An Unhealthy Attachment: A Father McAllister Mystery, #1

By Jacqueline Vick

Question: What could possibly scare an exorcist? 

Answer: A school filled with teenage girls, a murdered co-worker, and a demonic attachment that refuses to leave.

 

After the exorcism in Cherry Valley goes terribly wrong, Father Gerald "Mac" McAllister is left with bad memories and a secret he doesn't dare reveal--a demonic attachment that he can't seem to banish. Pulled off his exorcist duties, McAllister has been reassigned to provide religious instruction at an all-girl high school under the watchful eye of Mother Margaret Dunnahoo. If life isn't complicated enough, the priest stumbles across the murdered corpse of the school's art instructor during Open House Weekend. 

 

McAllister can't decide which worries him most: the nonexistent spiritual lives of his teenage students. the suspicious lead detective, or the increasingly dangerous demon. Something is bound to give, and when it does, McAllister fears all Hell will break loose.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Classical Reads
• Release date: Oct 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781945403255

Jacqueline Vick

Jacqueline Vick writes mysteries that include farcical situations and satirical humor. She writes about characters who are reluctant to accept their greatest (and often embarrassing) gifts. She is the author of THE FRANKIE CHANDLER PET PSYCHIC MYSTERIES about a woman who, after faking her psychic abilities for years, discovers animals can communicate with her. The series evolved out of her desperate attempts to train a rescued mutt with fear-based aggression. Two visits with animal communicators inspired the article Calling All Canine Clairvoyants for Fido Friendly Magazine, and, later, Frankie Chandler. Her second series, THE HARLOW BROTHER MYSTERIES, features brothers Edward and Nicholas Harlow. Edward, a former college linebacker, now ghost writes the Aunt Civility etiquette books. Nicholas is his secretary and general dogsbody. Her first mystery, Family Matters, was a semifinalist in the 2009 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Competition. Her short stories have appeared in numerous publications, including Future Mystery Anthology Magazine and The Best of Everyday Fiction Two Anthology. Her Harlow Brothers novella, Lovely As, was a finalist for the Black Orchid Novella Contest.

Book preview

1

On a late September Wednesday night, a black-and-white patrol car slid up to the curb in front of a dilapidated brick house on Hudson Street and idled. The neighborhood, once the pride of Chicago's southwest suburbs, had fallen into disuse and disrepair, like an old refrigerator stored out back without a security lock. The houses, mostly faded brick, had long ago been converted into apartments. Iron bars that covered the first-floor windows were a more recent addition.

A tall, slim man dressed in black with a dark-blue windbreaker exited the back seat of the car, and after a brief exchange of words through the driver’s window, he climbed the six cement steps to the front door, noticeably favoring his right leg.

The security light reflected off short, brown hair turning silver and a serious face with a slim, straight nose, a wide mouth, and hazel eyes more green than brown. When he reached the top step, keys in hand, the car pulled away and, after pausing for the stop sign, turned left. As the taillights disappeared around the corner, a thin, high cry caused the man to pause in the act of unlocking his door. Another cry came, this time a distinct call for help.

Father Gerald Mac McAllister took the stairs in two jumps, stumbling on the pavement below as his right leg took his weight. Then he broke into a run. Halfway down the block, he kicked up gravel as he entered an alleyway.

An elderly woman pressed her body back against the side wall of a pawn shop, her wool hat crumpled on the ground next to her, exposing matted, gray hair. She clung with both hands to the plastic handle of a cheap, pink purse as a young man in baggy jeans and a Chicago Bulls jacket, a dark knit cap pulled low on his forehead, twisted and tugged at the purse. He looked up in surprise as the priest rounded the corner, and at the sight, he let go of his prize and sprinted down the alley with his pursuer close behind.

It wasn't a stylish tackle, but McAllister hit his target at the knees, and they both landed hard on the filthy ground. He pulled back the young man's shoulder and rolled him onto his back.

What's the matter with you? he said. He was breathing hard from his run and the pain in his leg, but his baritone voice carried authority. He leaned back on his heels while he caught his breath, and his white Roman collar shone in the glow of security lights over the back doors of the surrounding shops.

The young man let loose a whoop. Father forgive me—

I was a witness.

I tried to rob an old lady. I confess! Now you can’t say nothin’!

Doesn’t count. I saw it happen. He got to his feet, grabbed hold of the thug’s jacket and hauled him to standing. And it doesn’t sound as if you’re sorry, anyway.

The thug glared back. "Hey, man. Just tryin' to make a living. What's your problem? And why ain't you in church? Thin, freckled lips spread into a twisted smile. Altar boy cancel your date?"

McAllister’s head jerked back in shock and disgust, and before he could push aside the emotional response, a burning heat flooded his chest and his hands tightened their hold on the thief’s jacket. He took several steadying breaths to counter the sensation, but it was too late. The Voice made its move, and the darkness closed in.

He has a point, don’t you think?

McAllister closed his eyes, his lips moving in silent prayer as he tried to drown out the mocking, cajoling litany that only he could hear.

Misinterpreting his reaction, the young man laughed. Hit a nerve?

A few rotten apples and the rest of you must eat dirt for the rest of your lives. It makes us wonder. Why doesn’t He stand up for you?

The Voice oozed with sympathy, on McAllister’s side and urging him to acknowledge the indignity. He prayed the words of the Hail Mary. Tried to feel her love for priests. Tried to feel God’s presence. Yearned to experience something new instead of the emptiness that had dogged him these past weeks. The aching chest. Exhaustion. Hopelessness.

What about those lives destroyed by false allegations? You have seen it happen, so you know we speak the truth. Why would He allow that if He loves you so much? His precious, precious sacerdotes.

His will be done.

Do you really mean that? But what is His will? Hard to tell when he is so silent. Or have you heard from Him lately?

Our Father, who art in Heaven—

The thug sneered. I don’t need your prayers.

A car turned into the far end of the alley and crept forward. The young man sent a nervous glance in that direction.

I’m outta here.

The car sped up, and the thug made a move to leave, but McAllister grabbed his jacket and held tight. After a brief warning tweet from the siren, police lights peppered the alley with flashes of red and white.

Looks like you’re not going anywhere, McAllister said.

Neither are you. You know what is coming. It has already started. You have felt it. You have seen it in all its dark glory, and all you can do is stand by and watch. Poor, poor sacerdos.

As he struggled to hang on to the purse snatcher, recent memories assaulted McAllister. He fought to keep his expression neutral, but he blinked.

Yes. We are glad you know it. Shame about Cherry Valley. We do not think Mr. Henderson will ever be the same. And send our regards to Señora Vargas.

A slight shudder ran through him.

What’s the matter with you? the thug said, still trying to break free of his grasp. You havin’ some kind of fit?

You have our sympathy. We are both the victims of His cruel punishment.

You made a choice, McAllister hissed.

The thug reversed his tactics and leaned into the priest. I didn’t choose to have no money.

The Voice chuckled, a raspy sound like nails scraping metal.

Did you have a choice, McAllister? Nifty gift He has given you…or is it a curse?

The priest’s brow wrinkled with uncertainty. The description had hit too close to home, and the Voice pounced.

You are outnumbered, and your fellow creatures are on our side. Nasty little experiments; abominations, really, and distasteful to the extreme, but they have their uses. It is so easy to make them hate. Abortion is their right. G-ddammit. See how the curse rolls off the tongue? The Eucharist is a symbol. Who needs the Mass? Dead prayers, ridiculous music, and the mutterings of a vested virgin.

Not like the old days, is it, Jerry? When pitiful creatures felt the thrill of the sacred and bowed and scraped in proper fear of their God? Now it is just corpses in the pews sitting there. Bored, bored, bored. Unless they have a cell phone.

Thoughts wander, with our help, of course, but really, we do not have to work hard. Fantasize about a dying man torn and battered on the cross for your sins? Too dreadful. A downer. Let us imagine fornicating with the cantor in the thigh-high skirt instead.

The Voice shouted with laughter, and when McAllister didn’t respond, it altered course again, poking and prodding, looking for the nerve that would make him react.

He called you a pedophile. Said you like boys. Who cares if it is a lie? These creatures can’t tell the difference.

Stop it, he said through clenched teeth.

The thug shoved again. You don’t like it, huh?

You are His instrument. His weapon. Strike out.

McAllister met the young man’s gaze and noted the mockery in his eyes. The belligerence.

This is a predator, hunting the frail and helpless at night. An enemy.

A ray of light broke into his thoughts, and for a moment, he saw the situation clearly. This was a wounded human being made in the image of God.

We wonder what we could do with this one. Oh! We have just had a delicious idea. Tell us if you approve. It is just a thought, but how would you like to be the next priest to stand accused?

The darkness closed in again. Shut up!

McAllister’s adrenaline spiked, and he squeezed his eyes closed.

The young man shoved his face close. You gettin’ off on handling me? Are ya going to feel me up now? He laughed but stopped abruptly and drew in a breath.

McAllister's eyes snapped open. His irises were dark with anger. He pulled back a fist and felt the satisfying pain as knuckles connected with bone. A hand clamped down on his shoulder before he could deliver a second punch.

Steady, Mac, a familiar voice said.

A second uniformed officer snapped handcuffs shut over the young man's wrists and said:

Looked like self-defense to me. What do you say, Mac?

McAllister put his hands over his face and rubbed his eyes. God help me. It was a prayer.

2

On Thursday morning, Father McAllister, dressed in his cassock, stood before a large walnut desk, hands clasped respectfully behind his back as he waited for Bishop Allen Schroeder to hand down his verdict. The office, part of a former business complex, had dull gray carpet and beige walls sparsely decorated with Catholic artwork. A crucifix hung above a large window behind the bishop’s desk, and facing each other from opposite sides of the room were a picture of the current pope and a framed poster of Caravaggio's The Calling of Saint Matthew.

Mac, the kid was barely twenty.

Yes, sir.

And it wasn't exactly self-defense.

No, sir.

Stop calling me sir. You’re not on trial. You’re here because you did something unacceptable. And stupid.

He pushed away from his desk, stood, and turned his back on McAllister to look out the window at the spectacular fall colors of Chancery Park below. It's my fault. I put you out there too soon.

It's nobody's fault but my own, Allen. I lost my temper. But that kid wasn't exactly a tot. He outweighed me by twenty pounds.

Schroeder sent a sharp glance over his shoulder. And that makes it okay? You're a priest, Mac. What kind of example are you setting?

He made a wise comment about altar boys.

The bishop shook his head. That excuse isn't going to fly.

McAllister hesitated. I don't have an excuse.

We can agree on that. Schroeder took his seat and folded his hands on the desk. His voice took on an official tone that said he had made his decision. The role of police chaplain exposed you to too much violence. It was the wrong position for you in your state of mind. I see that now.

I had a bad day.

Schroeder raised his brows. You lucked out. After Mrs. Munoz told her story, the guy's lawyer backed off. He's not going to file charges. You won't be so lucky next time. That's why I'm pulling you off the street and putting you in an environment that's stress free. Somewhere where your biggest problem will be grading tests, if you can survive the lunch menu.

Back to the seminarians? McAllister sighed, and the sound expressed all the boredom he felt about lecturing a classroom on the finer points of his professional experience.

No. Not that. I don't even want you thinking about your, er, area of expertise. He opened a folder. Our Lady of Angels Catholic High School.

McAllister scrunched his nose in distaste. Teenagers? He cocked his head. Hold on. Isn't that still an all-girl high school?

The bishop nodded. Run by Mother Margaret Dunnahoo. Dominican. Tough. Just what you need.

The priest barked out a laugh. Please tell me you’re joking.

You have two sisters and a couple of nieces. Just think of them all as Bridgette and Rita in their younger days. A trip down memory lane. Besides, girls aren’t as much trouble as boys.

You didn’t know my sisters.

Schroeder ignored this. You will report to Mother Margaret tomorrow morning at six a.m. You're replacing Father Enrique Hernandez, who is going on sabbatical.

On a Friday?

Yes. He’s going to Rome, lucky devil, and he needs to take care of a few things before his flight leaves on Saturday. Mother is expecting you.

McAllister spoke quietly. This is a waste of my time.

My decision is final.

It’s a lousy decision.

Bishop Schroeder met McAllister’s glare and tilted his head to one side. What did you say?

After a brief silence, the priest lowered his gaze to the floor. You could put me back in the role I’m trained for. I’m the only—

No. It’s up to my discretion, and I don’t think you’re ready. And we don’t need a replacement.

But—

Don’t push the issue. The bishop leaned back and sighed. Mac, it’s a simple assignment. Just show up and teach class. Let’s see if you can handle it without a problem and we’ll go from there. I don’t want any reports of trouble.

It was a dismissal, but McAllister remained where he stood and cleared his throat, and when Schroeder looked up, he said:

What have you told them?

The bishop folded his hands on the desktop. We don't want to talk about what you were really doing. I don't want letters from hysterical parents. He flicked his fingers at the report on his desk. And after this incident, I’m certainly not bringing up your time as a police chaplain. We’ll go back to the administration story and tell them I can spare you for a while. How long depends on you.

As McAllister turned to leave, Bishop Schroeder called out one last order.

And Mac? Try to put that Cherry Valley business behind you. I'd hate to lose a good priest.

3

In a small office in the same building, Father McAllister sat in front of the desk of a middle-aged priest with cocoa skin and black, curly hair. He wore his Roman collar open at his throat and a faded, multi-colored sweater over his black shirt to ward off the chill of his basement office. Father Richard Santos studied the page in his hand and then set it down.

I don't like it.

Join the club.

Santos leaned back in his chair and studied his friend. I don’t know what you were thinking. Do you want to talk about what happened?

There's nothing to say. I lost my temper.

Santos lifted one brow in disbelief.

Really, McAllister insisted, afraid now. If Richard discovered what was happening, any hopes of returning to his calling would disappear. That's all there is to it. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. You're my spiritual director, Richard. If you could convince Schroeder….

Santos grinned and leaned his head back against the chair so he was gazing upward, as if he could see into Schroeder’s office. It's a job for the psychiatrists as far as he's concerned.

It was a psychiatrist that called me in, McAllister pointed out. And that's a pretty lousy opinion considering the bishop is the chief exorcist of the diocese.

As you say, I'm your spiritual director, and I wouldn't agree to sending you back out there. Something happened in Cherry Valley, and I don't think you're telling me the entire story.

I lost control of the Rite. What more is there to say?

"But why did you lose control?"

McAllister’s windbreaker hung off the back of his chair, and he rummaged through the pockets and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.

I thought you quit. Santos narrowed his eyes. Besides, this isn’t a designated area.

McAllister struck a match, lit the cigarette, and tossed the match into the last dregs of coffee in a Styrofoam cup. Report me. There’s not much else they can do to me. He took a drag and blew out the smoke. Once, in all the years I've been performing exorcisms, I got distracted. That's it. I'm only human.

You’re only human. That's the most significant thing you've said since it happened.

McAllister shifted in his chair. This business last week. I lost my temper, but I've got it under control.

"You've got it under control? That's enough to make me certain you're in trouble. I'll say it again. I don't like it. Santos chose his next words carefully. There’s something going on with you, Mac. You’re…different lately."

Different how?

Santos answered without hesitating. Quick tempered. Uncommunicative. Sarcastic.

About to take a drag off his cigarette, McAllister paused. Gee. Don’t hold back.

Well, you’ve always been a smart-ass, so that’s not it. You’ve got an edge. A sharp edge. And there’s a heaviness around you. He shook his head. Whatever is going on, you need to talk to me. That’s what I’m here for.

I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine. Maybe a little tired, but so are we all.

As priests, we can expect spiritual attacks, but your role has had you engaging on a different level, so you have to be especially alert. He motioned to the cigarette. You know, any attachments you have can —

McAllister looked up sharply on the word attachment.

Attachment, Santos repeated softly. So that’s it. He leaned forward. What kind of demon is it?

I didn’t say—

You didn’t have to. A demon has found your weak spot and is holding on. We need to root it out, and we will not do that without your cooperation.

McAllister took another drag and remained silent.

Santos said, Is it lust?

No!

Drugs?

McAllister flicked his ashes into the cup. Nothing like that.

We need to work on this right away.

You’re wrong, and you’re making a big deal over nothing. I’m just in a funk. I’m handling it.

McAllister held his fellow priest’s gaze until a light tap on the door interrupted the staring contest. When Santos told the visitor to come in, McAllister tossed the butt into the coffee cup and waved away the smoke.

A short, elderly Hispanic woman, her gray hair pulled into a topknot, leaned her head around the door.

Am I early?

As always, Señora Vargas.

Her face creased into a wide smile, and she pushed the door open and stepped inside. Both priests stood on her entrance, but at the sight of the sling around her left arm, McAllister dropped his gaze and waited until Santos had wrapped her in a hug before reaching out his hand for a more formal handshake. She brushed it aside and moved in to put her one good arm around his waist, and she patted and rubbed his back in the comforting moves of a grandmother.

You've been hiding, she chastised.

I've been working nights.

You've been hiding, Santos said, just as an ungainly young man, blond spiked hair and a middle-aged woman with thick glasses burst into the room in a fit of laugher. accentuated whose height Their smiles remained, though strained at the edges, when they saw McAllister.

How have you been? the woman asked in a gentle voice. She took his hand in both of hers and squeezed.

Fine, Karen. When she released his hand, he held it out and shook with the young man. Toby. Keeping up your grades, I hope?

I'm graduating a semester early, the young man said, unable to hide his pleasure.

I should go. McAllister grabbed his windbreaker from the back of his chair.

Why leave? Let’s take care of this business right now, Santos suggested.

I don’t think that’s necessary. He shrugged the jacket on. I’ll just get out of your way.

Santos spread his arms wide. But we love to pray, and it sounds like you could use the Lord’s help at your new job.

New job? Karen said, and she exchanged a glance with Señora Vargas.

It’s temporary, McAllister stressed. I’m helping out at a high school.

The change, it will be good for you, Señora Vargas said.

Santos motioned to the chair that the other priest had just vacated, and the latter took his place with an air of resignation. The energy seemed to drain out of him; the lines around his eyes were more apparent, the furrows in his cheeks deeper.

Anything special you want us to address? Though Santos sounded casual, I loaded the question. He wouldn’t betray the confidence himself, so he waited for McAllister to speak up. The latter shook his head and saw the quick flash of disappointment in his friend's eyes.

"Will you do the honors, Señora