TEN
Father Ross actually felt his jaw drop open at this. “I want to go home,” he said after a full thirty seconds of catching flies. Despite the air conditioning in the terminal he was sweating so badly now that the phone nearly slipped through his hand, he switched them and wiped his sweaty palm on his trouser leg.
“Please, Shane, just hear me out. You have to at least admit we are travelling the lost highway here?”
“I’m the one travelling Father, remember that. And I’m getting the distinct impression you’re making this up as you go along.”
“I know it must seem like that, but the truth is this is almost as new to us as it is to you. Sure we did think we had a way to beat this thing, and put an end to that blasphemous show. We were wrong. But I swear to you, Shane. I swear that we won’t have let you go into that house without protection. Some way of fighting that thing.” The strain was clear in Mendez’s voice as he spoke.
Ross could hear the man collecting himself on the other end of the phone and felt a stab of remorse. He wasn’t being thrown to the lions here as he had first thought. “This man,” Ross said after a while. “If he hates the church so much, why do you think he’ll help me?”
“We don’t,” Mendez replied flatly. “Over the years we’ve made every attempt to bring him on board. This man’s knowledge of the occult must be staggering. He seems to have had numerous dealings with it down through the years. Real practical experience which would be invaluable to us.” Mendez sighed forlornly down the phone. “Something happened, something bad, I don’t know all the facts, but let’s just say it was bad, and the church didn’t come out of it with much honour. But’s that’s all by the by. We have to make one final attempt, Shane. You have to.”
“What can I do? I’m lost here,” Ross said.
“Demon time,” Mendez replied. “It’s the only card we have left to play with this fellow. Show him the recording we have of the last show, show him Winthorpe’s file. After all it’s his demon that’s doing all this.”
“Guilt trip?”
Mendez gave a short hollow laugh at this. “Call it the last act of a desperate man. But without Hauser, I really don’t see how we can stop that whole debacle which is making Michael Davis so much money.” He exhaled, his fatigue all too evident. “It’s obscene, it really is.”
Ross had never felt so conflicted. Despite all the cloak and dagger routine Mendez seemed so fond of, the young priest couldn’t help but feel for the man. He sounded rung out, exhausted from all the clutching at straws he had clearly been doing. They must have put all their faith in this ‘spell’ he had spoken of. What was it he had he said before on the subject of faith? Ross recalled with unease; Sometimes, faith isn’t enough? So in the end Father Mendez he was just as lost as Ross at this point.
“What if this Hauser isn’t convinced, even if I show him demon time?” Ross asked. He bit his lip in anticipation of the answer which held his fate.
“Then it’s over.” Mendez replied. “We can’t ask anymore of you. You can go back to your life, and with our thanks. It’s our problem, I won’t have you put in harm’s way. All you will need to do is once you are with Davis’ people, try get as much information on the location of the show as you can, perhaps even where they are keeping that thing, then leave. If you have no protection you can’t go inside.”
Ross had to stop himself letting out a long loud sigh of relief at this. “Of course I’ll try, Father,” he gushed. “I’ll do my best to bring this guy on side.”
“And that’s all we can ask, Shane.” Mendez said. “Besides,” he added a little brighter. “What’s the worst that can happen? Sunburn? You get a few days in Mexico, on us. Not bad I’d say.”
“Not bad at all,” Ross agreed. He took out the envelope he had been given along with the tickets. It contained all the info he needed to get him to the town Hauser was thought to be living in. That and three thousand U.S Dollars.
“Just do your best, my friend.”
“I will,” Ross told him, he already felt pounds lighter now that the weight of the unknown had lifted from his shoulders. His good mood soured only slightly by the fact that he realised he was actually hoping this mysterious mister Hauser would flat out refuse to see him.
After all what was the alternative? Guest of honour on a show where he would come face to face with an alleged real life monster? And armed with what? Magic?
“Well as long as he doesn’t give me a fucking wand!” Ross blurted out before his brain could engage.
“Sorry?”
“Oh, nothing, Father, just thinking out loud... Without actually thinking,” he replied.
“We’ve all done that, Shane, believe me.”
“One last thing. If this Hauser does agree to help... Can he actually help? After all, that creature...” he couldn’t finish that ludicrous thought, this insanity seemed to be catching.
“I know what you mean,” Mendez assured him. “But put simply, we are all amateurs in this misbegotten game we’re playing. And I include that fool Michael Davis. I have a feeling he’ll reap what he’s sown soon enough, but then that won’t be an end to it... If that thing ever gets loose... But Hauser? He’s a professional.”
One hell of a game indeed, Ross thought despondently. And one where even death might not be the ultimate price, if Mendez somehow turned out to be correct about what Minx actually was.
He tried to put that out of his mind for now. It was no use to anyone dwelling on what might be. Beside, in a week, God willing, he might be out of it for good with body and soul intact.
“Well, adios, as we say around those parts,” Mendez said. “Safe journey.”
“Thanks, Father.”
“Oh and Shane? I don’t think he’ll give you a fucking wand, my friend.” And with this he hung up.
Ross sat with the dead phone against his ear for a full twenty seconds, blushing like a school girl. Finally he pocketed the phone with a shake of the head. Still he didn’t move, as if weight down again with what was before him. Ross knew he would have to at least try to convince this Hauser to help him. He owed the faith that Mendez had shown him that much. And his own conscience of course, damn it.