THREE

The drumming of rain against the roof of the car had been the only other passenger between the men as they drove across the wet pavement of the 101 towards Florence. The difference in atmosphere here was hardly different than what it was in Seattle, but there was an intimate mysticism that followed the rolling tides of the Pacific as she came to slumber upon the shore. A sort of halcyon that was rare within the folds of a larger city but could always be found in the early morning trills of the countryside. Ezra’s head pressed against the window as a thick fog curled around windswept trees and he found himself wondering if madness would catch him here, in this silence. You never had the chance to be alone in a metropolis. Whenever human contact fell short, machines came to fill in the gaps. But here, he could hear his thoughts, and it was something that he wasn’t comfortable with.

But there were worse things than himself to be in the company of, he thought as the old mustang rolled to a stop in front of their destination. An old Victorian loomed above them, the foundation settled on a low knoll that overlooked the pale ocean from the east side of the property. An elevated veranda wrapped around the exterior from what the exorcist could see, and both he and Malachi leaned forward simultaneously to get a better look at the house. It wasn’t often that they took jobs from someone who was, as far as they could tell, was on the higher end of the societal rung. More often than not their work involved traveling to the dinger parts of the U.S., the ghettos and dilapidated buildings that were only a storm away from collapsing in on itself. But this, whoever the Goodwins were, it was obvious that they had come into a fair amount of money.

“Appearances are deceiving,” Malachi muttered to himself as he reached beneath the steering wheel to pop the trunk before exiting the vehicle. “All the cash in the world ain’t going t’ hide ya from Samedi.”

Wordlessly, Ezra followed his lead and rounded his way to the rear of the mustang, grabbing Malachi’s duffel bag and tossing it towards him before grabbing his own and slinging it around the rise of his shoulder. Along the sides of both stories of the house were polygonal bays that surveyed the Pacific, and teal bargeboard had been scrolled along the roof eaves. Ivy had been left to grow wild across the roofed gable, tiered palms grasping desperately as unruly tendrils snaked up the right side of the brick walls. A single Japanese cherry tree wept pink blossoms into the yard and powdered the walkway with buds.  

“Let’s just hope that they’re into tipping the help. Could use a new flat-screen.” Ezra tosses his companion an impish wink as they moved towards the doorway. As they neared, the sickly smell of sweet Vivians on either side of the porch caught him off guard, and he found himself hanging behind Malachi as his colleague struck his knuckles against the door. Even though they had worked side by side for the last few years, there was very little that Ezra actually knew about the man, though he figured he probably knew more than most. He kept his personal life private unless he needed to draw examples into a point he was trying to get across, and didn’t feel the need to explain the reasons behind his actions. Ezra knew more about his quirks than his actual history. He kept to himself, stuck to the shadows. But that didn’t mean he lacked in personality or found himself unable to joke around with the exorcist; they wouldn’t have been able to get along all these years if he hadn’t. Malachi was as good at taking orders as he was his job, and Ezra supposed that was all that was really needed.  The shadows were where both men belonged, and deep down, he believed that they were both comfortable there.

Slowly, the door creaked open, the red frame replaced with a woman in her late forties to early fifties. Her blonde hair hung limp around her thin shoulders, clothes undoubtedly hiding an equally malnourished frame. She was pretty in another life, Ezra summed. In a life where her hips hadn’t been weighted with the burden of motherhood, a life where she may have believed that adulthood was still a rite of passage filled with trinkets of wonderment and freedom. Yet this was rarely ever the case. Despite the rest of her disheveled appearance, striking blue eyes passed over the two men in confusion. Whoever she had been expecting on her doorstep didn’t involve a man better dressed for a day out on the beach or a battered mustang with a Bill Nye bobble-head shivering on the dashboard. 

“…I think you have the wrong address.” There was something baleful and equally weary that hung in her air of movement, something the exorcist couldn’t quite pin. She swallowed as she studied them, fingers pressing into the doorknob a little too persistently. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m waiting for someone­­­—” She nodded to them belatedly and began to step back inside the house.

“Mrs. Goodwin, right? Ezra McMohan. We spoke on the phone.” Ezra moved so that he was shoulder to shoulder with Malachi, extending a hand towards her.

“Oh. Um. Yes.” Silence paused between the trio as she looked down at Malachi’s flip flops and Ezra’s studded combat boots. “I’m sorry, I thought…” She trailed off, unsure of what to say.

“I promise we’ve had all of our shots, Lil. Been STD free for about six months now, and we don’t bite unless you’re into that kind of thing.” He looked past her into the living room for a moment before returning his attention towards Lillian, a charismatic grin seeping into the commas surrounding the arcs of his mouth. She didn’t seem all too impressed with his sense of humor and avoided his gaze. Undeterred, he nods to the bag hanging from his shoulder. “Can we come in?

“Yeah. S-sorry. Of course.”  She blinked in an almost Stepford like manner, delicate fingers pushing the door open, stepping back to allow them entry. Malachi went first, Ezra following in tandem. Almost instantly Ezra felt as if he had slipped into an ice bath. He exchanged a look with Malachi but said nothing as the front door closed immediately behind the two men, immersing them in darkness, the curtained windows blocking out any curious sunlight or prying eyes. But as Ezra moved into the living area, he had a feeling that the watching eyes emanated from the walls, not from the surrounding garden gnomes dotting their property.

A couch sat upon the wall separating the room from the stairwell and, from what Ezra could see, the kitchen area off to the right side of the house. A single window paneled with vitrolite had been drawn with cream-colored curtains. A coffee table and two rocking chairs on the opposite side of it sectioned the area in half, but it wasn’t the furniture that caught Ezra’s attention. It was the small blonde boy sitting with his back turned to the entryway. He couldn’t have been older than five or six judging by his size. His head was tilted towards the bubbled ceiling, eyes darting rapidly back and forth as he studied something that only he could see. His mother didn’t seem to notice, sweeping towards the kitchen with Malachi on her tail. Somewhere a kettle whistled.

“—can start as soon as you’d like, Mrs. Goodwin. I know that something like this can be unsettling, so if you have any questions before we get goin’, please don’t hesitate t’ ask.”

Ezra turned away from the boy at the sound of Malachi’s voice and stood at the base of the stairs, listening to the mostly one sided conversation emanating from the kitchen. 

“You can call me Lillian.” There was the sound of a spoon chiming against porcelain as she stirred sugar into a cup of tea. “I’m sorry, it’s been...she’s been particularly vocal today. And Dylan’s at work and when she has one of her fits it sends Peter into a state and…” Another bought of silence, and then Lillian brushed past Ezra and began moving up the stairs. “She’s in her room. I’ll take you.”  

Ezra raised a brow in Malachi’s direction as their hostess ascended to the second floor of the house, her skirt eddying around her legs in a wave of what the exorcist could only identify as Chanel No.5. Bergamot and jasmine, a scent that only women with long legs and lips pumped full of gel wore. He had spent many a night in the company of the opposite sex and that kind of perfume had stained more than his fair share of jackets. They usually all fit into the same profile; single mothers who wanted to feel something other than the weight of the world on their shoulders, or well to do girls who did as they were told between drinks sweetened with cranberries and vodka. As Ezra followed her and his associate upstairs, he mused that Lillian probably fit into the latter category. Religion favored docile women.

Adjusting the strap of his duffel bag as Lillian led them down a darkened hallway, Ezra casted his gaze to their surroundings once more. Oil replicas of Madonna di San Sisto and La Belle Jardinière hung on either side of the hall, each painting illuminated by candled sconces. He’d seen many like them before throughout various religious halls. Mary swaddling the holist of infants while cherubs looked heavenward; common Renaissance themes that spoke of concord and divine virginity. Two things that were rarely found in the twenty-first century.

Lillian stopped outside of a door at the end of the hall, her fingers wrapped nervously around a mug of red tea. “Here.” She said nothing further, slipping one trembling hand beneath her blouse to retrieve a key that hung on a chain around her neck. There was the sound of turning locks as she fitted it against the doorknob then stepped back. Tucked the key behind a wall of lace and linen once more but she allowed her touch to linger against the cool metal for a few seconds before fitting it against her drink again. As if to make sure it was there, her single sword against a monster she couldn’t bring herself to slay. A closer look at her neck would reveal a small cross quivering at hollow in her throat, nestled against the key. And then she waited there, her gaze cast to the floor as faint wisps of steam licked at the underside of her chin. 

Only a few moments in Lillian’s presence had somehow allowed Malachi to understand the silence that the woman was offering in the stead of language. He nodded once and turned the knob to the room and stepped inside with little hesitance. He had always been better with people. Communicating. It was a trait that Ezra often fell short on, and he supposed that was the reason Drew usually paired them together when going on a job. Silence made Ezra uncomfortable. It was the signifier of brewing storms and even as a child, thunder had rattled his bones.

Ezra wasn’t sure what he was looking at at first when stepping past Lillian and into the room, pupils adjusting to the change of intermixing strips of light and dark. Downstairs, the windows had been choked of sunlight, every portal to the outside world barred and blackened. This wasn’t the case here. A skylight peered down at them from above, panels of glass peppered with rain as the mottled sky above them wept.

Charlotte sat in the uppermost corner of a metal framed bed wearing only a thin sweatshirt and wrinkled denim. Rivulets of soft, ringed gold melted past her shoulders but her head lay sluggishly against the headboard, hands drooping weakly into her lap. One of her wrists was strapped to the frame with a pair of handcuffs. She didn’t look up as Malachi entered and gave no indication that she was even aware of his presence, but as soon as Ezra stepped over the threshold separating her room from the hall, her chin snapped upward and something akin to terror ran like rainwater over her features, skin pale as milk. There was something feral about her, something untamed in the tresses of her thick, blonde hair. She couldn’t have been older than the Ezra was himself. She watched him like a tigress caught between her hunter and the savannah behind her lit alight with flame, fur bristling, teeth baring, nowhere to run. Despite the shadows hollowing out the thin rise of her cheeks, her eyes sang to him a bright blue, brighter than her mothers. Her presence was disruptively haunting, and it caught the exorcist somewhat off guard.  

“Baby, these men are here to help you.” Lillian’s voice broke like glass from behind them. She hovered on the other side of the door. Afraid. Tentative. Charlotte made no indication that she had heard her mother, her unrelenting gaze following Ezra’s every move. He kept his distance. Searched her silently for the defects in her porcelain skin. He had done this so many times before, patient after patient. All malignant, all infected with the virus of devil’s tongue and sword. But this girl, with her beauty behind her sunken flesh and lion’s mane...there was something mad and equally fortifying that lurked here. Part of him hoped she was just insane like her prison record and hospital files claimed, because as she stared at him, he wasn’t quite sure how long he could manage before crumbling into stone; for she was Medusa and her many snakes waiting to strike.

“We’re going to evaluate her first, then go from there.” Ezra dropped his bag into the far corner of the room. “Ask questions, verify a few things. Make sure that this is the real deal and that she’s not just fucked in the head.” He didn’t need to see Lillian to feel her flinch at the use of crude language, but he cared little for their feelings when it came down to it. He wasn’t here to counsel. That was Drew’s job.

“Might be best if you stay downstairs with your son, Mrs. Goodwin. You understand.” Malachi treaded to the far side of the room where an empty alcove sat, something that Ezra could only guess at its use. Perhaps a reading nook. A curtained transom window posed above a padded bench, tall shelving along either side bare. Ezra began removing items from his own bag, no waiting for a response from Lillian. They were used to people to just doing as they said. At this point, there were little questions that needed to be asked. Results were all anyone ever wanted. They didn’t care how they came about.

But she simply stood there and looked to Malachi, then back to Ezra, as if searching for another person. Her hands quivered against her mug, as if speaking without being prompted was a punishable offence. “I thought there would be a doctor present.”

“He’s it, sweetheart.” Ezra jabs a thumb towards Malachi who was now kneeling in front of Charlotte, shining a flashlight into her eyes, checking her vitals. “Your very own Medicine Man. Straight out of the Congo.”

 “I’m from New Orleans.” Malachi’s dark fingers fluttered across Charlotte’s chin as he turned her face this way and that, looking for something that he’d never truly clued Ezra in on. Every client they’d worked with before was treated similarly. He didn’t seem to care that most were prone to violence and sudden outbursts. As far as Malachi was concerned, these were children that had been struck with an illness as deviant as cancer and should be treated as such. Charlotte baulked at his gentle probing, but said nothing. Did nothing.

“Close enough.” Ezra muttered, flipping through a file folder. “We don’t exactly operate under the blessing of the state, Lil. There aren’t a lot of people who believe in what we do, even less in the medical industry. Men don’t like to mix religion and science.”

Malachi pushes himself upright, his eyes glancing disapprovingly upon the metal cuff chafing Charlotte’s wrist. “Native Americans in the Andes believe that illnesses like the one that plagues your daughter are due to a spiritual, psychological, or physiological imbalance brought on by an evil entity.” He pauses for a moment before continuing.  “City doctors aren’t trained t’ heal the scars left behind by devils. You’ll often see psychiatric patients with their minds an’ bodies disintegrated int’a nothing more than dust after being worked on by traditional physicians. People who are experiencing what Charlotte is right now, what they need is someone t’ rebalance her energy, t’ heal without medication and support groups. My methods may seem…primal as we go through this, but I can promise you that we’ll keep her safe an’ whole.”

“He’s not going to get her stoned if that’s what you’re worried about, Mrs. G. Though I won’t lie. Might make this whole process a little more manageable.” Ezra grinned, looking up at Malachi, but his friend merely shook his head and returned to his bag and began sorting through the miscellaneous items he’d brought with him. Mrs. Goodwin refused to meet his eyes, and Ezra offered an unapologetic shrug in response, eyes falling towards the tray of untouched food at Charlotte’s bedside. Toast soggy with butter and eggs that had gone cold. Flies buzzed around it, jeweled wings catching in the fragments of light filtering in through the window.

 “When’s the last time she actually ate?” Ezra swiveled slightly, turning to face Lillian. She hung just inside the door, hands riddled with varicose veins and knots that no woman in her forties should have, lines branded into her forehead. They deepened when she spoke. He could see the fatigue, the desperation. Like war paint. Words hovered just on the other side of her teeth but there was a paralyzing fear that struck her mute as she stared back at Charlotte, lips trembling on unspoken pleas for help. He’d seen much worse. Fathers barging into rooms with loaded shot-guns, mothers dripping rat poison into smoothies. Anything to make it stop. They didn’t understand that what plagued their families simply wasn’t an ailment. Not an abnormality cured with white coats and white pills, but a parasite. One that burrowed deep. One that left scars inside and out. One that would rather see its host die than jump ship to find another. And as his emerald eyes searched to pull this grieving mother back to her senses, he hoped that there was still enough left of her daughter left to save. “Lillian.” He spoke again, softer this time.

“Um.” Her voice cracked, her gaze finally tearing itself away from the bed and the being it held within it. “I…I don’t know. Two or three days ago.” And just as suddenly the fear had marked itself on her features, guilt took its place. The ballad of a failing parent. As if all of it were her fault. “Most things she throws back up. The doctors…they don’t know.”

 “Right. Well. Mal?” Ezra rose from his crouch and grasped the back of the single chair sitting in the corner of the room, the only other piece of furniture he could see aside from the bed and a dresser. Both of which were bolted to the floor. “There’s an In-And-Out a couple blocks down from here. Why don’t you take Mrs. G and here grab us a couple burgers. And a milkshake. Oh, and curly fries.” He could see Malachi’s jaw tighten and knew he’d hear about it later, but they’d known each other long enough to understand that they each had ways of dealing with their clients, and this was Ezra’s. He nodded once, dark eyes darting to Charlotte and then back to Ezra before reaching out towards Lillian. He gently took her shoulders, guiding her from the room. The door closed with an audible click behind them.

Turning the chair around so that the railed back faced the bed, Ezra straddled it, folding his arms across the top. He made no moves to address Charlotte’s presence, instead focusing on the room. There was a heavy odor that lingered. Sulfur, rotten eggs. Had there been anywhere to hide food, Ezra would have assumed that something had fallen to decay, but the room was empty. Walls bare except for the speckling of holes where pictures had probably hung, posters, ribbons. He doubted the Goodwins had any recent memories they had felt like recording, much less remembering. The wretched didn’t hang photographs. They buried them.

Finally, his attention fell to the blonde watching him from her post on the bed. “Hope you like strawberry. It’s all he ever gets. I’ve told him a million friggin’ times that they don’t make it with the actual berries, y’know? It’s all artificial.” He drummed his fingers against the chair, watching her. Waiting.