999_ Twenty-Nine Original Tales of Horror and Suspense - Al Sarrantonio [353]
“There isn’t any smoke or mirrors, Anna. You can trust me.”
“It’s the smoke part that worries me,” she said.
“You’re not serious, Anna. Oh, come, now!”
“Well, you’re certainly not an angel, now, are you? You deceived us. You pretended to be Gabriel Case.”
“But of course. It’s as you said, Anna—’Dead people lie.’”
He smiled that brilliant archangel smile.
Trawley’s laugh was full and rich, free of burden, overflowing.
Case started forward, his arms held out to her.
“And now shall we go elsewhere, my lovely?”
She jabbed a fist high into the air and cried, “Yes!”
Then rushed forward to meet him with open arms.
Epilogue: 1997
The waking sun strewed shuttered gold upon the blue-gray waters of the silent river and the island air was filled with peace. Inside, in the echoing mansion Great Room, laughing young children were chasing one another while their parents, Paul and Christine Quandt, were in the library wrapping up some interesting business with a pair of tired Jesuit priests. One of them—husky, very young, inscrutable—stood with his hands in the pockets of his coat as he watched an older, taller priest tuck a book of prayers bound in bright red leather into a briefcase, snap it shut, and then scratch his nose with a freckled finger. “There, that’s that,” he sighed. “We’re done.”
He reached up and ran a hand through his thinning red hair.
Christine Quandt glanced into the Great Room.
“Oh, well, the kids are feeling good about the place,” she noted.
The old priest followed her gaze. “Bless their hearts.”
He picked up the briefcase.
A somber Paul Quandt was seated at the bar in a short-sleeved blue denim shirt and jeans. He shook his head. “I can’t believe all this business started up again, Father.”
“You moved back in when?” the priest asked him.
“May second. We’d been living in Europe. We’d taken the house off the market after that poor woman died, that Realtor. My God, what a shock to come back to all this!”
He took a sip from a large white mug of coffee.
The red-haired Jesuit glanced to his companion, who’d continued to silently watch and wait. The young priest somberly and knowingly nodded and then fixed an unreadable gaze on Paul Quandt.
“Oh, well, yes, I can imagine,” said the redheaded priest.
He moved toward the bar.
“Well, all right. And now let’s hope that’s the end of it,” he offered.
“Really,” Mrs. Quandt said dryly, nodding.
“I’ll be waiting outside,” the younger priest told the other with a move of his head. “I need a smoke.”
“All right, Regis. Be right with you,” the older man answered.
The young priest started away.
Paul Quandt called out to him.
“Thanks for everything, Father!”
“Me too!” his wife added.
The priest raised his hand in acknowledgment.
He kept walking and didn’t look back.
“Good fellow,” said the older priest, looking after him.
“So young,” murmured Christine Quandt. She watched the young priest go out the door. “Looks barely twenty.”
“Yes, I know,” said the older man. “My assistant took suddenly ill; they found Regis at the very last minute for me.”
“Oh, you just met at the house?”
“Yes, that’s right.” Something occurred to him. “Wasn’t that the name of the boy who died? Your cousin? Edward Quandt’s son?”
“Yes, it was,” confirmed the wife.
“Lovely name.”
The priest held out his hand.
“You won’t stay for some brunch?” she asked.
“Thank you, no. I’ve got a mass at eleven. In the meantime, God bless,” he said. “You’re nice people.” The priest took her hand. “Oh, would you please call the boatman?” he asked in an afterthought.
Paul Quandt got off the stool and shook his head.
“Already done it. Thanks again for the exorcism, Father.”
“Well, let’s hope that it gives you some peace.”
Quandt nodded. “Amen.”
“That’s my line,” said the priest.
The Quandts smiled. Then they noticed that the Jesuit was staring at something, a large oil painting above the fireplace of a man and a younger woman.
“Are these your famous aunt and uncle?”
Quandt said, “Yes.”
The priest nodded, then said softly, “I know their story.”
He slowly walked