Exorcist Road Read Free Page A

guess I didn’t tell you.”
    “Tell me what?”
    “Jack thinks my nephew is the Sweet Sixteen Killer.”

Chapter Two
     
    We entered without knocking and were faced with nothing more phantasmagorical than a sprawling, stylishly decorated historical home. The foyer looked thirty feet tall, and I could see a baby grand piano to our left, its sleek black lines dominating what looked like a parlor or sitting room. To the right there was another room, though the door was shut. As we scuffed our sodden shoes on the welcome mat, Liz Hartman appeared from the second doorway on the right.
    Examining her blonde hair and her careworn expression, I did my best to keep my expression neutral.
    “Did you bring them both?” she asked Danny, her striking green eyes flitting to me and back to her brother-in-law again.
    Danny shook his head. “Jack went to get Father Sutherland.” He gestured toward me. “Liz, meet Father Jason Crowder. Father, this is Liz Hartman, my brother’s wife. And, um…Casey’s mother.”
    “We know each other from church,” she said. “Hello, Father Crowder.”
    I nodded at Mrs. Hartman and ventured a smile, but I could tell right away that she scarcely noticed me. Her forehead was creased, her eyes red-rimmed and wet. She had on a snug-fitting, light-blue T-shirt and equally snug jeans. I put her at about forty, but she was a stunningly attractive woman. I’d often caught myself staring at her during Mass, and on several occasions, I’d lingered on the front steps so I could to talk to her before she and Casey left. And while our interactions were usually nothing more than polite, I’d always sensed a deeper connection between us. Or perhaps that was simply wishful—not to mention dangerous—thinking.
    She nodded for us to follow her and disappeared through the doorway. I followed Danny, suddenly conscious of my bedraggled appearance, my cheap, damp clothes and my messy blond hair, which was plastered to my skull in several places from the downpour. On the way into the kitchen, I did what I could to tame it, but with no mirror and no comb, I fear I made a poor job of it. But when we reached the doorway all thoughts of my wardrobe and hair scattered.
    The kitchen was the largest I’d ever seen. There were custom cabinets on all four walls, two granite islands. At a glance I thought of a gourmet restaurant in Paris, or perhaps Venice. Whatever kind of people the Hartmans were, they were rich. The pleasing aroma of freshly cut lemons permeated the room, which was meticulously clean. The appliances were stainless steel. On the fridge I saw kids’ drawings and family pictures. One of the photos showed a boy in a baseball uniform. He was smiling at the camera, his bat poised for a swing. Casey Hartman, I thought, remembering how polite the young man always was at Mass. Likeable. Sincere. Not a child capable of violence. Certainly not a serial killer.
    A man I presumed to be Ron Hartman stood between the granite-topped islands, his hands planted on either side of what looked like a stiff drink. His black hair was shaggier than I would’ve guessed, and the forearms protruding from his red Blackhawks jersey were larger than I would’ve assumed, given his white-collar profession. He reminded me of a bigger Al Pacino, though there was little of the actor’s sardonic good humor in Ron’s dark eyes.
    Across from the man and off to his left sat a little girl I assumed was Carolyn. She had tousled brown hair and wore a violet nightgown. Ron neither spoke to the girl nor seemed to notice her. Before her on the island lay an open coloring book, though the pages and the crayons both sat untouched. The little girl’s morose face was downturned. Her hands lay in her lap.
    As we entered the kitchen, Danny made the introductions. Ron took a long drag from his glass, eyeing me steadily. I returned his appraising stare with forced civility.
    In the silence, Liz said, “Thank you both for coming.” She gave Danny