I expected the demon's death to bother me more—to haunt my dreams, or something—but instead I found myself focusing over and over on the demon's last words: "Remember me."
I wasn't sure that I wanted to—he was a vicious, evil killer, and I never wanted to think about some of those things again.
The thing was, there were a lot of things that I didn't want to think about—things that I'd spent years not thinking about—and ignoring them had never really gotten me anywhere.
I think it was time to follow Crowley's advice, and remember.
"When the police finally left her alone, I went to visit Kay Crowley.
She hugged me when she answered the door. No words, no greeting, just a hug. I didn't deserve it, but I hugged her back.
The monster growled, but I stared it down; it remembered this frail woman, and knew how easy she'd be to kill, but I focused all of my energy on self-control. This was far harder than I wanted to admit.
"Thank you for coming," she said, her eyes streaming with tears. Her right eye was bruised black, and I felt sick.
"I'm so sorry."
"Don't be sorry, dear," she said, pulling me into the house. "You didn't do anything but help."
I stared at her closely, studying her face, her eyes, everything. This was the angel that tamed a demon; the soul that trapped him and held him with a power he'd never felt before.
Love. She saw the intensity of my stare, and peered back.
"What's wrong, John?"
"Tell me about him," I said.
"About Bill?"
"Bill Crowley," I said. "I've lived across the street my whole life, but I don't think I really knew him at all. Please tell me."
It was her turn to study me—eyes as deep as wells, watching me from a time long past.
"I met Bill in 1968," she said, leading me to the living room and sitting on the sofa. "We got married two years after that—next May would have been our forty-year anniversary."
I sat across from her and listened.
"We were both in our thirties," she said, "and in those days, in this town, being single and thirty made me an old maid, I'd resigned myself to it, I guess, but then one day, Bill came in looking for a job. I was the secretary in the water office at the time. He was very handsome, and he had an 'old soul'—he wasn't into that hippie stuff like so many people were back then. He was polite, and well-mannered, and he reminded me a little of my grandfather, in the way he always wore a hat, and opened doors for the ladies, and stood up when one walked into a room. He got the job, of course, and I'd see him every morning when he came in—he was always very gracious.
He was the one who started to call me Kay, you know— my real name is Katherine, and everyone called me Katie, or Miss Wood, but he said that even Katie took too long to say, and shortened it to Kay. He was always moving—always doing something new and running from one place to the next. He had a lust for life. I set my sights on him after just a couple of weeks." She laughed softly, and I smiled.
Mr. Crowley's past unfolded before me like a painting, rich in color and texture, and deep with understanding of its subject.
He was not a perfect man, but for a time—for a very long time—he had been a good one.
"We dated for a year before he proposed," Mrs. Crowley continued. "Then one Sunday, we were eating dinner at my parents' house, with all my brothers and sisters and their families, and we were all laughing and talking, and he got up and left the room." She had a faraway look in her eyes. "I followed him out and found him crying in the kitchen. He told me that he'd never 'got it' before; I remember it so clearly, the way he said it: 'I never got it before, Kay. I never got it until now.' He told me he loved me more than anything in heaven or hell— he was very romantic with his words—and asked me rightthere to marry him."
She sat quiedy for a moment, eyes closed, remembering.
"He promised to stay by my side forever, in sickness and in health. . . . In his last days, he was more sickness than health— you saw the way he was—but he told me again, every day. Til stay by your side forever.'"