A Whiff of Prologue

"You do it. I hate exorcisms," he said.

I opened my mouth to protest, but he raised a pudgy hand to stop me. "This is not a discussion. You're my associate, I hate exorcisms, you're going to do it."

I waited a moment. "But shouldn't there be at least two priests present at an exorcism?" A week on the job, I was not about to do this alone.

Father Alphonzo De Sotta chuckled. It was an ugly little chuckle, not the only aspect of my boss that I had decided was ugly. "Sure, if this were a movie you might have a team of priests and psychiatrists and maybe even some Special Forces types, just in case. But this is little ol' Kirksdale, and the nearest shrink is, what, 100 miles away? Besides, I've handled plenty of these cases alone. You'll be fine."

The Church's procedures on exorcism were clear: no solo missions. This assignment was wrong, but more disturbing, "Define 'plenty.'"

Father Al smiled. The smile itself chilled me "from soul to socks" as my granny use to say. He stood up and crossed over to the filing cabinet, opened the top drawer, and pulled out a folder held together with large rubber bands. It was easily five or six inches thick. He tossed it on the desk and went back to smiling at me.

I glanced from the folder to my boss. "You've got to be kidding? This town only has a population of two thousand people. And you told me you've been here for almost twenty years. There must be hundreds of cases in that file."

He nodded, still smiling. "And now they're all yours. Welcome to Kirksdale, ass-end of the Midwest and pre-school for Hell's rugrats."