Free Exorcist Road by Jonathan Janz Page B

was not. Like you, I was convinced that medical attention was necessary. I had seen exorcisms end badly before and was wary of the entire process. My mind was very much in keeping with our modern system of beliefs—that religion is an enemy of science and should never inhibit scientific logic.”
    He looked at me with those profound blue eyes. “But these are not matters of science, Father Crowder. They are matters of faith. And when the lead priest—a good, rational man who felt the same as I did then and as you do now—failed to drive the demon out of the host swiftly and decided to take refuge in modern medicine, the results were catastrophic.”
    “What happened?”
    “The host died,” he said simply. “And the malevolent presence overcame the officiating priest.” Sutherland’s eyes filled with tears. “He was my mentor, my shepherd. He had handpicked me from the seminary and nurtured me for more than a decade. He wasn’t a good man, he was a great man. A legend in the eyes of many and an individual whose gentleness and piety were renowned throughout the hierarchy of the Catholic Church.”
    Sutherland’s voice broke. “And he nearly strangled me.” With a fierce tug, Sutherland tore away his collar and the top of his cassock, revealing to me a familiar wormlike scar that spanned the right side of his throat all the way to the collarbone. The scar had long been a mystery to those of us who knew Sutherland. “His thumb and index finger punctured my skin,” he explained. “The fingers burrowed into me and ripped a bloody trough through my flesh. Had he attacked the other side, he would have severed my jugular. As it was, he still perforated the carotid artery, and the doctor who had arrived to administer aid to the afflicted child was able to apply sufficient pressure to save me from bleeding to death.”
    To fill the terrible silence that followed, I asked, “Did your mentor die too?”
    “Not immediately. It took several paramedics and two policemen to bring him down, but eventually he was cuffed and taken away. He died at the hospital that night.”
    I gazed uneasily at the sleeping figure on the bed.
    “And that is why, when I was permitted to lead an exorcism,” Sutherland went on, “I was determined not to allow the same catastrophe to occur a second time. It was a decade later. I was older, wiser. I remained steadfast in my faith. And the demon was driven from the host.”
    I frowned. “Did you really need to lie to the Hartmans?”
    “Maybe I shouldn’t have. I understand why you might be bothered by my misleading them, but I wanted them to take refuge in the Lord.”
    “Aren’t you worried they’ll call an ambulance?”
    He favored me with a singularly cynical grin. “And have Ron risk the exposure of his bad deeds to all of Chicago? He’d sooner permit his son to die than face such mortifying publicity.”
    I asked, “Do you think Casey…”
    “Is the Sweet Sixteen Killer?” Sutherland finished for me.
    I waited.
    “I doubt it, Father Crowder, but who can know? Perhaps Bittner is correct. Or Bittner himself is the killer. I’ve seen enough tonight to make me question everyone. There’s Danny…he’s a bit of a loner, and he’s saddled with an alcohol addiction. And then there’s Ron, who has proven to be amoral. Who better a killer than a man who thinks of no one but himself?”
    I considered this. “Ron doesn’t have the stomach for it. Danny…he’d never do those things.”
    “Perhaps you place too much faith in man’s goodness.”
    I exhaled a tremulous breath and tried to clear my head.
    “Now,” Sutherland whispered, “quietly.”
    I followed him back to the bed and saw that the beatific expression still lingered on Casey’s face. It was difficult to believe that he’d been grinning horribly while his legs were being mangled only minutes earlier.
    Father Sutherland produced his white handkerchief and, careful to keep the cloth positioned between his hand and