Pandemonium

“Don’t worry about it,” he said.

“At least you’ll get the bail money back.”

I couldn’t help it; I just wanted to poke him until he burst.

“There are towels in the bathroom,” he said. “And I’ll get you some clothes that—”

“Lew! Del! You should see this!” It was Amra. I followed Lew to the kitchen. A small TV on the counter was showing a picture of Dr. Ram. I recognized the photo from his book jacket. Almost immediately the story switched to a report on fighting in Pakistan.

“Somebody was shot at the Hyatt last night,” Amra said. She was shook up. “That’s why all the police were there. His name was Ram, he was a neurologist or something.”

Lew turned to face me. His anger was gone, replaced by shock, or something like it.

“It wasn’t me,” I said.

“This guy who was murdered—you went ballistic last night, and they have you on file. How do you know you weren’t involved?”

“Oh, it’s worse than that.” I carefully sat down on a kitchen chair. My back was still torqued. Not only had I lost control, I told them, but people had seen me with Dr. Ram, and later heard me ranting about how he wouldn’t help me. Then I’d gotten off on the wrong floor—Dr. Ram’s floor—no doubt around the time he was shot. “To top it off,” I said, “I gave him my MRI reports. Somewhere in his room are a bunch of papers with my name on them. See? It’s practically an openand-shut case.”

Lew and Amra exchanged a look. I admired that marital telepathy, the way they could check in with each other without speaking.

“We know a lawyer,” Amra said.

“I don’t have time for that,” I said. “I’m not going to turn myself in.”

Lew pulled out a chair and sat down. “Del, listen to me—”

“There’s a woman who can help me,” I said. “Mother Mariette. I need to find her, look her up on the Internet or something, find out where she lives—”

“That bald woman you went off after?” Amra said. “How can she possibly help you?”

“She’s an exorcist.”

Lew made a dismissive noise. “Jesus, Del, you can’t just latch on to some religious quack. You’ve got to get serious, we’re talking about murder here. This Mother Mary—”

“Mother Mariette,” I said. “She’s Irish, I think—she’s the only person I’ve ever met who actually says ye. And she’s a priest of some kind. I’m not exactly sure what church she’s in, we’d have to find that out.”

He sat back in his chair, looking pained. “Let me get this straight,”

he said. “A bald Irish exorcist nun . . .”

“Lew, she saw the Hellion in me. Nobody else has ever done that before—none of the shrinks, none of the doctors, not even Dr. Aaron.”

I leaned forward. “This woman is the shit.”

No one said anything for a long moment.

Then Lew said, “You’re going after her, I guess?” He saw something in my face, and shook his head. “Where does she live, fucking Dublin?”

“I don’t know. Yet.”

He sighed, got up, and left the room. A moment later he came back with his laptop. “Go take a shower,” he said. “I’ll Google her ass.”