Chapter Seven

Seven

Sherry had barely gotten herself cleaned up when the phone rang again.

At first she tried to ignore it again, but it went just like it had earlier: the phone rang, then stopped, then started ringing again. She forced herself off the bathroom floor and down the hall to answer it.

"Sherry," said Sheriff Brown. "I was just wondering whether you'd thought at all about who might have a motive to kill Alan."

" I'm not investigating ," she said, and slammed the phone down so hard that it bounced off the receiver and dangled pathetically at the end of the cord. She hung up again, more carefully this time, then went back to bed. Lord Thomas jumped onto the bed, and purred, and made himself into a ball on her pillow right next to her head. She petted him and cried into his fur until she fell asleep.

She woke up, for the second time in the past twenty-four hours, to the sound of someone pounding on her door. She jolted automatically out of bed, sending Lord Thomas skittering across the room and into the hall, and then staggered downstairs and to the door, all while harboring the completely unsubstantiated conviction that the person outside was Alice. Needing her help with something, probably. She was working herself into a state of grievance over this idea—How dare Alice always be needing things from her, when Sherry felt so horribly defeated and frightened and sad? Shouldn't Alice have been told about Alan by now? Why did none of their other neighbors bother to check in on Alice and make sure that she had enough to eat and that the electricity was turned on?—when she peeked through the curtains out of habit and saw that it wasn't Alice at all. It was Sheriff Brown pounding on the door with his fist as if he was planning on breaking it down. When Sherry pushed the curtains aside, his gaze shot straight to her as if he'd expected it. She froze for a moment, then instinctively stepped backward, letting the curtains drop back into place.

"Sherry!" he called out. "Sherry, I know you're in there!"

She stepped farther away from the door and the windows. Sheriff Brown kept knocking. " Sherry! " he called out. His voice sounded like ice groaning and gravel crunching. Not like the voice of the man she knew at all. " You have to investigate, Sherry! You have to investigate the crime, your job is to solve the murder, you have to investigate the murder— "

It was just what Janine had said, Sherry realized, with an abrupt twist in her gut. Word for word.

Sherry didn't answer the door. She went back up to her bedroom and locked the door behind her, then shoved a chair under the door handle the way she'd seen people do on TV. She dug the old rosary out of her bedside table that she hadn't touched in years. She didn't pray, exactly. She held it as if it was a gun. She wished that she'd gone into the kitchen to get a bulb of garlic before she'd come up here to hide. She listened to Sheriff Brown screaming for her outside the door in his inhuman new voice for a long time, for far too long, until the sun started to set. Then, finally, everything went quiet.

Sherry waited for another hour or so, just to be safe. Then she went downstairs, looked up the number for the rectory, and called Father Barry.

···

"This is going to sound like I've lost my mind," Sherry said.

"I doubt it," Father Barry said. It was seven a.m. and he was sitting across from her in a booth in the Main Street Diner looking as bright-eyed and sun-kissed as a man who'd stepped straight out of an orange juice commercial. "Usually when someone says something that really worries me about their mental health, they don't start off with apologizing for how crazy the story is going to sound. Usually that's the sort of thing that people say when they're about to tell me that they're in trouble." He leaned in a little closer. "Are you in trouble, Sherry?"

She bristled instinctively at the use of her name. The way he used it made her feel as if he'd been reading books about how to win friends and influence people. Then she tried to rein in her suspiciousness. She'd called the poor man and asked him to meet her so she could ask him whether or not he thought that the small town he'd only just moved to was gripped by some sort of mass-murderous madness or dark supernatural influence: the least she could do was refrain from judging the authenticity of his concern because he had too many social graces .

"No," she said finally, in response to his question. Then she paused. "Well, maybe. Yes." She paused again. "It really will sound crazy."

"I'll bet that I've heard crazier," he said. "Just try me."

She tried him. She did her best to keep things to the facts, which made everything sound a lot less frightening than it had felt. It was difficult to really communicate something like his voice sounded like what an iceberg would sound like if icebergs could scream . "Maybe it was nothing," she said finally.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," Father Barry said. He was quiet for a moment, his eyes on the vegetable omelet the waitress had delivered to him as Sherry told her story. Finally, he looked up at her again. He looked worried. He definitely didn't look like a man who'd heard crazier . "What do you think happened yesterday?"

She could feel herself go very red. "I'm not really sure," she tried, hedging. "Maybe just—the stress getting to the sheriff."

"But you called me ," he said. She could swear that he was almost fidgeting . "And not a friend, or the police."

"I can't call the police, the sheriff's possessed ," she said, and then went redder. She'd planned on trying to introduce that idea a bit more delicately. It sounded even more ridiculous now that she'd said it out loud, in a diner, over a plate of pancakes.

"Oh," Father Barry said, looking more nervous than ever. "You think that it's a…demon problem."

"I told you that you'd think I was crazy," she said, already feeling a sense of rising despair. She was going to be…eaten by a demon, or whatever demons did, like the character in the very first scene of the movie who noticed that something strange was going on in the abandoned hospital and decided to have a look around alone in the middle of the night. Father Barry would be regretful about having not believed her after he saw Sheriff Brown's head spin around 360 degrees, but by then it would be too late for poor Sherry.

"I don't think that you're crazy," he said. He was fidgeting again. "Obviously I take the devil seriously , otherwise I wouldn't—" He flapped a hand in the general direction of his collar. "I just, uh. I never took that seminar."

She blinked at him. "What?"

"It's a special seminar," he said. Now he was blushing, and practically whispering, as if they were talking about some kind of exotic sexual practice that required you to custom-order the necessary equipment from a single specialty manufacturer in Baden-Württemberg. "At the Vatican."

"A seminar for what?" Sherry asked, thoroughly baffled. Then it clicked. " Demon problems? "

" You know," Father Barry said, and really did whisper this time. " Exorcisms. "

"There's a seminar ?" Sherry asked, and then started to giggle. "Are there…PowerPoint presentations?" She imagined a gaggle of priests in their cassocks during their afternoon lunch break on day three of the exorcism conference, eating dry sandwiches and complaining about the quality of this year's speakers. I can't stand it when these theologians with no real-world experience try to tell actual working exorcists how to do their job , one priest might say to another, earning a genteel chuckle of professional agreement from a nearby cardinal.

"I don't know," Father Barry said. He sounded almost as full of despair as Sherry felt. "I've never been. It's sort of— advanced , you know? They usually want you to have a degree in psychiatry before they let you exorcise people."

Sherry blinked. "That's very…reasonable of them," she said after a moment. Then: "So if I did need an exorcist…?"

"There's supposed to be one for every diocese, I think," Father Barry said. "I could…call the bishop and ask if there's one available?"

"Are they usually all booked in advance ?" Sherry asked. She was starting to feel a little hysterical. She hadn't slept all night, which didn't help at all with her profound sense of unreality. "Is organizing an exorcism like planning a wedding? Is there a season ?"

"I don't think it's a full-time position ," Father Barry said. "He probably has to fit the exorcisms in around the rest of his schedule." Then they both just looked at each other for a moment, as the full, bellowing madness of that statement echoed around the red vinyl booth.

Father Barry was the one to finally break the silence. "I was only ordained last year," he said, in a tone that reminded Sherry of miserable childhood confessions of having forgotten her homework.

She allowed herself the smallest bit of softening. "I'd never be able to tell," she told him. "Your homily the other week was very professional."

"Do you really think so?" he asked, brightening. "That was the fifth draft." Then, evidently a bit emboldened, he continued. "You know, there could still be a more"—he flushed slightly—" earthly explanation for everything. Your friend Janine acted strangely, but that's really common when people die unexpectedly. People forget how to behave. And Sheriff Brown could just be stressed. We talked about it the day we met, didn't we? How there's such an unusual number of murders around here. It has to be hard on the sheriff."

"But that's part of it," Sherry said, leaning forward in her chair until she realized that her sweater was in danger from pancake syrup and was forced to retreat. "It took—it took Alan dying for me to see it. It's not normal. We probably have the highest murder rate per capita on earth, and everyone acts like Winesap is just a sweet, ordinary little village. But it's not . Everyone should be fleeing for their lives, but they aren't . There's something incredibly strange going on here."

Father Barry was wincing again. "Maybe people are willing to overlook it," he offered. "It is a nice little town."

"Father Barry," Sherry said. "Just because you don't want it to be demon problems doesn't mean that it's not demon problems ."

He gave a small, restrained sigh. "I just want to make sure that we're not ignoring a simpler explanation."

"Like what?" she asked. "Ergot poisoning?"

"Sherry," he said. "Just because you want it to be demon problems doesn't mean that it's demon problems."

"I don't want it to be demon problems," she said, and then immediately conceded defeat. "Right. You're right. I never actually fell asleep last night. I might be a little…not at my best."

"No one would expect you to be," Father Barry said, very kindly. "I think that we should both eat our breakfasts. And—I think that I should go with you to talk to Sheriff Brown when we're done."

"Oh," Sherry said, feeling herself relax before she'd even had the chance to register that this was exactly what she had been wanting to hear. "Would you really? That would be so nice of you." If it wasn't demon problems, it would be nice to have a big strong young man with her when she went to confront the man who'd spent hours screaming at her front door last night. If it was demon problems, then she'd probably be better off to come armed with a priest. If nothing else, if things went truly awry, he'd be able to give her the last rites.

"Of course," Father Barry said, and then started eating his omelet with the energy and enthusiasm of a dog that had finally been allowed to sprint for its food bowl.

Once they were finished with their breakfasts, they walked together toward the sheriff's office. They didn't talk along the way. Sherry was too tired and frightened, and Father Barry looked too nervous. When they got there, the officer at the front desk gave Sherry a shy little wave. "Hi, Miss Pinkwhistle."

"Hello, Cody," Sherry said, in her most grandmotherly tone, and swept on through to Sheriff Brown's office.

Sheriff Brown looked up when she entered. "Oh, Sherry. Did you change your mind about investigating?"

"No," she said, already thrown off. He didn't look at all like a man being confronted by a woman whom he'd screamed at and terrified only a few hours before. He definitely didn't look like a man who'd been demanding that she investigate the murder. He looked just about like he usually did when Sherry saw him, which was to say that he looked a little tired, a little wary, and largely resigned to whatever she was about to subject him to next. "Well, yes, sort of. But I came because I want to talk to you about what happened last night."

"Last night," Sheriff Brown repeated, and then abruptly went very pale. "I don't remember anything. Was I—I don't even remember drinking anything." His eyes widened with what looked to Sherry like a frankly insulting degree of horror. "Did we—we didn't —"

" No ," Sherry said, feeling exactly as horrified as the sheriff looked. How could she possibly sleep with a cartoon mouse ? "And even if we had, why on earth would I bring a priest along to discuss it?"

Sheriff Brown's whole face went red. "Uh," he said. His eyes darted toward Father Barry. "Why did you…"

"Sherry wanted me to come along when she spoke to you," Father Barry said. He was standing up very straight, his shoulders back and wide.

Sheriff Brown looked back to Sherry. "About what?"

"You came to my house last night," Sherry said, watching his face carefully as she spoke. She wanted to see his reactions. "You pounded on my door and screamed at me."

He didn't look angry or defensive. Mostly he looked bewildered , and possibly frightened. His eyes kept flicking back toward Father Barry. "I don't remember that," he said. "Are you sure that it was me?"

"Completely sure," Sherry said. "I saw your face. And you were shouting about how I had to help you investigate the case. You stayed there for hours."

"My feet were cold," Sheriff Brown said, almost dreamily. "I remember that. I wanted to go home." Then his gaze snapped back to Father Barry. "Does he have to be here?" he asked.

Sherry frowned. "I think I'd be more comfortable if he stayed," she said.

A voice that sounded like wood creaking in the wind emerged from Sheriff Brown's mouth and said, "And what if I'd be more comfortable if you left?"

Sherry jumped. Father Barry sucked in an audible breath. Sherry cleared her throat. "Sheriff Brown?" she ventured. "Are you all right?"

"Sheriff Brown isn't here anymore," Sheriff Brown said.

"Oh," Sherry said. She contemplated saying, I'll come back later, then! and leaving immediately. Instead she nailed her courage to the something post—she could never remember how that saying went—and asked, "Who are you, then?"

"Who am I?" Not-Sheriff-Brown asked. It sounded almost like a genuine question. "You've brought a priest, so I must be—Lucifer? Yes, Lucifer ." His voice changed again, turned deep and gravelly and horrible. "Have you seen The Exorcist ?"

"Um," Sherry said. She wasn't sure whether it was best to tell the truth or to lie when discussing popular movies with a possibly demonic individual calling himself Lucifer. She wasn't sure why she wasn't more frightened. Maybe she'd worked all her terror out the night before. "I read the book," she said finally. It was the truth. She hoped that Lucifer wouldn't be disappointed.

"Of course," Sheriff Brown said, and then slowly, deliberately started turning his head 180 degrees around on his neck.

"Oh, no, stop ," Sherry said, as Father Barry made a sound like, " Ablaaurgh! "

The sheriff's head snapped back to the front. " Fuck you ," he said, and threw a paperweight straight at Father Barry. A second later he groaned and put both hands to his neck. "What the—did I just—" He was back to using his own, ordinary voice again. "My neck —"

"Here," Father Barry said, and thrust a rosary toward him. Sherry wondered whether he traveled with extras. "Hold that."

"I'm a Lutheran," Sheriff Brown said. He sounded dazed.

"Take it, anyway," Father Barry said, and then physically put the rosary around Sheriff Brown's neck. Sheriff Brown didn't scream or fling it away or turn into a giant bat. He just blinked dozily at Father Barry for a moment.

"My head hurts," he slurred out. "I think I'm sick. I think—I should go home." He stood up, swaying slightly. Then he staggered out the door.

Sherry and Father Barry stared at each other.

"Father," Sherry said, "I think that it's demon problems."