nathan often at the market and he visited our stand every week. We had our small talk conversations at first and although I missed the early, obvious signals, I came to understand that he liked me. It was a wonderful feeling at the time, so wonderful that I found myself daydreaming about our meetings over lined vegetables and fruit. My father came to like him as well. He praised him for taking care of his mother in the absence of his father, or in the presence of multiple ‘suitors,’ which is what my mother called Mrs. Corso’s “visitors.” “I envied her, to be honest. She was a beautiful, southern belle with glowing blonde locks and a swerve in her hips. When she came to the market with

Nathan, she turned heads full circle. She was desired and she presented herself as someone who created the effect on purpose, like a magician would with sleight of hand. She enjoyed the way farmers fawned over her, scrambling to find the ripest, shiniest stock for her to place in her basket, which she carried on her forearm, like a purse. And she smelled so wonderful, despite a cigarette in her mouth. “She was definitely an anomaly in our community, but also a magnet for gossip and rumor. Some said she had left the county and Nathan alone one weekend to get an abortion, but I didn’t believe it. She was a strong woman who seemed in control of her ‘visitors.’ She was a woman who possessed no fear, I thinking, while my life based itself on it. “I spoke to Nathan about her. This is about the time when our conversations became more personal. He asked me what I wanted to be, and I told him I planned on ing the convent. He didn’t judge me, like some of the others at the market, or overly praise me for the decision, like some ing strangers. He treated it like another job, that’s all, and I was glad he could see through the choice to find more interest in me as a person. I was very open with him about my homeschooling, and he filled me in on what I was missing at high school, which he claimed wasn’t much. One day, he skipped the market and knocked on my door. “I my mother answering it. Not many people visited, most especially in the evenings. Perhaps they understood that my father was still in the fields, and my mother and I were cleaning up after dinner. Nathan was dressed in a shirt and tie. His hair was combed with grease to the side, very clean, but his face was creamy white. I could tell he was nervous. His feet swerved funny like he was dancing on the spot.” “Can I help you, Nathan?” “Yes, Mrs. Venneri.” He pulled a bunch of picked flowers, daisies, held together by an elastic. “Is Mr. Venneri in the field?” “Yes.”

“I can wait until he is finished for the day.” “My father must have seen him from way out in the field. He circled his tractor back and we could hear it choking smoke upon his approach. When the engine turned off, my father wiped his brow and sidestepped to the front porch, as if inspecting an intruder.” “What are you doing here, young man?” “I came to ask your permission to take Theresa to the school dance this Friday.” “Both of my parents reacted in a confused manner as if to wonder why a boy would ask me to the dance. Especially one with the foreknowledge I would enter the religious life.” “No,” my father spoke. “Theresa cannot go with you.” “He turned around, hopped onto the tractor, and bounced away toward the sunset. “Nathan was so disappointed. He left the flowers on the porch step and returned to his bike. He had traveled quite a way on his bike, and through mountainous terrain to reach us in the valley. I smiled at him, but he was too embarrassed to smile back. My mother shut the door on him peddling away, without another mention of it, but I could tell my father’s quick and abrupt decision bothered her. That night, as he ate by candlelight alone at the table, expecting me to be asleep, she cried before him. But my father wouldn’t flinch or halt the rhythm of his chewing. He had made his decision, and it was final. “Expecting to see Nathan at the market, I was shocked to hear worse news. He was thrown into jail after the dance. He and some others were drinking, and they stole a car. After hearing this gossip from a neighboring farmer whose son attended the dance, my mother refused to speak to my father. “Instead, she feared him more, like he was some prophet who had prevented her daughter from incurring more hurt. I thought the same, I suppose, following the example of my mother, and I became subservient to my father, like her. We served him better, we cared for him better, and we cooked for him better. It was our way of showing our appreciation for his intuition.

“The following week, after he was released from his three days’ time in jail, there were more rumors circulating about Nathan Corso. He had been taken to the hospital this time, as a result of coming to fists with the man who was to become his stepfather. Although I would learn later it was an act of self-defense, Nathan was soon becoming the boy every mother feared her daughter falling for. “The policemen warned of him, and he was expelled from school for more trouble. I hadn’t seen him at the market, and I assumed he had disappeared, leaving in his absence only more stories and rumors, which transformed into lessons over dinner tables labeled by the adage, ‘like the Corso kid.’ “At the time, our routines were everything, especially in a farmer’s family, and any disruption to that routine was a threat. My father had built a new barn in the back, which was the envy of all farmers in our community. I had ed my most recent exam with flying colors, which enabled me to fill out an ission application to the convent by Holy Rosary Church. I prayed there often. One day, Nathan spoke from the pew behind me.” “I wanted to take you to the dance.” “I continued to pray, hoping he would go away. He was someone who had been demonized to me since our last meeting, and I was afraid to be alone in the church with him.” “I really like you, Theresa.” “I turned around. He was on his knees, with hands crossed over the ledge of the pew. He didn’t look like the bad spawn of Mrs. Corso at that moment. He looked like a lost boy looking for a friend.” “Did you know you would find me here?” I asked. “Yes.” “Why did you come?” “To ask you to marry me.” “I was shocked to hear such words. It was something I was only accustomed to hearing from one of the books my mother read to me. He was so young and

carefree. I could tell he didn’t know what he was implying with those words, but I was breathing irregularly. I didn’t know how to answer him. There were no words left to say. I stood up in the pew and walked out of the church, but he caught me before I left, by the confessionals. He grabbed my arm and it hurt. When I flinched back, he apologized.” “I’m sorry. I can’t explain what it feels like when I am around you. But I know how it feels when you’re not. It’s so hopeless, so empty. It’s only when I think of you that I feel whole again.” “At the time, I understood what he meant about feeling whole, about feeling like you were together in the same body, and not a collection of damaged parts. I had felt that way after many visits to the hospital, where it was clinically confirmed, I would never be the same again.” “I will be in trouble. Please.” “‘I’m sorry.” “He let me walk away but I knew he was following me. When I visited the convent, they welcomed me with open arms. It was a different environment to get accustomed to, but I felt I belonged. I had prepared myself for this purpose in life. I volunteered at the hospital, in some of the same rooms where I thought I would die. One day, Nathan was lying on one of the beds. He was nearly beaten to death and swollen to a pulp. I could barely recognize his face, but I understood he had found more trouble. “I gravitated towards his room and as he convalesced, we resumed the innocence of our conversations at the market. He told me of his dreams, and I was on the brink of living the only dream I had ever considered. He spoke about returning to school but mentioned it would be difficult now that they had told him he couldn’t step ground there. He would have to attend an out-of-county school, so he needed to work, move out on his own and make up the credits he had lost. “I one conversation we had, and I think this is what convinced me to fall in love with him. He asked me about the fear of never having a child. It confused him that I would devote myself entirely to God. He wondered if I regretted the decision based solely on the idea of never getting married or having children. I told him at the time that it was hard to imagine having a child to take care of on my own. I worried I couldn’t do so physically, and I feared it would

be as sickly as I was as a child.” He said, “Would it be bad if I still love you when you become a nun?” “I laughed. It sounded so funny to me at the time, but I understood what he meant. He regarded it as a sin of sorts. But he was serious.” “Because I can’t imagine not believing in it anymore.” “The suggestion terrified him, but I felt anticipation in my spirit, accompanied by pain, but it didn’t hurt the wrong way. It hurt the right way. “When he was released from the hospital, we met discreetly at church. Sometimes, he would coincidentally run into me while I volunteered. We kissed in the basement chapel one evening. I how cold his lips were, my forbidden first kiss. There were candles at the altar flickering from an invisible breeze. I felt alive and the furthest from sick. “I spoke to my parents about prolonging my ission into the convent. They were confused as to why, and I could tell my mother could see through me. Except this time, she never mentioned anything to my father. She let him work, and she let me smile in the mirror in our bathroom. She caught me doing it so many times. “I think she knew I had fallen in love. I believe she valued the possibility of a marriage and a grandchild, preferably a son, as a better alternative for the land and home she spent so many a day and night keeping up for a future family. “When we were together, Nathan and I spoke openly about this change of direction in our lives. I was beginning to imagine myself as his wife. I continued to meet him in secret, and I lied in order to arrange one of our trysts. I told my mother I would spend the day at the convent. On that day, Nathan drove me to an Inn in the mountains. That decision altered the course of our history, and eventually, the course of his life.” Theresa placed her hand over her mouth, as if ashamed to have let that part of the story out. She was a woman dealing with extreme guilt and regret. She took some time to recover before continuing. “When I found out I was pregnant, I was so scared. I realized something real was

growing inside me, but I felt empty of life, especially in the presence of my parents. When I called Nathan, he assured me that everything would be all right. And I believed him. We spoke of running away to another town, but I couldn’t leave my parents and my responsibilities to them. “I had just found favor in my father’s eyes, and now I was going to disappear? It would have killed them. Nathan suggested coming over to the house to speak with my parents. He was going to ask my parents for my hand in marriage. Although I hadn’t told them of any change of plans in my own life, I thought they would consider the honesty in the request. “Nathan would present it more like a business deal, assuring my father he would take care of the farm. He was so willing to make me happy. If there is anything I from those trying days is his undying efforts to reassure me, lift my spirits. He didn’t want to see me cry. It really hurt him to see me hurt. “The next time he knocked on our door he was dressed in his best suit. He was clean and ready, and he bore flowers and pastries from a local bakery. When my mother opened the door to greet a random visitor, she was shocked to see him standing there alone.” “What are you doing here?” “May I please enter?” “My mother nodded him in. We were sitting at the table for dinner, and I had advised Nathan to come at that time. My father rose from his seat to confront him.” “What are you doing in my house?” “I couldn’t explain my father’s sudden anger until it dawned on me. My father valued his ‘name.’ He preached that a man without a good ‘name’ was worth nothing. To my father, Nathan had tarnished his own good name. Nathan’s reputation, or any association of it with our family, threatened my father. Nathan was afraid, but he approached my father offering his hand. My father refused to grasp it. It was an awkward moment, and one I regret witnessing. Nathan trembled in my father’s presence. I could see the flowers in his hand fluttering. A few of the petals had shaken off and fallen to the floor. He managed to find a voice.”

“I am in love with your daughter. I know I have made some mistakes and I do not come from an upstanding family, but I will make my life’s goal to take care of your daughter and your farm if you would permit me the honor of marrying her.” “I did not expect him to be so eloquent in such a stressful situation. I was impressed with his courage. He must have rehearsed what he was going to say. It exited his mouth in one breath. My father was not impressed. His sharp-angled chin tightened, and I could see his Adam’s apple bulging like a sharp rock through the skin of his neck.” “I will never give my daughter’s hand to you.” “The words were recited with such strength and spite that I wondered if my father’s name and his protection of it prioritized itself over me. Nathan didn’t know what to say. He looked to my mother for , but she was glass-still and as transparent. She was not going to cross my father. “He searched my eyes to discover pity. I wanted to do something for him, to reassure him for once. It was foolish of me, in retrospect, but I thought I could save him with honesty, save us from our mistake.” “I’m pregnant.” “If I thought the air in the room was explosive before this announcement, I underestimated my sensitivity to it. My mother sighed and my father cemented his powerful stance. There was no reaction to my words. They stared at me, neglecting their attention on Nathan. I saw my own pity in Nathan’s eyes, like we had exchanged pity vows. My father remained rooted to the wood floor and my mother’s sighs lost sound, translating into sighs. I didn’t know what to say or do. I tried to pray but I couldn’t fall into the ecstasy of my beliefs. I tried to find a rope to hang onto, not realizing that Nathan had made his way over to me. He had dropped the flowers to the floor to grasp my hand. His was cold and silky from the stems. My father spoke with the sharp accuracy of a knife.” “You will never see my daughter again.” “He left to go work outside, while my mother dropped to the floor sobbing like she had been gutted by his words.”

“Let’s go now, please,” Nathan insisted. “I can’t,” was all I could say. “Nathan couldn’t bear to be there any longer. He rushed out of our home, and I worried my father was preparing his hunting rifle to shoot him down. “The next day my father abandoned the farm. He didn’t sell it or put it up for sale. He packed everything he could, and we escaped away in the middle of the night, as far away as he could imagine, distant from the reputation he had built, and the one I had destroyed.” “Where did you go?” Oscar asked. “Out of state, west. I hadn’t realized what my father had saved for this emergency exit, nor the shame he experienced from my situation. He changed our name. I heard him in conversation with my mother express the need to do so for him to continue living. Nathan couldn’t find us. And I know he must have tried. Years later, when I returned to my father’s homestead, I asked about him. Everyone knows everything about everyone here. Each story, bad or good, lifted my spirits. I heard of his marriage, and it made me happy, and I heard of his suicide, and I was destroyed again. He had sent his baseball glove to our old home. When I received it, I broke down before giving it to Ryan. It was the first time I had seen my son happy. It gave him hope. He was confident he would one day meet his father.” She paused. “When Ryan tried to kill himself the first time, I decided to return here, to unite my broken family. I explained to my parents how Ryan needed to meet his father. My parents, by this time, had died within their lives. They were robotic in their routines, and silent to each other, except when Ryan appeared in the room. My father said very little to me about anything. I knew he had grown pleased with his first grandson. But he would never show me this conciliatory change of heart. My mother told me in private, before I left. “When I returned here, and I discovered that Nathan was gone, I didn’t know what to do. I was about to return home, to our new existence and name, but those stories on the glove. He loved the Catcher in the Rye, and the stories were written to the son he never met. I decided to return to God. To return to the same church made me feel whole before the tragedy in our lives. I thought I could save Ryan from trying to hurt himself, or the church could save him. I implored

my God in prayer and tried to become the woman I had promised him I could be, but now . . .” “His father is trying to save him?” Theresa tried her best to reconcile this disguised motive. A nurse in white waited at the door. “Ryan is ready to see you now.” Theresa rose from her chair and in a ghost-like state, floated towards the nurse. Oscar and Father Bosco trailed behind.

Chapter 32

The step-down unit was actually four floors up. Oscar allowed Theresa to approach Ryan first, despite the presence of a mysterious visitor from the hospital. Ryan was eating Jell-O from a cup while the young man sitting by his bedside rose to introduce himself. He was wearing a golf shirt with an emblem tracing two children in hands over his heart. Oscar recognized the symbol. It was the trademark of the children’s rehabilitation center next door to the hospital. As the young man extended his hand, Oscar noticed the shiny, scar symbol on his wrist. Like Ryan, he was a survivor. “We were joking about wristwatches.” Oscar stepped into the handshake. Frank’s grip was firm, and he spoke through his smile. “My name is Frank Risi. I work through the Children’s Rehabilitation Center in conjunction with Saint Michael’s. You must be Doctor Predest.” “Do we know each other?” “Ryan has been talking about you. But I feel like we’ve met before or crossed paths at some other juncture.” In the past, Oscar had dealt with the children’s center in a professional capacity, but he couldn’t encountering Frank. “It’s nice to meet you. How long have you worked for the center?” “Not long, maybe a couple of years. In any case, I’m sure you have much to catch up on. We’ll see you a little later, Champ.” Ryan waved goodbye. His mother moved into the vacated space to embrace her son, but she couldn’t do so with the hospital bed bars in the way. She settled for placing a concerned hand on his leg. Her recent story had illuminated so much of

the vacated space in Oscar’s interpretation of his son’s murder. It justified a reason to fill it with his forgiveness. He saw Ryan in a revised light, knowing his father had returned to save his son. Oscar wished he were afforded the same opportunity with Tobias. Where he once spited the spirit of Nathan Corso, Oscar now ired this spiritual devotion. He respected this new bond, this coning of spirits in a reincarnated resolution to human weakness. “I have to be somewhere, Oscar. I will be back.” “Thank you, Father.” Theresa raised her head from her child’s leg. She watched Father Bosco disappear down the hallway, her eyes transfixed upon his exit. “Mama, can I speak to Dr. Predest alone, please?” Ryan sat up in his bed as if strengthened by the sugar in the Jell-O. “Yes. I will go back to the chapel. Actually, I think I’m going to take a walk outside.” Theresa ed Oscar with a forced smile. She had suffered at the hand of worry for a lifetime. The stress explained her premature aging signs and frailness. After telling them her story, she did appear relieved and lighter. Some fresh air was a good idea. Oscar saddled up to the bedside after she left the room. “So, how’s my designated hitter doing today?” “Fine. I feel different, doctor.” “How so?” “ when I told you I couldn’t explain why I felt the way I did, you know, before I tried to . . .” “Yes. I .” “I think I can now.”

“Really. Wow, that sleep in the coma did you well.” He smirked. “Frank told me he tried to do the same thing to himself when he was younger.” “Yes, and how did that make you feel?” “Better. I have never met anyone with these too.” He lifted his wrists. “He seemed like a great guy.” “He is, and he likes baseball too.” “Excellent.” “He told me that missing someone so bad can make you love them so bad. You just have to forgive their absence in your life.” “Is that how you feel about your father?” He nodded affirmatively. “To be honest, Ryan, I feel the same way about my own son.” “Do you miss him?” “More than I ever have. When I would drop him off at school, I , I would watch him from the parking lot. I wanted to see how he walked into school. Sometimes, I would sneak up to the window of his classroom and watch him in his class to see if he played with everyone else, to make sure he was happy, even though I wasn’t there to protect him or play with him myself.” “Did he ever see you?” “No, but I wish he had.” “Why?” “Because then I would have known he knew.” “Knew what?”

“That I loved him at all times. Even when he wasn’t with me.” “He knew, Dr. Predest.” “How are you sure, Ryan?” “Because he wanted to be like you, just like I want to be like my dad. Every boy at school wants to be like his dad. You have to love your dad to be him.” Oscar finally let his emotions wrangle a tear from his eye. It raced straight down his cheek, and Ryan noticed it. “Don’t cry, Doctor Predest. You don’t have to let him go. He is happy to be with you. Like you said, at all times.” Oscar was beginning to see the connection between forgiveness and love. It wasn’t a troubled Nathan Corso who murdered his son. And it wasn’t his fault he had left Tobias vulnerable to the crime. Forgiveness required releasing the unknown emptiness within you before figuring out why it got there in the first place. The void Nathan’s spirit alluded to was not meant to be explained or solved like a problem. It was formed by the absence of returned love, and it grew alongside every thought, every feeling, until it was vulnerable enough to be taken advantage of. Forgiveness fortified these vulnerabilities, filling the basin of selfemptiness with love. Self-emptiness was a side effect of life’s choices, life’s involuntary trials and tribulations. Everyone he had ever treated, ever known for that matter, possessed this emptiness, this void, some more vast than others, some more despairing than others. There were temporary solutions, like ongoing therapy, or bandaged resolutions, like medication, but in the end, a person was built with a balance in mind, of good and evil, of love and hate, of joy and suffering. What he had finally realized was that they were the same, a person’s happiness and sadness, one feeding the other and vice versa. Without one, the other couldn’t exist. The source of either wasn’t as important as finding the balance between them or finding the humanity in both, so that the spirit inside could be kept in the light alongside the coolness of the darker shade. There was destiny in the spirit, a need for it to root itself in the soul of a person. The spirit was the

bridge, the connection between a creator and his creation. It was beginning to make emotional sense, except for one variable—Tobias. Why Tobias? “Do you mind if I hypnotize you for the last time, Ryan?” “Yes. Are you going to make me do funny things like they do on TV?” “If you like, but then they might put me in jail.” Ryan giggled before closing his eyes and lying back. Oscar surveyed the room to find an older patient sleeping in the fetal position, a monitor recording his breaths. He looked cold from across the room, so Oscar went over to cover him with a blanket. The man’s skin was grey and placid on his bones. His breaths were raspy in a snore. Oscar repeated the suggestive phrase to Ryan numerous times, and he could see Ryan relaxing in his trust. Nathan Corso’s spirit surfaced in the echo of his voice. “Thank you,” were his first words. “For what?” “For your forgiveness.” “How do you know I have forgiven you?” “Because I was given my chance.” “By whom.” “By my son.” “How do you know that?” “Your pity for me pushed the dark void within him, and within you. All of the hate you felt for me before you knew me, was rooted deep in you. It was like a weed that disguised itself among flowers, with bright blossoms. It was stealing the water from your ability to love again, to find peace in the act of forgiveness.”

“How did I achieve it?” “You can’t achieve forgiveness, doctor. It is there, within you. You simply found it before it was buried for good.” “But I don’t feel like I have. Shouldn’t I feel uplifted or renewed with joy? I don’t understand why the invasion in Nathan targeted my son.” “To get you to this point of saving forgiveness. True forgiveness plants joy in others. You are balanced enough to discover new joys, new sorrows. Most of all, you will find love in both now, and your spirit will shine.” “But what about Tobias? You found your son, and you will abide in him. He can feel the reunion now. Why was mine sacrificed?” “Open your eyes and you will see yours soon enough. He is alive and well.” “Where, do you know where he is?” A contorted smile stretched Ryan’s face, downwards instead of upwards. “He was just here.” Oscar glanced behind him only to see an empty, gleaming hallway and a nurse taking notes at the nurse’s station. There was no one in the room but the old man lying in the bed across from Ryan. “Not him. No worries, you will see him again.” The beeping sound of the breathing machine across from Ryan increased in volume and intensity. “What is happening?” “Something you’ve already witnessed.” “What is that?” “The first step to reincarnation.” Nurses rushed in with a doctor barking directions. The old man froze static in the

fetal position, while his heart raced for a finish line. His body was preparing itself to die.

Chapter 33

Oscar checked his messages in the hallway to find that Lauren had gone to feed Siggy on her day off. She also mentioned in her message that they needed to talk. At the thought of relating his feelings for her, Oscar became nervous. When the elevator door opened, Frank Risi stood there, sharp and clean, with a clipboard in hand, waiting to descend. “Hello again.” “Doctor Predest.” They waited, side by side, their backs to the wall, for the elevator doors to meet at the center. “Ryan has taken a liking to you. Will you be visiting more often?” Oscar asked. “Of course. As his doctor, will you recommend him to us? We offer many programs for children in distress. I think he will make a lot of friends.” Oscar noticed the wedding band on his finger. “Are you married?” “Yes, I am.” “Any children?” “Yes, one, sir. A girl.” “Congratulations, how old?” “Almost one year.” “Are you planning to have more?”

“As many as my wife will let me. I love kids. How about you, doctor?” The elevator stopped, the doors opened, but no one entered. “I had a son, but he ed away.” “So sorry to hear that.” “Thank you.” There was an awkward silence before Frank changed the subject. “Do you mind if I ask you a question, doctor?” “No, please do.” “I was thinking of going back to school while working part-time at the children’s center. I want to become a therapist, like you. I really think I can help so many more kids.” When the elevator reached ground level, Oscar found himself walking in the same direction as Frank. He would have to the attached children’s center to get to his car in the parking lot. “Would you like to come by, one day, and we can talk about it?” “That would be excellent, Doctor Predest.” “How about tomorrow? Afternoon?” “Are you sure?” “Yes, Frank. This is a good day.” Frank extended his hand and Oscar shook it. He removed his wallet and found an old card, on which he wrote his current address. He offered it to Frank. “I am going to start working again, out of my house.” “You were retired?” “Yes, but not anymore.”

A wide grin stretched across Frank’s face. “Have we met before, Doctor Predest? I feel like we might have crossed paths, or patients, sometime in the past.” “I’m afraid not.” “Okay. It was a pleasure seeing you again and I hope you don’t mind, but I have many questions.” “We’ll listen to them over a couple of beers.” “Sounds good.” As Oscar left the hospital, a fresh breath of evening air made him desire sleep. He was tired and needed to rest, but he was also rejuvenated by the day’s events. He wasn’t afraid for Ryan anymore. Ryan would be all right, with or without his counsel. His father would take care of him from this point forward. There was no need to fear an invasion of the void. He felt confident that Theresa’s prayers were finally answered and personified in the reunion of her family. On the drive home, Oscar decided to call Lauren to see if she was still at his house. She answered, making him more anxious to talk to her in person. He had neglected his feelings for her during his quest to find forgiveness for his son’s killer, but now it was time to find balance in his own life. She had always kept him and his sanity in check over the past few years. He could have hurt himself or lost himself in his own darkness, but she had intervened to provide him with new hope, or the possibility of a more positive scenario. He had leaned on her during those tough moments without ever once considering her own feelings or past demons. When she opened up to him about her father, he felt a new connection to her that had frightened him. The possibility of her feeling the same about him. When Oscar arrived home, Lauren waited for him by the drawbridge, with Siggy by her side. The air was crisp and the water in the brook thin and fast-moving. “Have you been waiting long?”

“Yes.” “Sorry. Ryan is better now.” “I’m sure he is. I never doubted you.” “How are you? This has been a crazy time, hasn’t it?” “Yes. Siggy missed you terribly.” “I know. He must have thought I abandoned him.” “I kept a close eye on him. I showed him pictures and let him smell your clothes, just to make sure he would recognize you when you came home.” “Listen, Lauren. I want to say so much to you, but I’m having problems starting it the right way.” “Then start it the wrong way.” Oscar approached her and she embraced him. He had missed the feeling of a true embrace, the type that held you tight, the type that implied dependency, the type that connected two people who were once prone to running away. He rested in the embrace, in the scent of her hair, in the feeling of her soft skin on his cheek. She brought her hand up to his head and pressed it onto her shoulder. In that instant, his mind silenced, no thoughts, no analysis, and no interpretation. Just rest. Just assurance. Just quiet. And then her radio signaled a distorted voice through her car window. They were calling her to duty. They were calling her to an emergency. She separated herself from him, but the air remained warm and fragrant between them. “I have to answer that.” “Go right ahead.” She left him alone with Siggy. Oscar dropped to his knees to scratch him before Lauren interrupted.

“There is a hostage situation.” “Where?” “At the Inn where Father Bosco is staying.” Oscar grabbed Siggy’s leash, and they both hopped into Lauren’s car.

Chapter 34

The same innkeeper stuttered as he described the details to Lauren and a host of other detectives. Police cars surrounded Father Bosco’s room in a semi-circle, their guns pointed at the faded number six on the door. An orange glow of light outlined the drapes from the inside. A parade of squads entered the scene lending further light to the area. Lauren advised the innkeeper to slow down. “There was noise again.” “Noise, what type of noise?” “Screaming. A lot of screaming, like someone was being beaten to death. I could hear voices too, many different voices.” The Innkeeper was a tall lanky man with a long neck and distinct patches of facial hair. His fingers were long and skeletal, and he flapped them like wings. “So, what did you do?” “I tried to call his room, but no one answered.” “Was there anyone else staying at the Inn over the past couple of days?” “He’s been our only customer in the past couple of days.” “Describe to me what you heard again.” “There was a lot of screaming.” “Like an argument.” “No, like a fight or a torture.” “A torture?” Oscar thought out loud. The detectives encircling the Innkeeper disapproved with “do not interfere” reactions.

“I heard screaming, and snapping, like broken bones.” “Broken bones?” “Yeah. Loud snapping.” “Did anyone leave before you called us?” “I went to the door and threatened to call the police. I heard laughing and more screaming. No one answered the door.” “Did you hear Father Bosco’s voice?” “Just pain. All I heard was pain.” “So, you’re sure no one left the room.” “I’ve been watching and listening from here. There are no windows at the back of the building. Only in the front.” Lauren turned to confront the first police officers on the scene. They stood before her, confounded. “What did you see or hear when you first arrived?” “Screaming. Lots of screaming. We knocked on the door and we threatened to break it open, but someone cried ‘No, please don’t.’ We believe it was the victim, detective. So, we called in backup.” “When did the screaming subside?” “About ten minutes ago, just before you arrived.” “Are you sure you didn’t see someone enter or leave?” she asked the Innkeeper. “I’m not sure who went in. They didn’t check-in and I told the priest all of his visitors needed to check in before visiting him.” “Can you get us keys to the ading rooms, please?” Lauren removed her gun from its holster and reloaded it with a cartridge. The

other detectives followed suit. A police officer escorted the Innkeeper to his office. They returned with the keys shaking in his hands. His eyes, Oscar noticed, were lined with burst blood vessels. Oscar pulled Lauren aside. “What are you doing?” “We’re going to investigate the rooms on either side. Maybe there is a point of entry from above, where we can hear something.” “The screaming has stopped. Do you think he is . . .” “I don’t know, Oscar. Listen, I have to go in. Don’t think the worst.” As Lauren and the other detectives crept up to the room with guns pointed, another car pulled into the lot. Another man in uniform, the bishop of the diocese. “Where is Father Bosco?” he demanded of the first police officer in his direct line of vision. Oscar intercepted his path, pulling him aside. He would make enough noise to disrupt the surreptitious approach of the detectives creeping closer to the Inn. “Your Excellency, please. I can answer any questions you may have. My name is Doctor Predest.” “You are Doctor Predest?” “Yes, I am.” “Father Bosco spoke highly of you. What is happening here?” “We don’t know yet, Your Excellency. Screaming and noise was coming from his room, from multiple voices. That’s about all we know right now.” “Excuse me,” the bishop sidestepped to an open, private area. He pulled out a cellular phone and made a call. Oscar returned his attention to the spotlighted scene. Two detectives had ventured into one room, the other two, including Lauren, in another. They

tiptoed in and without donning any additional light. After a brief reconnaissance, they returned as if the threat had been quelled. “We didn’t hear anything, and there is no escape route at the back.” “Same with us,” the other two detectives confirmed. Lauren led the charge from there, grasping the megaphone from the decaled hood of a police car. “Please come out of the room with your hands up. This is your first warning.” No movement from within, not even in the drapes. They hung still, and the light burned a solid, orange glow – no flickering or shadowed flashes spotting its consistency. “This is your second warning. The building is surrounded. Surrender with your hands up.” Once again, no movement. No sound, no screaming. Lauren handed the megaphone over to another police officer before arranging the point of entry. Several men held a massive truncheon in preparation for breaking the door open. They were waved on by another detective. The bishop was off the phone by now, stepping up to where Oscar now stood. The police officers broke the door open but paused at the entranceway. Lauren summoned the paramedics from the ambulance. Oscar broke the line despite being held back. So did the bishop. When he reached the doorway, the bloodied body of Father Bosco lied supine on the bed – the walls, ceiling, broken mirror, and carpet stained with the same crimson color.

When Oscar arrived at the hospital, he felt as if he had never left. Lauren had taken the ambulance ride in with Father Bosco, while a procession of squad cars led the ambulance like a funeral line. Two of the detectives remained behind at the crime scene to keep it isolated, and to extract prints. From what he learned overhearing the initial analysis, there was no forced entry,

no weapons left behind, and no physical evidence at the scene of the crime. As Oscar walked the long hallway, and past the Burn Trauma unit, he couldn’t shake the sight of Father Bosco’s blood on the ceiling. What type of pounding would have sprayed his blood to that height, and how painful must it have been? Two crowds of uniformed officials assembled in opposing physical distance from each other before the glass window. Lauren listened in on the conversation in one, while the bishop centered the other with his own clergymen. It resembled two squads in a timeout, planning different strategies in opposition. Beyond them, another group in hustling green surrounded the care area of Father Bosco. Oscar couldn’t see him through the wall of doctors and considered himself an outcast to each group. Lauren left her circle first to approach him. She took his arm and pulled him aside. “So far, we have nothing. No leads, no witnesses, not even tread marks from a vehicle in the parking lot. Whoever did this to Father Bosco must have gone off on foot or flown away.” “Flown away?” “I was just kidding. There was no record or sighting of any aircraft.” “What did he look like, Lauren?” “Bludgeoned. He was dead. The paramedics brought him to life in the ambulance, but he is in critical condition, Oscar. Who would do such a thing to such a saintly man?” “What did you say?” “Who would do such a thing?” “No, you said to ‘a saintly’ man, didn’t you?” “Yes, why?” Oscar removed his cell phone from his pocket and punched in a search – a name. “What are you doing, Oscar?”

“In one of our conversations, Father Bosco mentioned a saintly man, by the name of Padre Pio.” “I’m familiar with him?” “You are, how?” “My mother is Italian. If you walk into any Italian household, you will find a picture of Jesus, a picture of the world cup champion Italian soccer team, and a picture of Padre Pio – the stigmatic.” While Oscar listened to Lauren, he read article after article about Padre Pio. “What are you hoping to find?” “I treated some patients in the past who would hurt themselves, cut themselves, even torture themselves because they believed it would bring them closer to the sufferings of Christ; it would make them more Christ-like.” “Are you suggesting Father Bosco did this to himself? Why? Why would someone want to self-harm this badly? This isn’t trying to be like Christ. He was dead, Oscar. Are you suggesting he tried to commit suicide?” “No, I don’t think Father Bosco would do that.” “He could have done it any other way, Oscar. That theory doesn’t explain the other voices heard by Innkeeper. Father Bosco wasn’t in that room alone.” “Here—this is what I was looking for. And this isn’t the first time a saintly man has been witnessed to experience the phenomenon.” He enlarged the age so that she could read it. The article documented an incident about the stigmatic, Padre Pio, before he was canonized. A firsthand from a friar who lived in the ading cell. He spoke of voices from Padre Pio’s cell, and the exposition of fresh wounds the next day. He claimed that spirits were torturing the stigmatic, tempting him, physically beating him enough to show tangible evidence. “The scars on his head, his neck. I wasn’t sure what to make of them at first. I was so distracted by Ryan and finding Nathan that I brushed off what might have

been happening to Father Bosco at that Inn. I surprised him one day with a visit. His room was a disaster, a complete mess. The mirror was cracked, the furniture had been moved. I didn’t see any evidence of blood, but Father Bosco appeared rattled, weakened, and not like the strong exorcist I first met at the farm.” “Are you suggesting Father Bosco was being tortured by ‘spirits?’ Why?” “I’m not sure, but I noticed no scars when I first met him. They seemed to manifest, oh no.” “What, Oscar?” “They surfaced around the same time I learned the secret, about the reincarnated spirit. You’ve got to let me see him.” “No one is seeing Father Bosco until the consulate arrives,” interrupted the bishop. “A special envoy from the Vatican is on its way to investigate this matter further. Detective, may I have a word with you?” The bishop pulled Lauren away from Oscar so that he could speak to her alone. His gestures were strong and commanding and Lauren’s were subtle and meek. By the end of the conversation, he returned to his clergymen with an air of success, his posture straightened. Lauren returned to Oscar with her head bowed, and an invisible tail between her legs. “What was that all about?” “He said this is a church matter first before a criminal investigation. He wants everything veiled for the protection of Father Bosco and his secret identity as an exorcist. He received a direct order from the Pope himself, whose advisory cardinal is on a plane as we speak, with another specialist.” “Another specialist? What about my theory, Lauren? If it is a spirit, or spirits attacking him, invading him, like they once did Mother Theresa, I can help.” Lauren scanned the area to see the bishop preaching to her boss. The Chief of Police nodded obediently, the force of the lecture nearly blowing his hair back. From another secret entrance, as if perfectly timed for a plotted dramatic effect, a group of others in navy blue with visible FBI identifications stomped in their direction.

Lauren paused to absorb the influx of more characters in this impromptu one-act play, before speaking under her lips like a ventriloquist. “Is it possible to hypnotize everyone this time?”

Chapter 35

Oscar escaped to his home alone. Lauren was too entrenched in the melee at the hospital to sneak out. Since she was one of the first on the scene, she was interviewed by an FBI agent with a handheld recorder and a notepad. They interviewed the bishop and Oscar assumed they would come looking for him sooner or later. There was no way to withhold information about the attempted exorcism. The bishop requested that a specialist from the Vatican perform the service. Once this information surfaced, the FBI would scrutinize every detail, profiling everyone involved, including Ryan and Theresa. Oscar’s name would be cross-referenced, and they would be knocking at his cabin door. Siggy was playful as Oscar ventured into his basement to scavenge case files. He wanted to review the Aidan Jude file again. Although he ed it as a special case, he questioned details otherwise left without interpretation that could lead to new discoveries related to Father Bosco’s current condition. He found the red folder disguised as an insert in another manila file. He had tried to hide it just in case someone had subpoenaed the file. He had thought about destroying it but couldn’t will himself to obliterate the controversial theory. It breathed a life of its own and almost begged immunity from destruction in place of eternal incarceration in his basement. After re-reading it, Oscar deduced from his notes that he was far more paranoid at this juncture of his career, and life. His voice, embedded astutely in the notes themselves, depicted a cynical therapist. From this objective distance in the future, he read into his past ambitions to perfect the learned process of psychological analysis with animosity. He hadn’t practiced since Tobias’ disappearance and the time spent away from his career offered mental relief to that rigid, but meticulous observer. Like a master in palimpsest, he pursued every layer with no restraint. And once immersed in a challenging case study, he would soon forget any other dreams or aspirations. His work invaded him. It transformed how he identified himself; as a doctor, as a father, as a human being.

In the Aidan Jude case file, Oscar reviewed the notes from the first day he listened to the foreign voice speaking from within his patient. This spirit was a desperate one, he ed, a fearful one. Nathan Corso’s spirit displayed fear at the beginning. And like Nathan, the spirit inside Aidan Jude cited the desperate need to escape, to find solace in a hiding place. Like Nathan Corso’s spirit, it had found an opportunity to flee into the body of a young boy named Aidan Jude, who teetered on the brink of death himself. “But where did this fear seed itself?” Oscar asked aloud. If the spirit had managed to escape death, what was it running from, or who was it running from? This “invasion?” When Oscar made mention of the prospect of Hell to Nathan Corso, he laughed, replacing the personification of this end with the philosophical notion of “nothing.” Were these invasive spirits concerned about complete vaporization of good, a reduction to air with no trace of genuine identity? Or was there something more at the core of this fear? The Aidan Jude file held fewer clues than his actual conversation with Nathan Corso’s spirit. Why did he insist on Oscar’s forgiveness? What was it in his forgiveness that would give him the security he could stay in young Ryan’s body? Was there a code Oscar missed in his analysis or was there much to learn about this alien world in between worlds? This “darkness” Nathan alluded to, the one that occupied the void and invited the invasion of evil spirits, possessed growth capabilities large enough to overcome the hope or will to live. Was the coup simply fed by desperate emptiness? Or was there a conflict evolving by the orchestration of some other form for which he was ignorant? Siggy hopped around the boxes, excited by Oscar’s presence in the house. Oscar had neglected him over the past couple of weeks. He worried the initial bond formed with the dog would be broken. He would have to re-establish new trust with the dog. Siggy maneuvered in between boxes but stopped. His tail straightened. He proceeded to bark at an open space. Oscar tried to call him back and pulled him by his collar, but the dog insisted on eyeing the empty space, strong in his stance. He barked at a dark corner, not a window. “Is anyone there?” Oscar asked.

“See boy, there is no one there. Let’s go upstairs and get you a treat. Good dog.” The dog refused to move. The bark internalized to a growl before Siggy came to his senses and resumed his joyful prancing about. Before he flicked the light, Oscar scanned his basement once more. It was silent in its humid coolness. Taking the file upstairs with him, Oscar read it over and over again trying to find any indication of something outside the evident spirit possession. He fell asleep on his bed. The last image he ed was Siggy standing in the upright position again. “Come on up, boy,” he begged with a groggy voice before fading away. He woke up to find Siggy standing in the same spot, like a statue, with his eyes sharp, the soft layer of whiskered skin around his teeth quivering. It was a sunny day and the light beamed in from the East window. Despite light in his eyes, Siggy remained concentrated on an empty corner in the room, and not on the transparent window. “Siggy, let’s go down and get some breakfast?” But the dog refused to obey. To test him, Oscar walked into the area the dog locked his eyes upon. The dog ran ahead of him and barked at the corner, with violent lunges. He wouldn’t stop or obey commands, and the energy of the exercise faded on its own a short time later. He followed Oscar downstairs without any resistance. Siggy ate his breakfast with starving fury. He panted with crying sighs at the door to signal the need to do his business. Oscar followed him outside. He needed to gain some perspective on Father Bosco, so he decided to make busy with a project he had abandoned in his woodshop. Siggy followed him there as if to apprentice. An unfinished canoe emerged from the dusty, dormant darkness of the woodshop. Oscar had hollowed out a fallen oak tree leaving the inside in need of deeper planing and a coat of sealant. It was supposed to be a surprise for Tobias when he returned home. Tobias had loved to watch him in the woodshop, although Oscar afforded little time there because of his career work.

On occasion, he did escape to the woodshop, and Tobias aid him with the retrieval of tools. Oscar dressed him up like his assistant, let him wear safety goggles and an apron. Tobias loved contributing to the tasks of painting, or sealing, or gluing. He was much more hands-on than Oscar about their wood projects. He carried an intense ion to make something out of nothing. Siggy raced outside the woodshop and the barking tantrums resumed. Not about to chase him again for a false alarm, Oscar continued to plane the inside of the canoe until he heard a voice break the monotony of the dog’s warning. “Please. Please.” Oscar strolled out of the woodshop to see Frank Risi at one end of the draw bridge with his hands up. Siggy barked from the home side. “Siggy, back!” Siggy retreated to resume a seated position by his side, like an obedient guard dog. Why had he refused the same command the night before? “Sorry, Doctor Predest. You don’t have a phone or intercom at the gates so I thought I would just walk in. The fence wasn’t locked.” “What are you doing here, Frank?” “You asked me to come by today, ? In the elevator?” “Oh yeah, I’m sorry. You wanted to talk about becoming a psychiatrist.” “Yes, but I can see you’re busy.” He pointed to the wood plane in Oscar’s hand. “What are you building?” “A canoe.” “I love canoeing. My parents are Canadian, I mean, I’m originally Canadian. We spent the summer months at a cottage canoeing down creeks and rivers.” “Really?” “Yeah. Can I see it, or help?”

“Well, I didn’t ask you to drop by to work and I feel bad taking advantage of the extra hands.” “Are you kidding me?” he rolled up his sleeves and crossed the drawbridge. “This is quite a place you got here, doctor. Reminds me of the cottage back home.” Oscar watched Frank Risi climb the hill with big awkward steps. He wore rugged hiking shoes, all-purpose, and he wondered at the surroundings like a child on a hike. When he reached Oscar, he offered his hand again in a strong shake. “What can I help you with, the plane? Got another one? We can hollow out that canoe in no time.” “Yes, I do.” Frank walked past him and into the woodshop like an inspector of the work environment. Oscar followed him in to watch Frank adjusting the plane. “This is a nice one, Doctor. We’ll make it nice and smooth too.” With long, smooth strokes, Frank worked the plane like a real carpenter, while Oscar replicated the same effort on the opposite side. They shaved away the wood, the soft shards of it creating coverage on the ground. As they worked, Frank posed several questions about Oscar’s profession. “How did you know you wanted to help children, Doctor?” “Please, call me Oscar. People haven’t called me doctor for a while, and I’ve gotten used to the informality.” “Sorry, Oscar. It feels strange, though, calling you by your first name.” “Why is that?” “Don’t know. My Dad got angry with me once for calling him by his first name. He said it made him feel less related.” Oscar laughed. “Well, when I was much younger, I decided it was an area of

interest that excited me, intellectually. As a kid, I was always trying to figure things out. I loved puzzles, growing up. My grandfather did them with me because my dad was always working, trying to pay for my education. He was a carpenter emigrated from Austria. He was a good teacher too, but his work forced him away framing houses or completing finishes after work for extra cash. “My mother raised me, and my grandfather. I never had any siblings, and I wasn’t good with other kids in the neighborhood. We were different. We weren’t American and my father refused to let go of his citizenship. It made us outsiders, but I was one by nature. I would watch the kids in the playground from our apartment window and try to figure out what they were thinking, what they were feeling. I would imagine scenarios in their lives, conflicts that I could help them with, like a mind-reading superhero. “So, I suppose it started there. I wanted to help kids like myself, who were outsiders. All I is wanting to do it so badly. My father was happy. For an immigrant family a doctor is a superhero, although he was disappointed I wasn’t the ‘real’ doctor who could diagnose ailments and cure his cancer.” “Sorry to hear that.” “It’s okay. He had a little workshop like this in his basement. Many of these tools are his. After he died, I decided to keep all of it in storage, and then one day, I arranged them in here. Whenever I heard cutting, or the drill starting in the basement, no matter at what late hour, I rushed downstairs to my father. “He yelled for me to go up and sleep so that I wouldn’t be tired at school, but I knew he wanted me to stay. He would build furniture for people, immigrants like him who had no money to buy from the real stores. Sometimes I knew he would give them away for free. I spited him for spending his free time without me, for other people, which is why I think he let me help him. “Most nights, I worked in my pajamas, retrieving tools for him. When he let me do something, I was ecstatic for his trust. And I think that’s the most important character quality for anyone entering this profession, Frank. Trust. Your patients need to feel an innate trust in you, for you to help them. They should feel it before you say a single word to them.” Frank stopped working to listen. On his face, Oscar could read appreciation for

the advice. “What school did you attend?” “I earned a scholarship to Cornell. I Mastered at Harvard.” “Wow. I’m not sure I can make that grade, Doctor, I mean, Oscar. I’ve never been at the top of the class for anything.” Frank resumed his scraping of the canoe’s edge. He took great pride in the long strips. He had done this before, but he wasn’t in a hurry to finish his side. He was enjoying the work, paying attention to the consistency of every skim. “You don’t have to be at the top of your class, Frank. The study, I’ve learned, is not as important as the rapport you develop with a patient. I could see that instantly in you, with Ryan. He trusted you from the start and he’s been through some rough stuff.” “Thanks. I love the social part of the job. My parents used to say I was more concerned with making sure I said hello to everyone in a room rather than introducing myself to the most important people waiting for me. I don’t know, I find more to learn in real conversations, you know what I mean?” “Yes, I do.” “Did you enjoy the work? Did you find satisfaction in it?” “Of course. It’s challenging work and every case is different. My mistake was objectifying the patients. I was getting caught up in the symptoms, and what puzzle they were revealing, and chasing one formula to apply to all patients. Heck, I went as far as trying to invent one. It took my retirement to show me that each patient deserves a custom ear.” “Do you mind – and if you think this is too forward of me, please say no – if I drop in from time to time? I’m not sure if it is this place or your forthright advice, but I feel like I’m back home in Canada. And I can be a good carpenter’s assistant too if you haven’t noticed.” Oscar stopped. Frank Risi had carved a new discovery for him, outside of the gaping hole of the canoe, and above the wood innards blooming from the floor. Frank Risi dusted off his hands and Oscar focused on the scars on his wrists. “When did you try?”

“What, these? Almost two years ago now.” “Why?” “Is this free therapy, doctor? Because I’m too proud to accept charity?” “No. I just wanted to know.” “It never gets easy to explain. I was such a popular kid when I was younger, but this one feeling within me wouldn’t let go. It’s hard to describe because I haven’t felt it since, you know? But I was lost within myself. I grew sick of everything that was me. I started to hear the echo of my own voice, while I was talking, and I hated the sound of it. When I did something good for someone, I blamed myself for doing it for the wrong reasons. “I couldn’t fall in love with anything or anyone. I couldn’t do well in school, even though I wanted to. My parents were great about it. It’s probably why they stole me up north. They blamed it on the city. They said old souls find it hard to survive in new prisons. Man, if someone looked my way, I thought they were talking about me. I hate to think how anyone can deal with that paranoia as a young adolescent, which is why I want to do what you do. You save kids from themselves, and myself was my greatest enemy.” “Do you have a history of it in your family?” “Yes. My parents kept it hidden from me, but my grandfather committed suicide. I had always been told he had died in his sleep. They were trying to protect me by keeping it a secret. But they could do nothing to protect me from myself. Only I could protect me, even though I lost a battle on that front.” “What changed you, after?” “I woke up alive. I think that was it, rejuvenated. It was a feeling I have difficulty describing to some people. It was as if some dormant, second heart recharged me. Like I had hit one end of the spectrum at such a high speed, only to bounce back in the opposite direction.” Oscar believed in Nathan Corso’s spirit, what it alluded to in their last conversation about his Tobias. How he would reappear when he least suspected. But he needed to test this insane probability. No analysis, no hypnosis, and no

symptoms to scrutinize. Just a spiritual connection, relative, faithful – possible. “Do you want to go for a walk? I’ll show you the property.” Frank dropped the plane into the hole of the canoe, and so did Oscar. Oscar led him around the house first, showing him the forested area that rose over hills to a river into which his creek funneled. Frank expressed interest, nodding after every description, as if desirous of understanding the land for an alternative agenda, like a traveler studying a map before an adventure. Unlike most of Oscar’s visitors, Frank wasn’t impressed by the magnitude of the isolation. He never questioned the obvious theme of privacy. He saw education in the grounds and logic in its setup. The last stop was the garden by the fallen tree. It was where Oscar buried Tobias, although no designation of a grave marked the area replete with flowers. Oscar watched Frank as he walked by the garden, about to lose faith in this spiritual hunch, when Frank stopped. Oscar observed him in this stoic position. Frank stood on the grave of Tobias without knowing that a young boy was buried beneath him. He knelt and palmed a flower. “This is nice, what you’ve done here.” Oscar made his way over to him. He wanted to say something as ridiculous in its insinuation as it was redemptive in its suggestion. Except, he didn’t want to scare Frank with an absurd notion. Opting to let this private revelation find its own time and place, Oscar led Frank to his car at the edge of his property. Before he left, Frank extended his hand out for a handshake. Oscar pulled him in for an embrace. When Frank separated from the hug, Oscar worried it was too strong a parting greeting to share with a new friend. But as the car pulled out of sight amidst the foliage of trees, Oscar believed he had no other choice but to hug the man who might have been harboring the spirit of his only son.

Chapter 36

Although he was tired enough from the day’s work to sleep, Oscar couldn’t keep his thoughts from circling Father Bosco’s situation. So, he spent most of the evening researching the lives of the saints. In each scenario, from the very young St. Aloysius of Gonzaga to the old Pius X, Oscar deduced a common motif – suffering. Each of these saints, despite their allegiance to God, their zealous fervor for his scripture, and their rather impeccable lifestyles, led tragic lives, which led to tragic deaths. He read a tiny adage from Napoleon Bonaparte, from his days of exile. Napoleon had written that there must have been a God if so many people—after Jesus was crucified— had sacrificed their own lives to follow his way. Oscar was no stranger to this information. As a young child, his teachers forced him to study the Lives of the Saints to better contextualize his tour through the sacraments. It was a type of training devised to breed future clergymen or secular advocates. Immature in his younger catechism days, he was prone to skimming over the parts that revealed self-inflicted pain or torture as a means to get closer to God. Why would God require this masochistic display of affection? It didn’t make sense. A parent did everything in his or her power to protect a child from suffering, not set the stage for it. Yet, in each parable styled, Lives of the Saints story, the saintly figure voluntarily assumed the suffering, like it was part of the job description. Although, in a few unique cases, some saints endured it against their will. Not every saint laughed while they were being torched at the stake or begged for more torture before they were put to death by spiked chariot wheels. Such conditions were clinically explainable as psychotic delusions, but a common thread line of ion and faith distinguished the act from one of madness. Siggy lay beside him and partially over his foot. It had been a strange day, marked by the company of Frank Risi. Oscar felt a real connection with this

young man. Or was he deluding himself in this grieving period, marred by numerous distractions? He needed time to mourn his son and yet, he couldn’t convince himself that his son had died. Yes, he had buried his body outside in the garden, but his new education created a suspension his disbelief. If anything, it allowed him to imagine new worlds of existence, worlds where his son’s spirit was better served in the body of a good man, with a wife and child. His curiosity to confirm this hypothetical existence by hypnotizing Frank had crossed his mind. Frank stopping at the grave to observe a similar connection only affirmed Oscar’s clandestine test. Like Nathan Corso, had his son gone on to live in another body not his own? By virtue of the process of reincarnation? Oscar was sure he and Frank would become good friends one day. Perhaps he would confess these hunches to him in private or keep them secret for his own wellbeing and safety. There were definitely consequences for this knowledge, Oscar thought, or else Father Bosco would be sitting across from him, sharing a tea and the joy that Oscar had found the spirit of Tobias in a man who worked at the hospital. Instead, Father Bosco was locked away in the ICU unit, guarded by the police, investigated by the FBI, and hidden by his own troop of clergymen overruled by Vatican officials. Oscar was impatient to see him. He would have to stay low until an opportunity presented itself. The security lights outside shone again in patches indicating a visitor. Siggy stood to attention, but he withheld his bark. He recognized the visitor before seeing her. As Lauren crossed the drawbridge, Oscar checked his watch to realize the late hour at night. It must have been important for her to visit in person before calling. Oscar was happy to see her. She was carrying her police bag and she walked with a determined but consistent gait. He opened the door before she arrived at his covered porch. “How is Father Bosco?” “The same, I’m afraid.” She stepped in and he closed the door behind her. Siggy approached her begging

for affection. She made her way to the table. Oscar started some tea before meeting her there. “You need to see him,” she began. “I know. Have they allowed visitors yet?” “They will never allow visitors, that’s for sure. They have him guarded like the Pope.” “Then how can I see him? We can’t steal him away. Is he still in critical condition?” “Yes, and far worse than he was when we brought him there. He has flat-lined a few times. It was a struggle to revive him. It was as if someone or something is fighting against it.” “What are the Vatican officials saying?” “They are keeping watch and silent. They have their own doctors who have tested him and another exorcist on the way. They don’t share any information with us.” “Who is this exorcist?” “I don’t know, but they are preparing their own treatment. They believe he is possessed, but I’m not overly sure if that is the case. He has physical wounds beyond the scope of self-infliction. It was as if a gang of people had beaten him up.” “I’ve been doing some research. There are a few saints who were visited by evil spirits. These demons inflicted torture requested by the saintly figure himself. Nathan Corso’s spirit spoke of a balance, challenged by a personal emptiness, and threatened by an invasion. Father Bosco was concerned about the consequences of what we were learning. Lauren, do you think he is suffering because of me? Because of my curiosity?” Oscar rose from the table to run a hand through his hair. Lauren followed behind, unzipping the bag she carried in with her. “Don’t blame

yourself, Oscar. He realized what was happening before we did. There is something at work here beyond what our imaginations can conceive. All I know is you need to see him before they attempt the exorcism.” “Do you know when they are planning it?” “No, but I assume when the FBI is no longer around.” “When will that be?” “When they finish their investigation. You have three groups of people trying to solve the same enigma, but no one is consulting the other, or trusting the other for that matter. The tension is thick and there is pressure upon all groups involved.” “So, you’re saying that the groups are going to disperse and report to their superiors soon.” “Exactly, and I’m assuming it’s going to be the FBI first. Now that the Vatican is on the scene, they will dismiss the matter as a religious one. Our department may also retreat, especially if they see evidence of survival. Right now, he is comatose and showing no signs of waking up soon.” “So, when the FBI leaves and the local authorities retreat, that still leaves the Vatican officials to in order to get to Father Bosco.” Lauren dug into the bag strapped over her shoulder. “Which is why I stole you one of these.” She removed an FBI jacket from her bag. “Where did you get that?” “FBI sleep on the job too, you know.” “But the Bishop and some of the doctors will recognize me, not to mention the nurses.” “With darker hair?” Lauren pulled a wig and glasses from the bag. “The Vatican officials lay off when the FBI are in the ICU unit, and vice versa.” “How will we know when the FBI plan to leave the hospital?”

“I have an officer on duty who will inform me before it happens, but I don’t expect it until later tomorrow.” Oscar took the jacket and tried it on. “It’s my size.” “That’s just a coincidence—or heavenly intervention.” Oscar took a seat at the table. He wanted to tell her about his supernatural hunch. He wanted to discuss the connection he felt when Frank came to visit, but he was afraid she would judge him a crazy widowed father unprepared to let go of his deceased son. “What is it, Oscar?” “When Tobias went missing, I thought I could never be the same again. I would watch the news and I couldn’t feel pity for anyone, not even those who were suffering more loss than I was. It worried me, but it also protected me from hurting myself beyond healing. After this experience with Ryan and Theresa and now, Father Bosco, the ability to feel vulnerable is kind of frightening.” Lauren leaned closer to him across the table, interested. “You don’t have to say anything, Oscar. I understand. I felt the same way after my father died. I made myself incapable to feel. It made me a better cop, but not a better human being. “I stole an FBI jacket. That’s not me. But my heart broke when I watched Father Bosco struggling for his life. He opened my heart to the possibility of exposing those same, vulnerable feelings I locked away. Even at the risk of falling in love with you.” “I’m afraid I’m not fully healed, Lauren, and I don’t want to hurt you with my own pain.” “I’m not afraid to hurt anymore. I said it first, .” Oscar slid his hand over the table. They were friends and venturing into each other’s unknown. Despite all the emotional baggage, this connection created dimensions that renewed his romantic interest in her. “Was Ryan released from the hospital?”

“Yes. I saw Theresa outside enjoying the sunlight. I could have sworn she was smoking a cigarette!” “We need to see them first.” “Why?” “I have to speak to the spirit before we return to the hospital.” “Why Oscar? What are you thinking?” “That Father Bosco is sacrificing himself, like a sin eater, to preserve the balance. To protect all of us.” Although early in the morning, Oscar was anxious to jump on this new lead. Hurried herself, Lauren filled Siggy’s dish with food and replaced his water. A new, warm feeling overcame Oscar as he waited for her. She belonged with him.

Chapter 37

Oscar and Lauren arrived at the farmhouse before dawn. Not wanting to scare Theresa or Ryan, they waited in the car, parked in the driveway. The night lightened to purple in these parts and the stars dangled lower and brighter. “When did you say the FBI would leave?” “I’m thinking around noon. My guy texted to confirm their investigation is finished, for now. It’s funny how we still have that inherent distrust between church and state. The FBI have respected the space of the Vatican authorities, who have international immunity, and clearance, but there was this visible tension between them.” “Anything more from their side?” “Nothing, except about the possible exorcism, but I think they are going to wait until he is strong enough to withstand the dispelling.” “So, they think he is possessed.” “What do you think?” “I don’t know anymore. I think there is a marked difference between a possession and an occupation. Nathan wanted to reunite with his son. There was a purpose to his possession, and a clear motive. I don’t see the same motive with Father Bosco, or at least, I don’t see it very clearly. “After reading up last night, I realized that many of these saintly figures were accosted by demons, or evil spirits, to test their resolve. But very rarely, aside from the most recent Padre Pio, did they reveal physical manifestations. In his case, he was accused of doing it to himself and suspended from his priestly duties as they investigated. And he had the visible stigmata wounds to prove otherwise to them! Father Bosco was troubled when I last saw him at the Inn, and afterward when we ate at the diner. He had no appetite, and he wasn’t

himself. He was very troubled.” “Do you think we are dealing with a demon attack, instead of a possession?” “If we are dealing with a spirit attack or invasion, as Nathan’s spirit put it, there is more to the conventions of this afterlife, this society of spirits, which is why I wanted to talk to Nathan Corso’s spirit. Maybe he can give us some insight, from the inside.” Lauren adjusted her seat and leaned back. Her breasts pressed forward against her blouse before relaxing. She was tired. “You can rest. I’ll wait.” “I just want to shut my eyes for a second, Oscar.” “No problem.” Within minutes, she was asleep. Oscar covered her with his jacket but found it difficult as well to stay awake himself. His eyes were heavy and despite his greatest concentration, he had entered a series of dreams. The first surfaced as an episode from his youth. He was searching the hospital for his father’s room. The hallways and rooms were empty, and he feared the hide and seek game would end with the discovery of a dead body. When he entered a room, Tobias was there in conversation with Frank Risi. The talk was jovial. Tobias was grinning wide. He was toothless in this dream, as he was for so long as a baby, due to his slow development. He raised his shirt to reveal a torso without ribs. It took some time for his rib cage to drop as a baby. But his eyes were sharp in this scene and his face was not as round. It was an adult face on an underdeveloped child’s body. The combination was impressive enough to earn a proud smile from Frank. This scene shifted to the appearance of Oscar’s former wife sitting across from him in the diner. She was how he ed her before the birth of Tobias. Her hair was not blond, but auburn, and it was youthful in its curls. She was wearing workout gear, with no makeup. As he listened to her across the booth, she spoke of their son. She was so proud of him for making them proud. She introduced his name to the waitress and raved on about him.

Oscar tried to settle her down. Her lips pouted like she was a little girl who didn’t receive what she was expecting. Oscar assured her that it was all right to talk about their son, and she returned to normal. She went as far as pulling out photos of him from her purse to show the waitress when she returned to the table. The third episode centered on the young Mrs. Corso. She was mixing a cocktail for the older Mrs. Corso at the kitchen sink, while Oscar sat with the elder at the table. When Oscar looked behind him, he could see her slipping poison into the drink. She caught Oscar’s eyes and her evil smirk transformed into a demonic snarl. A knock on the window woke him before he could force himself awake from this nightmare. Theresa appeared behind the glass as an apparition from one of these dreams. Her dress was flower-patterned, revealing the freckled skin of her upper chest and her long, narrow arms. Oscar rolled down the window. “Doctor Predest? What are you doing here?” The question woke Lauren. Disillusioned for a minute, she recovered her senses. “Hi, Theresa. I didn’t recognize you for a second.” “I promised Ryan to burn all of my black clothes. He said there was a reason they invented color television. We had a good laugh about it, but he was right. I figured out that I need to live fully for him to want the same.” “That is a good idea, Theresa.” “You two look like you need a warm cup of coffee or tea. Come in.” “Is Ryan awake yet?” “Of course, he is. He has his own resolutions and so much energy now. He is practicing his pitching out in the back.” “I’ll go and talk to him if you don’t mind.” “Sure.”

“I’d like to freshen up,” Lauren said. “Come on in, detective. Ryan will be happy to see the both of you.” Lauren followed Theresa in, while Oscar walked around to the back. Ryan launched pitches at a square box on the barn wall, outlined in chalk. “So, you want to be a pitcher now?” “I never wanted to before, but I like having the ball in my hands. It makes me feel strong.” “Good choice, plus, pitchers make the most money.” “But I don’t want to be one of those pitchers who can’t hit. I want to be a great hitter too.” Oscar noticed a vegetable bushel full of old baseballs. A bat protruded from the side of it. “Do you want me to pitch you a few?” “Sure.” Although expecting Ryan to be a little behind in the acquired skill department, due to his many bouts in the hospital, which disrupted his development as an athlete, Oscar was surprised to find how hard he struck the ball. Ryan nodded at Oscar after every swing. “Wow, you’ve got some power in that bat, Ryan.” “I told you. I don’t want to be one of those pitchers who can’t hit.” “How are you feeling, Ryan?” “Better than ever.” He strained his voice and struck one clear and over the house to the stone concession road. “Mr. Risi come and see you again?” “Yes. He comes every day. He likes baseball too.”

“I’m sure he does. One day, we’ll play at my house. I have enough room, as you do here, to build a diamond.” “Like Field of Dreams.” “You’ve seen that movie.” “It’s one of my favorites. If you build it, they will come.” “Ryan, I need to ask you a favor.” “Sure, Doctor Predest.” “I need to hypnotize you one last time. It has nothing to do with you or your progress, and once again, you are going to feel great after it, like you gained another night of sleep. How are you sleeping by the way?” “Much better.” “Good.” “Why do you want to hypnotize me, Doctor Predest? My mother said I was cured.” “You are. I just need to clear everything so that it is perfectly clean.” “In my brain?” “Yeah, I suppose so.” “Okay.” Oscar was relieved that it didn’t take long to convince him. Theresa resisted when they entered the home to tell her. “He’s fine. I thought you told me he was fine.” She took Oscar to the side, to speak to him in private. Oscar watched Lauren distract Ryan with questions about baseball, which Ryan was distracted enough to answer.

“Is this about Father Bosco?” “Yes, Theresa. It is. We believe he is in grave danger, and I need to speak to Nathan’s spirit again.” Theresa glanced behind her. When Ryan caught her eye, she fluffed her hair up as if trying to impress or flirt with her onetime lover’s spirit. “I don’t want my son to hurt anymore.” “He won’t, I promise.” “Can I listen?” Oscar understood what she intended with this question. She wanted to speak to Nathan herself. “I can’t see any problem with that.” She rushed to the bathroom and returned having freshened up herself with some artificial color. Ryan methodically led the way to his room. He assumed a restful position and listened intently to the repeated suggestions. Lauren sat in on the session as well. Due to his past success with hypnotism and these same suggestions, it wouldn’t take long to hypnotize Ryan, and as expected he fell into a trance in record time. It was silent for a moment. Theresa crept in closer to listen. Lauren remained by the wall with her arms crossed. “Nathan?” “I suppose you need something from me this time.” Theresa flinched back a tad after hearing the deeper tone of voice. She placed her hands over her face. Nathan couldn’t see her because he didn’t address her directly. Oscar assumed that the spirit was not privy to any physical viewing access, as it relied on Oscar’s voice. “I have to ask you a few questions. Father Bosco is in trouble.”

“The priest?” “Yes.” “He is paying the price, I presume.” “The price for what?” “The price of balance—for my second chance, for your knowledge, for Ryan’s survival.” “Who sets this price?” “No one sets it. It is created by virtue of the balance.” “The balance of what?” “Negotiation.” “Negotiation?” “Yes, there is a constant negotiation between good and evil. We are merely players on this stage.” “You spoke of the void before. What are you speaking of now?” “Evil.” “Evil?” “Evil in its purest form. It exists in all of us, originally, as one of the parts, but balanced by the good. In some, it increases to a higher percentage, especially when more of it is invited in.” “Is this what is happening to Father Bosco? Has he invited in more evil, an invasion, to spare us? “I’m not sure. I’m not within him to know or feel. It isn’t in my memory, but it is in my intuition. I can only feel the force of it getting stronger, as it did in Nathan.”

“Was Father Bosco further weakened by the knowledge? Is this what made him vulnerable?” “I’m not sure, but you have to save him before he dies into nothing.” “How do I do that?” “I don’t know, but you have to chase the invasion out of him.” Lauren left the room pulling out her phone as she did so. Oscar assumed she had received a phone call from the police officer in charge of guarding Father Bosco. “Thank you, Nathan. I will try. There is someone here who would like a word with you.” “Who?” “Me, Nathan. It’s me, Theresa.” Oscar pushed his chair aside so that Theresa could move into his spot. Nathan remained quiet. Theresa felt her son’s face as she talked to the spirit of his father. “I just wanted to thank you for saving our son and keeping him safe, and to tell you I never wanted to leave without you. I was afraid.” She put her hands over her mouth again. “I know, Theresa. It is not your fault. I should have stolen you away, but I was too afraid myself.” “We have you back in our lives.” “Yes, and he is a wonderful boy. We were meant to live through him.” “I couldn’t agree more.” She felt his face and the touch inspired Ryan to wake up. “Mama?” “Your father is very proud of you, Ryan.”

He smiled.

Lauren relayed the message from the officer on duty. “He said the FBI is gone for the day, but the Vatican officials are still there.” “How about the Bishop? He might recognize me.” “He isn’t there.” “Okay, let’s do it.” Oscar disguised himself with the wig and glasses, before donning the FBI jacket. “Do you have a gun too, Doctor?” Ryan asked. “No Ryan. Didn’t come with the costume.”

At the hospital, the Intensive Care Unit bustled with cross-traffic and activity. Squeaky wheels sounded in the hallways and several family cliques brooded in the panic room. Oscar walked by them with confidence, although he scratched his wig often, insecure in the disguise. A nurse on duty sat close to Father Bosco’s room and various clergymen gathered in a huddle outside the glass divider. Oscar regarded them with a nod while observing their Vatican crests and symbols. They bought the FBI designation and returned to their conversation. Oscar ventured alone into the quarantined cell, while Lauren acted as the lookout. Father Bosco’s face had swollen above his bone structure. Scrapes of red textured scabs and bloated areas of purple and blue bubbled from his skin. His nose slanted to the left and his neck revealed claw depth scratches. When Oscar first saw him in the motel room, the priest was blanketed in blood, but now the intricacies of the healing, denoted by scars, indicated a living status much more horrific to the eye. Oscar assumed the stool next to the bed. The monitors indicated steady heartbeats that escalated slightly when he addressed the injured priest.

“Father Bosco? It’s me, Oscar.” The esteemed exorcist rested in a comatose state. Oscar thought it best to introduce himself with a name so that the priest’s kindred spirit, if it were capable, could answer his voice as a friend would in need of help. When Ryan fell into a comatose state, Oscar was shocked to find Nathan’s spirit finding a channel to speak to him, without any hypnotic suggestions. Father Bosco’s spirit refused to respond to his voice. Has he descended further towards a vegetative state? Oscar wondered. Oscar inspected the damage some more. There had to be a way to evoke the spirit abiding within the priest. A means to assign it a voice? Oscar stood up and parted the drapes a little. The nurse took her shift notes. Other patients languished in their own separate cells, unaware of this apparent “negotiation,” but perhaps finding their own routes to escape it altogether. Father Bosco lied still, dying, and Oscar felt helpless, hopeless. He could think of only one thing to do that might provoke a reaction or trigger a conversation. He adjusted himself on the stool, crossed his hands, buried his head into them, and began – like Father Bosco once did before when he attempted to exorcise Nathan Corso’s spirit from the young boy—praying. He prayed without mouthing words. Following Father’s previous example at the exorcism, he fell back into his thoughts and feelings. He had never prayed this way before. Letting go of his entire self, absolutely. With every slow, deep breath, he prayed for Father Bosco to wake. He prayed for the spirit of the priest to stay strong, and to fight off whatever threatened its goodness. He prayed with the belief that he was only one man, a humble man, who regarded himself as nothing in the light of this greater world, which he had been privileged or cursed to discover. The machines fuzzed as if receiving distortion from a radiation source. Oscar opened his eyes. Father Bosco’s eyes flashed open but not to see, his pupils rotated upwards and disappeared behind the eyelids. Oscar rose from his chair and stepped back, while Father Bosco’s mouth opened like a fish out of water, inhaling air. “He will not be saved.”

“Who are you?” “We have occupied him now. His spirit will die.” “I’m not leaving until I speak to it.” “You have no right to do so.” “He will never give in to you.” “We will make him do so.” Oscar sweated under the wig. Instinctively, he looked for Father Bosco behind him, as he once did when speaking to Ryan under hypnosis. Was it possible to apply the same technique to a spirit? Were they prone to suggestion if they were prone to negotiation? Oscar considered a different approach with the foreknowledge that it would take much more than trickery to save Father Bosco from this spiritual coup. “What are you willing to take for the chance to speak to him?” Oscar asked, for some reason ing the green eyes of Tobias after unburying him on the mountain. They were the expectant eyes of a son waiting for a loved one. They were lit with the goodness of hope. "Only one thing,” the voice proposed. Oscar understood the conditions of this preternatural bargain. You had to give, to receive. You had to die, to live. “Take me, then.” “Our plan from the beginning, but we will not release him for your sacrifice alone. The both of you know what you should not know. You threaten the negotiation.” Aidan Jude. That was the reason why. The root of all this spiritual anarchy. Why Tobias was targeted, why Nathan was victimized as the executioner, why Father Bosco offered himself up as a sacrificial lamb to even the score. Oscar had accidentally crossed a boundary between both worlds when he hypnotized Aidan Jude and spoke to his spirit. His discovery and the knowledge associated with it

broke the balance of life and the afterlife, triggering a war just like on earthly . A war required a trigger point, no matter how small or monumental. Overwhelmed by this realization, Oscar turned away from the bed to pull the privacy drapes open. A Vatican official stepped away from a circle of others to observe him in the fluorescent light. There was nothing more to hide and everything else to lose in order to save Father Bosco. And like Theresa that night, who managed to find a way to his cabin in the forest, whatever it was possessing Father Bosco was seeking to infiltrate his fallen defenses now. Oscar removed the FBI jacket and discarded the wig as the Vatican official from the other side of the ICU window gravitated towards him. Like a man possessed himself, Oscar walked in his direction without the fear of being recognized for who he was. “Are you Mr. Predest?” The priest with the silver hair and golden Vatican pin asked. “No, I’m Doctor Predest, and Father Bosco is coming with me.” “Where do you think you’re taking him, Dr. Predest?” Another official from the circle asked, overhearing the conversation. At once, Oscar thought about the infrequency of his security lights, Siggy’s unusual behavior last night after he returned from Father Bosco’s bloodied motel room, the cabin that was supposed to isolate him from worldly matters. “Home. I’m taking him home.” Expecting a more confrontational reaction, the council of representatives from the Vatican appeared concerned rather than challenged. Lauren motioned towards Oscar with a straight-faced, police demeanor. She had no other choice but to arrest him. As she approached, she removed handcuffs from her belt. She had to maintain the façade that Oscar had done this alone, as they first discussed. “Hold on, detective,” the silver-haired man with the lapel advised. Behind him, another specialist appeared to separate the formation of the circle. She took soft, inaudible footsteps towards Oscar. A tiny woman, younger in years, dressed in a nun’s habit, but the lighter blue in the uniform denoted a

South American sect. Her skin was tanned and her eyes a dark black to match what little hair exposed itself under her white and blue veil. She looked up to Oscar, her eyes blinking the longest lashes he had ever seen. She placed a hand on his, which continued to shake. She wore bristled wool gloves, with the fingers cut, her palms fully covered. He had recognized what they symbolized. It’s not your fault, her face communicated without a voice. For the first time in his life, he had met a real stigmatist.

Chapter 38

Oscar insisted on riding in the ambulance with Father Bosco to his cabin in the woods. And so did the stigmatist, who agreed with Oscar’s idea to relocate Father Bosco away from the interfering protocols of the hospital. Father Bosco rested in between them in the narrow cab, his heart monitored, and his breathing reliant upon a respirator. It shocked Oscar the ease with which the Vatican official had secured Father Bosco’s discharge from the hospital. He had heard myths about the Vatican’s political powers, but he considered them conspiracy theoretical in nature and never to be taken too seriously. An entourage of Vatican officials and local clergy from Grace County, combined with some police presence led by Lauren, followed the ambulance in a procession of trailing lights. “I am Oscar Predest.” Oscar extended his hand across Father Bosco to formally introduce himself, but the tiny stigmatist didn’t shake it. Instead, she palmed the top of his hand like she was imparting a blessing on it. She closed her eyes and resumed her prayer over the body. When she fell into this trance, she disappeared into space. Every potential twitch or movement of her body obeyed this stillness as if to respect the absolute need for silence within her. Oscar wanted to ask her so many questions beginning with her name. He didn’t need to. She woke suddenly and answered his thoughts before he could articulate them. “I am Sister Magdalene. I am also a nurse for the Sisters of Calcutta . . . and yes, I am hiding the stigmata with these gloves.” She raised her hands as if to surrender the obvious elephant in the ambulance. “They called me to dispel the evil spirits.”

“You can do that? Are you an exorcist too?” “No. I am a nurse.” “Why did they agree to remove him from the hospital?” “They must be cast out. Too many vessels in the hospital for them to hide and move.” “Bodies, is that what you mean?” She nodded. “Where will you cast them?” “I don’t know yet.” Although Oscar respected Father Bosco for his elusive expertise, he observed another level of skill mastery in the ambulance. She possessed an aura of saintliness, similar to Father Bosco’s level of humility, but with superpower-like hidden abilities to create miracles on another scale. “Why do you need me?” “They like to talk a lot, and they seem to enjoy your conversation.” Although this sounded like a joke or some sarcasm from the sister, she didn’t react like she intended it to be funny or anecdotal. The ambulance stopped at the gate. “The gate is open. You just need to get out and unlatch it.” The ambulance driver motioned to leave the driver’s seat until he realized that the gate was opening on its own, as if by automation. “Thanks,” he remarked to Oscar as if to suggest Oscar had pushed a button to operate it. Oscar glanced at the stigmatist, but she didn’t flinch or react. The ambulance drove down the stony path, past his shed and Siggy’s doghouse, and closer to the drawbridge over the river. “Stop right here,” Sister Magdalene spoke up. “Right here is fine.”

“Do you want us to carry the body into the cabin?” “No,” she spoke up again. “Just before the bridge, by the garden.” Oscar realized she meant the garden where he had buried his son. But he knew she comprehended this personal secret of his. She understood other layers of this existence apart from conscious-subconscious debate. He found this unusual talent of spiritual intuition much more fascinating than his mental one. If not for the overwhelming situation of saving Father Bosco’s life from a spiritual coup, he would have valued a private conversation with her over a cup of tea. Her entire makeup defied every human limitation. He had read stories of saints, martyrs, and miracle workers in the past, but he doubted their fantastical narratives as he pursued higher levels of education. He wondered, why? Did faith in supernatural incongruities require a child’s innocence or an adult’s full commitment to humility? Finding his murdered son, and helping Ryan, had returned him to the starting blocks. He no longer trusted his psychiatrist alter ego, the one that raised dismissive doubts about miracles, labeling them as religious tricks to wow a desperate audience. And yet, Father Bosco and Sister Magdalene never once promoted these special talents to the public. If anything, they kept them hidden underneath the cloak of their humble orders. Even the council of Vatican representatives upheld this classified level of confidentiality. But why, if such talents could change lives, destinies, the world? Sister Magdalene asked the ambulance drivers to remove the respiratory mechanisms from Father’s Bosco’s face. They hesitated. The crowd behind them stood a distance back as if respecting an fireworks show. Lauren nodded to assure them they could go against their medical training to trust this foreign nurse. They rolled the gurney to the garden, by the rivulet. It had swelled with rainfall to nearly reach the ledge of the drawing bridge. Always characterized as a peaceful brook with its gradual flow, it now rushed to the lake with foamy rapids. Without wind, it gained more and more power the closer Oscar walked to its edge. He waited while Sister Magdalene prayed over the body. She called him over

with a wave of her gloved hand. “You will talk, no?” “Yes, if you want me to.” She nodded but stopped him before he addressed a somnolent Father Bosco. “Your son. He is alive.” Oscar stared her straight in the eye. She spoke more to solidify his confidence than to test whether he would tell her the entire story. “Yes.” “That is good, you believe.” “I do believe. Will you save him?” “From?” This stunned him. He meant the spirits. Her delicate gestures and the fluidity of her movements centralized once again into a prayerful pose, like statues he had observed during boring moments at church. He had always wondered what inspired the sculptor, or painter, to present saintly figures this way. Imagination and spirituality combined to create a depiction of silence, the ultimate quality of humility often assumed by monasteries and convents alike. Oscar waited for his cue, but she was not about to offer him one. So, he closed his eyes and did his best to relax his nerves. He needed to find a strength within him to proceed, before realizing that Sister Magdalene had already provided it – his son. He could not tell, due to the removal of the respiratory mask, if Father Bosco was breathing, but it didn’t seem to matter in the presence of the stigmatist. She didn’t seem worried, so Oscar proceeded. “I am here to talk if you are ready to listen.”

“We don’t listen,” the voice snuck through Father’s swollen lips. “He invited us into his emptiness, so we will stay.” Oscar wondered about this evaluation. What did they mean by “emptiness?” Had they hollowed out his faith, his beliefs, his spirit already? The sound of the creek turning into a river provided a white noise, drowning out the sounds of nature but inviting visitors from the wood. A herd of coyotes circled the scene like personifications of these occupying spirits. Oscar could hear guns loading from the police presence. The sound awoke the stigmatist. “Don’t shoot,” she whispered to Oscar, prompting him to continue. “Don’t shoot,” he repeated her instruction louder. Oscar would have flinched with his own gun upon seeing the family of coyotes, the reason he lost his dog the first time around. They had lured her into the forest and attacked her there. But he didn’t flinch this time with the instinct to protect. He had never felt so calm before, especially in the midst of these obvious threats. “Father Bosco is not your vessel.” “He is our temple,” one of the voices, higher-pitched and witch-like, corrected him. The stigmatist continued to pray in her frozen stance. Oscar caught Lauren’s eyes. She had lowered her gun as well. The coyotes inched closer to the draw bridge as if about to cross in single file. The river water ricocheted off rocks, creating spurts of mist and more foam. “We will punish you if you dispel us.” The warning worried Oscar, weakening his previous resolve. He panicked. How would they punish him? Would they hurt Lauren? Would they find and seek the reincarnated spirit of his son somewhere? Would they enter him as a consolation, to torture him as they did Father Bosco? Could his faith sustain such evil if Father Bosco’s perished on the brink of defeat?

Oscar felt the stigmatist’s gloved hand on his forearm. “There is no need to fear if you value life over death.” Without officially assuming control of the situation, she lowered her hand to grasp his, not in the previous blessing way, but as someone who would lead him gracefully to a safer place. He imagined a hole in the palm of her hand. A clear and distinct hole that bled into the softness of the glove, which he assumed, she would have to replace regularly. The whole inconvenience of the blessing, he thought, never once insinuated elevation of status, but relegation to a patient suffering from terminal wounds. Except these wounds, in their weak implications, provided power and strength for other dimensions. When she linked her fingers in his, he could feel the cavernous depth at the center of her hand. “Do you doubt?” “Not anymore.” She led him closer to Father Bosco. The coyotes, on the other side of the drawbridge, stared vigilantly at the scene. They howled at first as if begging for attention, before the howling turned to growls the closer they moved to Father Bosco. “By the power of his most humble Son, the truth, the way, and the life, I dispel you!” The coyotes wailed a high-pitched sound that breached the roar of rushing water. They ran circles, and Oscar assumed, as in biblical times, the stigmatist had cast the evil spirits into the animals. But they calmed, and then returned to the forest as if they had come to witness, and not participate in, a live performance. The water rushed to an intensity that pummelled the drawbridge. Oscar stepped back and watched as it flowed in foamy waves, swelling above the edges to begin flooding the area. Once it reached a peak level, it calmed deliberately as if no longer bellowed by a wind.

Oscar turned to the stigmatist, his hand still in hers. “You drowned them.” “Yes.” “Without hurting the animals.” “Yes.” “But how?” “By reducing them to an element.” “Earth, wind, fire, and water.” “Yes.” Father Bosco’s eyes flashed open, but Oscar wasn’t prepared to let go of the stigmatist just yet. “There is mind, body, heart, and soul,” she whispered. “Whenever you doubt, drown the doubt in one of those elements.” Oscar nodded, and she released her grasp. He rushed over to Father Bosco’s side, as did the others who were watching. The Stigmatist disappeared into the forest, it appeared, or somewhere else. Oscar knew he would never see her again. “Oscar?” “Father Bosco. It’s you, it’s your voice.” “I saw you with your son, building a canoe.” At once Oscar realized the intent of the message. Lauren approached him from the other side of the gurney. “Would you tell her how much now?” Father Bosco whispered.

Chapter 39

Oscar had never perfected a wood sculpture so precisely as the picnic table he had worked on with Frank Risi. A regular visitor now to his cabin in the woods, Frank helped Oscar move the picnic table closer to the garden in preparation for a Fourth of July cookout. Young Ryan lent a helping hand pointing to the right spot that captured both the sun and shade, while his mother, Theresa, floated around the flowered area in a bright yellow summer dress waiting to arrange the tablecloth, napkins, and trays of colorful appetizers. Lauren stood by the smoking barbecue with Siggy, forgetting to check on it as Oscar reminded her to. She was immersed in an animated conversation with Frank Risi’s wife, Joanne. Frank’s infant daughter, Alaia, toyed with Siggy, nearly choking the dog with a strangling hug. As affectionate and personable as her father, she reminded Oscar of the simplicity of innocence Tobias provided to his life. The connections were as present as the light breeze and the clear, blue sky. Oscar breathed in deep breaths. For once in his life, he enjoyed a simple feeling, over the instinct to analyze every dissected detail of it. He had initially purchased the cabin and this forested property to isolate himself from the world, to escape from people. He considered them capable of hurting him when he was most vulnerable and alone. But now, as he caught Lauren’s eyes, he wasn’t afraid to reveal secrets – like her pregnancy. This personal firework on the Fourth of July would only bring more joy to his new, blended family. It would lend more substance to the celebration of their independence, their freedom from the knowledge of an afterlife he was no longer curious to pursue after the stigmatist saved Father Bosco. Instead, he would forgive his curiosity to be a real father again, and a friend to the people who had graced his life with their presence. “He’s here!” The sound of a car door slamming shut, followed by the disappearance of a rattling engine, introduced a healed Father Bosco to the scene, retired and not

dressed in his priestly habit. He had grown a healthy beard, perhaps to disguise the scars from his many battles. He carried a watermelon under his arm, almost dropping it as he approached the drawbridge. The ensemble, coming together to greet him, provoked him to happy tears. Oscar approached him with a hug, while the others gravitated toward the reunion with their own signs of affection. “We’re glad you could make it.” Oscar patted him on the shoulder. “I wouldn’t miss these fireworks for the world.” Father Bosco winked at Oscar. While Father Bosco greeted everyone in the area and handed over the watermelon to Ryan, Oscar noticed the smoke pluming over the barbeque. He rushed up to the deck to open the lid. After he had controlled the flames, Lauren snuck up on him from behind, turning him around. She was shiny happy. “You’re glowing.” “So are you.” When she embraced him, he saw Siggy over her shoulder, wandering away into the forest on his own. He was pursuing something invisible to the eye, but with a visible scent. Siggy followed the trail of the river, reduced by the warmer summer weather to a meandering brook. And then he stopped in one of his tracks, as if to think upon a discovery in the distance. Oscar ed how he had lost his first dog to the forest when it was lured there by the mating calls of predatory coyotes. It worried him to see Siggy moving further and further away from the people at the party. He wanted to call him back but trusted Siggy to return on his own. Becoming erect and alert to some sound in the woods, Siggy looked up at Oscar and Lauren a final time. He disappeared into the bush all alone.

Acknowledgments

I would like to take this opportunity to thank so many spiritual influences that have graced my life and inspired my writing pursuits. When I first started writing in my teens, I obsessively read religious and mystical texts that I found serendipitously at the Thorold Library. Written by brilliant theological minds like Saint Augustine and Saint Therese of Lisieux, these books imparted a philosophical texture to my imagination that would one day be the foundation of everything I write. In of spiritual figures, my mother, Marcella, was always one to dramatize saintly narratives in entertaining, parable-like life lessons for me, while teachers like Ralph Serravalle, challenged me with dialogues that lifted our parallel contemplations to another level. Although this is my first official, faith-based fictional narrative, it is definitely inspired by the faith my family has in me. My brothers, Frank and Ryan, and my extended family of relatives and close friends, know how important my spirituality is to me, and have always valued it as part of my old soul. I would like to thank my incredible wife, Lauren, for her remarkable strength and best friend , especially during periods of darker doubts and writer frustrations. And I would like to show appreciation to my children; Aidan, Oscar, Tobias, Alaia, and our dog, Gigi, for always blessing my life with the light of laughter, character, unconditional criticism, and of course, love. When I float away into my own thoughts, I am grounded by what makes me fortunate, and the answer is always all of you. I would also like to thank my generous editor, Jennifer Haskin, for your astute attention to detail and your insightful suggestions. This book is better because of you, and I am eternally grateful, as I am to Touchpoint Press, for your faith in this story. Finally, I would like to send a blessing to my father, Leonardo Serravalle, who was always a faithful man with a saintly heart and a beautiful spirit. I miss you

dearly, and only hope that you are joyous in the care of our Saviour, whom I trust has allowed you to walk again in the light.