Title: The Exorkitt
Author: Asp
Rating: Hard R (for gratuitous grodiness)
Disclaimer: The original characters are not owned by me, all others are. But I make no profit from this. Unfortunately
Summary: A two hundred year old curse comes back to haunt the remaining Barstow family.
A/N: As always, many thanks to my beta reader, wife and inspiration, Tomy
The Exorkitt
by Asp
Lightning crackled the night sky as a lone rider galloped past trees, jumping rocky crevasses driving himself and his horse hard for safety. They were back a fair ways, but still there all the same. Led by Trevor Barstow, the closest thing the area had to a law man. The rider was not a criminal. He was a politician. Worse by some peoples standards. There were many in the New England area that believed all politicians were criminals. In 1795, trust was low. There were rumours about England, France, Spain, and other European countries invading. The worst rumours were those that dictated the countries politicians selling out. Of course none of these were true. People just had to have fear in their lives. It seemed that the fear of God wasn't enough these days. The rider knew well about fear. His name was Jean-Pierre LaCroix. One of the very few Frenchmen that had done well for himself. Now he knew it was over. If he got away from Barstow, he would never be able to return. He felt true hate for the first time.
Barstow looked down at his tracker. "Well, which path did he take?" It was more a demand than a question. This man never asked anyone for anything.
The tracker stared back up at the dead eyes of Trevor Barstow. He shivered at what he didn't see there. No remorse. No humanity. Just cold. Looking back down to the path he replied, "Mr. LaCroix did not come this way, sir. As I told you back twenty minutes ago, he turned off and went cross country. No horse nor man has been through this crossing for several hours. We must turn back to where he left the path. Sir."
Barstow's anger rose with every word. He had made a mistake, not that he would admit it. Someone else would pay for that mistake. As they always did. This is why he found himself out in the middle of the night in a thunderstorm chasing that damned LaCroix. He was a patsy. He just happened to be riding out of the inn when the serving girl Barstow had raped and killed was found. Barstow saw him riding out, and without knowing who it was, gathered a posse, and set chase. It was only later that Barstow became aware of who it was that he was chasing. LaCroix was the most respected Frenchman in New England A member of the local government, a catholic, a father and husband. His wife and children had already been arrested and put into slavery. But dammit, they had been chasing LaCroix for eight days. His men were tired. He was tired, and now he found himself making sloppy mistakes. Pulling out his long barreled, single ounce pellet pistol, he casually looked at it, cocked the hammer, aimed it at his tracker's head and pulled the trigger. The effect was devastating. The pellet went in just above the man's left eye. Upon impact with the bone, it caused the bone and pellet to start fragmenting, causing a mass rush toward the back of the head. The 2/5ths inch pellet combined with the cheekbone caused a four inch path of destruction by the time it hit the bone at the back of the head. The force was enough that some contents created a hole in the bone, causing a spray. The tracker toppled straight down in a heap, dead.
Smiling evilly Barstow said, "Truman, take the tracker position, lead us back to the exit point and don't make a mistake." The young man being addressed quivered as he dismounted He was nowhere near as effective a tracker as his friend had been, but he knew enough to hopefully keep himself alive.
LaCroix was galloping quickly across an open field, large trees straight ahead of him when he felt his horse tumble. The exhausted horse had stepped into a hole in the ground, and could not right itself. As both rider and horse went down, the horses withers cracked against a large rock. The rider tumbled safely just past, stopping in a battered heap. Slowly standing up he looked at the horse. It's neck was on an unnatural angle, it's hind legs twitching. He moved towards the dying beast, crouching down by it's head. Crying, he looked into the visible glassy eye. The horse had served him well. Too well. It didn't deserve to die. Putting his hand on the horses cheek, he said goodbye. By the time his hand moved the animal was dead. Gathering his few possessions, LaCroix started off on foot. He knew it was only a matter of time now.
He thought back to the conversation he had had in the last village. He had found out why he was being chased. He was quite sure he knew who had actually done the killing, but of course there was no way to prove it. He also found out that his wife and daughter had been taken into slavery. He would never have a normal life after this. Would never see his beautiful family again. Again he cried, thinking about the pain he had caused his family. His tears of despair started to form into anger. Hate. Revenge. His reverie was interrupted by the sound of horse's hooves in the distance, getting closer. LaCroix just made it to the trees when they appeared. He drew his sword, his only weapon, from it's scabbard, and moved into a defensive position. He was an expert swordsman, but knew that these men carried pistols. It was over.
Trevor Barstow stopped twenty feet in front of the large man holding the sword. A sword, he scoffed to himself. In this day and age. Looking at two of his subordinates, he made a nodding motion with his head toward their captive.
LaCroix watched the men dismount, heard their voices. Ignore everything but their eyes. Follow training. Watch the eyes. The shoulders. One of the men pulled out his pistol. Before he could pull the hammer back, LaCroix lunged. Slicing downward, the tip of the blade sliced through the skin and bone of the wrist. Both hands dropped to the ground. In one fluid motion, LaCroix turned the blade in mid swing, changing the direction of motion. It started slicing upwards. The attacker stopped, dropping to the ground. His intestines starting to spill out. The other attacker moved in behind as quietly as he could. LaCroix heard him. Spinning, bloodlust in his eyes, he lifted the blade up as he spun. The sword entered just beneath the ribcage, traveling on an angle upwards, cutting the man in half. LaCroix dropped to one knee, a large hole in his calf. Barstow put the pistol back in it's holster, and pulled out the second one he carried. Dismounting his horse he walked towards LaCroix, aiming at the other leg. Standing less that five feet away, he pulled the trigger. LaCroix screamed in pain and fury again. Kicking the sword out of the weak hands, Barstow knelt down beside his target. Whispering into his ear, he slowly let it out. "You are going to fall for me. And I thank you for that. As to your wife and beautiful daughter, I know where they are, and I will enjoy them when I'm done with you." Standing back up, Barstow said to the others, "Prepare the rope for a hanging. Then we'll follow an old English tradition for murderers."
Within minutes, LaCroix was hanging by the neck from a tree. But hung in such a way that suffocation was slow. It would take almost a half hour for death. Before that came, he was pulled down, and laid on his back on the grass, his head propped on a rock. Barstow again knelt down beside his quarry, with LaCroix's sword in hand. "Ever witnessed a drawing and quartering? No, I didn't think so. I did once many years ago when I was a small boy in England.. Fascinating."
Wild eyed, LaCroix screamed, "I'll kill you from the grave for this you bastard. You will die. I will have revenge!"
Looking calm, Barstow slowly sliced, using the tip of the weapon from below the navel to just below the ribcage. Then he put his hands in, and while one of his men held LaCroix's eyes open, Barstow started pulling out the contents. The goal was to see how much could be done before the prisoner died. Barstow had experimented with some runaway slaves he had found as a teen, so he knew that he was talented at this. LaCroix was not allowed to pass out, or close his eyes. He was already in a state of shock. It wouldn't be long now. When all of the contents were removed, Barstow threw them onto a fire they had started. That was when the most pain occurred. Death was swift after this moment. But it was this moment, that Barstow had learned to savour. The moment when the victim smelled his own innards roasting. Looking closely into LaCroix's eyes, Trevor Barstow watched the life pass. It was done. Taking the sword in both hands, he began the quartering. Removing the arms and legs, then head, for disposal.
Rising above his body, LaCroix was filled with such rage at what had been done to him. He knew at that moment there was no Heaven, no Hell, other than that which we lived through here on Earth. No God, only the Devil. Looking at Barstow, he knew he would not rest until he reaped his revenge. He settled to the ground, walking away from the scene. He had to find his wife and child.
As he watched his family struggle to survive over the next several years, Jean-Pierre LaCroix did as much research into his abilities as he could. He experimented with entering people's consciences, but never could do it. He could tell it was possible, just not for him. In his endless days and nights, he watched others like himself wander aimlessly. His motions were anything but aimless. They were all designed at wreaking havoc on Barstow and his new family. LaCroix had found he could enter small children, so he did this with the Barstow babies, causing as much damage as possible. By the time the children grew to be young adults, their subconscious minds were corrupted. They couldn't dream without screaming, couldn't let their minds wander without horrid images entering their vision. Unbeknownst to them, and to LaCroix, he had brainwashed them. He felt no remorse. The children of the man who killed him so brutally, then raped his eleven year old daughter, deserved nothing better
1812. LaCroix watched as General Barstow was butchered by his own men. It was a fitting end to the murderer. LaCroix expected to be released from this phantom walk as he had learned it was called. He wasn't.
1876. LaCroix watched as the Barstow winery became more affluent, more wealthy. He wished there was something he could do to this family. They were the descendants of his sworn enemy. He had made a death oath. He continued his self examinations of his abilities.
1947. He found himself moving through the milkiness of space and time, across the land. He heard they were moving to California, to expand the family wineries. As they were his vengeance, he must follow.
1983. LaCroix finally found something he could possess. The personal computer sitting on the desk in the study of Trevor Barstow the sixth was easy picking for the phantom. It was rudimentary, but it would serve his purposes. As Trevor sat down and turned on the power switch, LaCroix allowed a surge of electricity to course out into the finger. Holding him there, he pumped as much power into Barstow as he could. Exhausted, he left the computer, leaving a charred hulk on the desk, and a smoking corpse beside it. Chuckling to himself, he walked away. 'New technology will be the death of people.'
Once Jean-Pierre discovered that he could enter computers, it opened a whole new world for him. Computers were appearing everywhere, and he entered them all. Some were connected by phone line, and he found he could travel from one to another that way. He didn't understand how he could do this, just that he could. In his journeys from computer to computer, he would absorb all of the information there. He learned a great deal about himself. The ghostly self anyway. He also learned how to be more evil. Much more evil. And, he found another Barstow to unleash his hell upon.
Six Years Later
"Michael, I will be very glad to get back to Foundation Headquarters. This desert sand is really starting to play havoc with my minor systems."
"I hear ya buddy. The sun shining through the roof is starting to burn the hell out of my face. At least Bonnie can take care of you, there's not a lot that can be done for me."
"Sunscreen, Michael. Sunscreen," Kitt responded with a sardonic tone.
"It's so nice to be loved," murmured Michael.
A voice came through the car, "You are loved, Michael. Just not by me."
The voice gave Michael shivers down his spine. "Kitt? Where did that voice come from?"
"What voice Michael? I didn't hear anything. What did it say?" Kitt's voice was concerned now, all signs of playfulness gone.
"It said... Never mind, I must have imagined it."
"Wrong again!"
"Kitt! Did you hear it that time?" Michael's voice was rising, as he got more concerned.
"No, Michael. Nothing. I'll run a self diagnosis." A few minutes later, Kitt said, "Michael, there is nothing wrong with my sensors, but what I am finding is two very short blank spots in my memory banks. Both of them coinciding with you hearing another voice."
"Could it be a glitch from one of your minor systems?" Michael started calming down. There was an explanation now.
"It could be Michael, but I find that hypothesis highly unlikely. Unfortunately I don't have much else to use as a theory."
Switching the car into pursuit, accelerating through two hundred miles per hour, the rooster tail spreading almost 100 feet upwards behind them, Michael said, "Let's get home fast, Kitt. I'm still a little worried."
"So you should be," came a very quiet voice, barely audible.
The rest of the drive was spent in silence. Michael was afraid to speak. That voice sounded nothing like his partner. Hell, it barely sounded like it belonged to this world. They drove into the Foundation grounds, immediately heading around the back to the laboratories.
Pulling into bay number 2, Michael got out of the car. Bonnie and RC III were both there. RC was playing with his bike. A newer Yamaha V-Max. It cost him a lot of money, but he loved it, and with the improvements he had made to it, not much would beat it on the road. Two wheeled, or four. Looking up from his work, RC laughed. "Hey, Michael, I know Hallowe'en is in two weeks, but man, you really look like you seen a ghost." When he noticed Michael's scowl, he added, "What's wrong man? You look down right afraid of something."
Turning to Bonnie, Michael asked, "Can you take a thorough look at all of Kitt's systems? He did a self diagnostic, and found a few memory glitches."
Putting her hand on Michael's shoulder, feeling the shiver beneath the muscle, she said, "Sure, Michael, but that's not really a major problem. The effects from the desert could do that."
"There's more, Bonnie. During Kitt's memory lapses, I, uh... I heard another voice. A very unfriendly voice. I'm pretty sure it came from Kitt, but it wasn't him. Hell guys, maybe the desert sun just got to me more than I thought."
"Hey Michael, don't worry man. Bonnie and I'll take care if Kitt for you. Why don't you go take a shower, then crash for a while."
Looking between RC and Bonnie, seeing the resolute worried looks on both their faces, Michael succumbed to their prodding. "All right, you guys, I'm out of here for now, but Let me know as soon as you have anything for me. Okay?"
Escorting the large man to the door, Bonnie said, "Sure Michael. You know that as soon as we find anything we'll call you." With a friendly shove she concluded with a smiling, "Now get out."
Jean-Pierre LaCroix was able to use the cars systems to monitor the three. He had been in and out of these systems for several years now. He had wanted to see just how this Barstow did her work. If there was anything underhanded. It ran in the blood after all. He had seen several small things. Enough for his needs. Not that it would matter. He wanted to torture her. The first part of his plan was complete. He had made contact with the operative Michael Knight. Time to leave this computer, until it's diagnostics have been done at least.
As RC reached into the car from the passenger side, he felt like something had just gone through him. He shivered uncontrollably. Jumping out of the car, his face slightly pale, eyes moving wildly, he dropped the tool that he had been holding, causing a loud crash.
Jean-Pierre smiled as he passed right through the black man. Walking away from the car and people, he shimmered himself out of the area. Tonight he would go and watch some entertainment in the downtown core. He also had someone he wanted to talk to.
For LaCroix, entertainment consisted of muggings, murders and general mayhem. He had been in the vengeance game so long that he couldn't remember how to think any other way. Human suffering was a pleasure. He wasn't alone tonight. With Hallowe'en nearing, the spirits were restless. Wandering through the alleyways of L.A. he came across the only creature he wanted to talk to. The only creature he had talked to since he died. It wasn't human, his purplish skin, red eyes, and abundance of hair made that obvious. He spoke slowly, as if speech itself was an unnatural act. LaCroix would normally give a creature like this wide berth, but several decades ago, he had seen this monster do unspeakably evil acts. At first LaCroix wanted to turn away, run, escape. But he couldn't. He was fixated upon the small creature's habits. It seemed to have certain tastes. Female, young, and apparently he enjoyed fresh bowels. LaCroix had watched as the creature had disemboweled a woman, while she was still alive. It was this that caught LaCroix's attention. The pain, the screams. It was exhilarating, yet disturbing at the time. There had still been a small glimmer of humanity left in him then. Through his acquaintanceship with this creature, he had been able to lose the last vestiges of it. The creature knew of LaCroix's mission, knew his history. When it completed it's meal, it looked towards him.
"LaCroix. Need what?" It struggled the words out.
"I need nothing this evening. Other than some advice."
"Do what?" It spoke as little as it possibly could, occasionally making the conversation seem cryptic.
"I am near the end of my mission. There is only one Barstow left, and I will have taken care of her by the end of the month."
"Not near," the creature moaned.
Confused, LaCroix said, "Yes, the end is near. What do I do then? I am unsure of my future once my vengeance is complete."
The creature startled at a noise at the end of the alley, leaping fifteen feet up the side of the wall. It stopped climbing, looked back down at LaCroix and said, "Not near!" Then it was gone.
Michael walked into the work bay. As he walked beside the car he ran the edge of his fingers along the shiny skin. "How you doin' buddy?"
"Good, Michael. Bonnie has done full diagnostics on my systems. She found the remnants of what appear to be some sort of virus. But we have no idea how it could have gotten in there, nor can we identify it. The strands we found are in essence, complete gibberish."
"But, it's all been cleaned out? No more glitches?" The worry was evident in his voice.
"Yes, Michael. And, no. No more glitches." Kitt's voice held an edge of humour to it.
"No, no more glitches. Just me!" The voice came through Kitt's interior, but not from the voice modulator. Just like before.
"Kitt!" Michael yelled.
"No, Knight. Not Kitt. The computer in this vehicle has now been transferred. I am now in possession of this vehicle. Now, I must make an exit, but before I do..." The voice died off.
Michael felt something against his cheek. Then he screamed. It seemed like he had screamed for eternity. He knelt down, bending at the waist as he did so, vomiting and wretching. His face was ashen, his eyes wild. He stayed like that, shivering as the car backed out of the bay, crashing through the overhead door as it did so. RC and Bonnie came in immediately, as the alarms sounded from the collision. When they saw Michael, the ran to him. When they tried to pick him up, he scurried off into a corner. Eyes wild, froth at the corner of his mouth, he snarled at them.
Bonnie and RC were looking alternately between each other and Michael when Devon walked in asking, "What in blazes is going on here!?" He stopped short when he saw their expressions, then looked at his operative hunched in the corner. "Michael?"
"I don't know what happened Devon," Bonnie began. "Michael was like this when we came in here. Something must have happened with Kitt. He broke out of here, God knows to where."
Picking up the phone, Devon called for one of the duty nurses to bring a sedative. When the nurse arrived, RC cornered Michael, holding him down while the sedative was injected. Soon after Michael collapsed.
'Hello Bonnie' The words appeared on her screen.
"What?" She was sitting at her workstation, using her computer to try to figure out what in Kitt's systems would have made him act the way he did. It had been two days since he left, and they hadn't gotten much from Michael, other than mumblings about a horrible smell. And a voice.
'It's me, Bonnie. Kitt'
That's not possible, she thought.
'I'm in the mainframe, Bonnie. Jean-Pierre LaCroix somehow transferred me here. I tried to fight him. In the process we seemed to share some connection of our consciences. I know why he is here, but I don't understand it.'
Typing rapidly, finally convinced, she asked, 'Who did this, and how?'
'I'm not sure how he did it, Bonnie. What I do know is that he is not exactly human. At least, not anymore. He was murdered over two hundred years ago, apparently by one of your ancestors. He has plagued your family since with misery and death. Now you are the last. What he plans, I do not know.'
Confusion roared in Bonnie's mind like an earthquake. She was rocked to her core. In a way, some of this made sense. No one in her family had ever lived past fifty, and many were dead long before then. Most had been attributed to heart attacks and strokes. The scientist part of her rebelled at the thoughts. 'Kitt, this isn't possible. What you're describing is a ghost. They're a myth. Nobody believes in them, other than in campfire stories and for Hallowe'en. There has to be some sort of an explanation for this.'
'I've done some research on the name, Jean-Pierre LaCroix, Bonnie. Being in the mainframe, I was able to link into all the same sources I normally can, only faster. I discovered that there was a man of that name who was accused of a murder by an ancestor of yours, Trevor Barstow, in 1795. LaCroix was captured after he had killed two other men. He was the only case in the History of the United States to have been drawn and quartered. Witnesses at his execution claimed that he cursed your ancestor, and his family. Trevor Barstow was subsequently murdered by the men he commanded during the war of 1812.'
Bonnie sat dumbfounded. Drawn and quartered? She wasn't even sure of what exactly that was.
Michael awoke, screaming. The touch was still on his face. He could feel it. When he had first felt it, he experienced the worst pain of his life. It was like the pain of every time he had been shot combined. Only worse. When he was shot, he could smell the copper of his blood. But this, the smell associated was horrendous. There were images in his mind, fire, smoke, insane eyes, but nothing that made sense.
He jumped when the door opened. Devon walked in, worried, but trying to smile for his closest friend. "How are you this morning, Michael?"
"Feeling better. Thanks, Devon." Inside, he wanted to scurry away, hide. He didn't know what was wrong with him. Nothing was making any sense.
"Good. Are you feeling up to helping us to find the car?"
What was he talking about? Finding 'the car?' Why didn't he say, Kitt? "What's happened to Kitt, Devon? Where is he?"
"Kitt is in our computer system here, but something has stolen the Knight Two Thousand. The homing beacon was deactivated, but not until after two of our security staff were killed."
"It's killed?" Michael put all the rest of his fears as far back into his mind as he could. Unfortunately, it wasn't far enough for his liking. "Let me get a shower and dress. Let's have everyone meet in an hour."
"I'll arrange everything for you." As Devon turned to leave, he asked, "Are you sure you're up for this? I'm just worried about you, my boy."
Knowing it was a lie, Michael said, "I'm alright Devon. Thanks."
It had been four days, and LaCroix was becoming more adept at controlling the car. After crashing out of the bay, he hadn't gone far before his energy ran out. The computer had put up more of a fight than he had thought possible. And control of the car had been almost beyond him until he learned the subtlety needed. Even now, the effort needed caused him to quickly fatigue. But, it wouldn't be long and he would strengthen.
"Bonnie, you and Kitt have to do a complete history of this guy. We need to know everything. His entire life back in the seventeen hundreds. RC and I will do any legwork needed. What we need is a plan. Some way to get this LaCroix character out of Kitt's body."
Michael had been filled in on all of the details at the beginning of the meeting, causing him to groan in pain. He now knew what the images plaguing his mind were. Somehow the ghost had put it's memories of it's death into him.
"What we do know, Michael, from my brief sharing with him, is that Jean-Pierre LaCroix is out to kill the entire Barstow family. Apparently Bonnie is the last one." Kitt's voice came out of a modulator connected to a laptop computer. "With my body at his disposal, I'm afraid he will have a very easy task of it now."
"Maybe Kitt. But think about it. If it was so easy for him, he would have done it already. Remember that he died long before cars, and for me even, the power in that car took a while to get used to. He may possess your computer, buddy, but he's not you."
"Thank you, Michael."
"Hey, you know guys, I've been thinking. If this guy's a ghost, and he's possessing the car, why don't we just perform an exorcism." RC stopped when everyone in the room gaped at him. Swallowing, he continued. "You know, like the movie?"
Devon shook his head. "Reginald, even if there were someone out there who could actually perform this ritual, how would we convince them to perform it on a car. And then, how would we enable them to do it on a car that can exceed two hundred miles per hour?"
"Hold on, Devon. I think RC might be on to something here." Michael made eye contact with a grateful RC. "We have to examine every possibility..." A wave of panic crashed over him, causing him to collapse to the floor, clutching himself in the fetal position. All he could do was whimper.
RC was on his bike, roaring past other vehicles, exceeding 100 mph. He was angry. Angry at himself. For being scared. He didn't know what was going on with Michael, what had caused his breakdown. It scared him that something like that could happen to him. Fear isn't something RC was used to dealing with, so he dealt with it the only way he knew how. Over power it with anger. RC was originally from Chicago, a predominately Catholic city, and he still had a lot of contacts in the Church there. Those contacts had put him in touch with the Archbishop for the Los Angeles Archdiocese. Which is where he was now heading. He was running late. Not a good thing, to be late for a meeting with an Archbishop. But he had to try to get Michael out of his bed, to come with him. Now the large man was hanging on like a vice on the billet seat.
Michael for his part was actually enjoying the ride, between bouts of panic, caused by both RC's insane driving, and his own battle with insanity. He looked ahead, saw the large church complex, church, school, and orphanage. The Archbishop's office overlooked the playground of the school. As they pulled up to the building, Michael dismounted the bike stretching his legs. He was not looking forward to this meeting. He had been told by RC the church did not officially recognise possessions any more. Which meant they did not perform the ritual of exorcism.
They were led into a spartain but well appointed office. Mahogany utilitarian desk, leather swivel back for it's owner, with two cloth covered guest chairs. A well maintained decorous rug between the door and the desk was the only flash. They approached the Archbishop Gavin Harrow. He rose to greet them slowly, his rather large girth taking time to motivate upwards. He was well dressed in tan slacks, pale yellow shirt with a sky blue tie. On any one else, it would have looked ridiculous. On Harrow, it worked.
"Welcome gentlemen. Coffee?" Harrow looked over at the silver service on a coffee table, surrounded by two well used sofas.
RC spoke for them. "No, Father. Thank you though. We don't want to take any more of your time than normal."
Smiling, Harrow said, "you know, most people address me by either my title, or, Your Excellency. But for the son of Reginald Cornelius, I can accept 'father'. How is your father these days? I haven't seen him for several years." Seeing the stricken look in RC's eyes, he knew something bad had happened.
"Thank you, Your Excellency. My father died four years ago trying to stop a mugging outside his home. He was shot for his effort. By the victim, who then stole his wallet." The memory obviously stung still.
"I'm sorry, RC. What can we do for you two today?" He poured himself a large mug of coffee, sinking into the couch facing the door. RC and Michael sat opposite.
Never one to mince words, RC simply stated, "Well, sir, we think we need an exorcism done." Michael, started, looked at RC, wondering what the hell had happened to the strategy they had devised.
Harrow raised one large eyebrow, a look of quizzical mirth on his face. "You of course know that the church does not officially sanction exorcisms, or any of those teachings. Considered to be too close to witchcraft for the modern church." Seeing the dejected look in the face of the large man, close to tears by the looks of him, he quickly continued. "However, we do have a Catholic Monk coming in three days. He has been known to break every other rule regarding study of these arts, so I would assume he would be well versed in the ritual. May I ask who it is you want to perform this act on?"
Michael had been waiting for this question, so he fielded it. "My car. Or more correctly, the computer in my car."
The archbishop startled both men when he roared with laughter. "Stephen King's previous car?"
Michael and RC looked at each other, then smiled as the context dawned on them. "Christine," Michael said. "No, actually it's a little stranger than fiction, I'm afraid." Which he was. The panic inside started pressing against his mind, raising bile in his throat. Causing his bowels to clench and release in rapid succession. He fought all of it. Willed himself to keep a straight face, for his voice to remain calm. He won the battle, was able to tell the archbishop everything, before he had to run to the adjoining bathroom. When he returned, Harrow and RC lifted their heads from a close, silent conversation.
"RC here has been telling me about your situation. Personally. What happened to you, Michael."
He had left this part out. Hadn't really told anyone the entirety of it. He didn't know why, probably worried they would think him nuts. With a smile to himself, he admitted that maybe he was a little. But now, he found himself recounting the entire story to this unusually, if well dressed man.
He was back on the billet seat of the bike, whizzing past large cars and trucks. Michael's mind was racing as fast as the bike. The archbishop had told them to return in a few days, that the monk would be there. To bring the car, and himself. How were they going to get the car? That was the question that was wracking his brains now. Then it hit him.
He was running through the hallways to Bonnie's lab, anxious to tell her his idea. He hadn't told RC when they arrived, just hopped off the bike and ran. He was hardly looking ahead of him, barely aware of his surroundings at all. His feet flew out from under him, toppling him, sliding along the floor. He hit a wall hard, his head taking the worst of the force. People in offices started popping their heads out, saw the man lying unconscious. Some came running to his aid, others called for medics. The hallway became a kaleidoscope of noise and sound. Through it all, the figure walked through the people, his feet an inch above the floor.
Michael woke almost immediately. His vision fogged by pain. He looked down the hallway from where he had come. He glimpsed the silhouette of a man rounding the corner. Michael gaped. He swore that the man was walking above the ground. He quickly stood, scattering his would be helpers. He barged through the throngs of staff. He got to the corner only seconds later. There was nothing. Nothing but an unnatural coldness. Turning back, he made his way to Bonnie's office. She was waiting for him.
Slumping into a chair, exhausted, he said, "Don't even start. I am way too tired, but I didn't trip. It was done on purpose to me, and I think I know by who." Waiting for the proper dramatic pause, he continued, "LaCroix."
"Michael, how can you be sure? What makes you say this?"
"Bonnie. I saw him. Not clearly, but he was there. For just a moment as I came to, I saw his image, blurred, but it was him. I could feel him. Anyway, that's not why I'm here. I think I've figured out a way to get Kitt's body back for him." At her look, he continued. "Okay, this guy is from a couple centuries ago, been walking the earth with a hate-on for your family. Obviously got to know a bit about computers somehow, but probably not the cutting edge stuff that's in that car. We can use that against him."
"That's your great idea, Michael? I know all of this already, but with the homing signal switched off, there's not a hell of a lot I can do." The anger and frustration showed through for the first time since this had all begun.
Kitt's voice came from one of the computers. "I think I know where you are going with this, Michael. What you're suggesting is that we send out a signal that will be picked up by the receivers on the car."
Michael hadn't known his partner was there, but felt immense relief at hearing his voice. Excitedly he said, "Exactly. Only we don't try to communicate with him. Instead, we install a virus that will lock him down. Hopefully something that can keep him in the car somehow." He didn't know if that last part was possible, but if anyone could do it in less that three days, it would be Bonnie and Kitt.
"Leave it with us, Michael. We'll get it done." Kitt's voice sounded strained, but with some anticipation of the challenges to come.
"Thanks, buddy. Thanks, Bon. I'll see you guys later. I think I'd better see a doctor about my head now." Smiling he took his leave.
LaCroix was back in the car, and rather enjoying it. He had experimented with different systems, almost causing the car to crash several times. The turbo boost test had almost been disastrous. He hadn't expected the power to increase as exponentially as it had. As he went through the databanks during the previous days, he had found a section titled 'Super Pursuit Mode' and 'Emergency Braking System'. He hadn't located the controls for the former yet. He assumed that it had been taken out of the car. But the EBS had almost caused another collision. The braking force was incredible. He went from over 100 miles per hour to a stop in less than 80 feet. Now he was just driving along aimlessly. Every evening he went to Barstow's apartment, waiting for her to arrive. Sooner or later she would have to. She would need something from her home.
RC saw the car approach, then pull off to the side of the road a block away from the townhouse Bonnie's apartment was in. Michael's instincts had been right again. Knowing that LaCroix wouldn't be able to attack her at the headquarters building, they knew that he would have to try elsewhere. He put his helmet on, started the bike, and took off, leaving the black Trans-Am hopelessly waiting.
Michael walked into Devon's office, tired, strained, but finally not feeling afraid. The effects seemed to have worn off since his encounter in the hallway the day before. Bonnie and RC were already waiting, Kitt's voice welcoming him to the office from a speaker in the wall. He sat, waiting for this final strategy meeting, before they went into action.
Devon didn't wait long. "We all know what the overall plan is, to enter a virus strain into the computer to shut the car down. Unfortunately, there is no way to lock Jean-Pierre LaCroix into the computer. He will still be able to leave it. But, I believe I have arrived at a solution. Through various contacts in Europe, and with Kitt's help tracking the history of Trevor Barstow, I have found a rather large number of descendants heretofore unknown of. Apparently Mr. Barstow, as well as being an unlawful, unscrupulous man, was quite promiscuous. He had several illegitimate children from prostitute mothers. All of these women he sent to Europe. He gave them money, and a ticket, that was all. These women, upon arriving in various countries, mostly France and England, adopted the Barstow name for their children. It gave them a certain legitimacy. Now there are over one thousand Barstow's in Europe, all related to Trevor. In Kitt's diatribe with Mr. LaCroix, he found that he believed Bonnie to be the last in his quest for revenge."
"But how is this gonna help us, Devon?" Michael asked.
"What I propose is this," Devon continued. "We inform Mr. LaCroix of these relatives. In the transmission we send to the computer, we attach a list and region of each name."
RC interrupted this time. "Yeah, but Devon, then we're just giving him ammunition. More people for him to attack. With no hope of helping them."
"I understand your concern, Reginald. The hope, of course, is that this will overwhelm him and cause him pause. At least long enough to perform the exorcism. Unfortunately, I see no other option."
"I agree, Devon." Kitt spoke from the wall speaker. "This seems the only choice we have. I'm afraid if we don't do it, I may never get my body back. And the thought of that...that ghoul using my body for his evil Panglossian needs, is just intolerable."
Devon smiled at Kitt's unusual lack of eloquence. Then he looked to his technician, "Bonnie?"
"I have to admit I'm not comfortable putting my extended family in jeopardy like this, but I really don't see any choice."
Michael stood up. "Then it's set. Kitt, assemble the list, being as vague as possible to their location, then let's get the transmission set up. RC and I will go to your apartment and wait for him to show. When he does, we'll call you. You guys send the transmission, and we'll approach the car. Hopefully it will work and we can hook up the tow truck. Brother Mathius, the monk, will be waiting. It's a short drive to the church from there, so we'll have a minimal time lapse between the transmission being sent, and the ritual being done. Everyone good?" There were nods all around. "Good, let's get started then."
RC and Michael had left shortly after the meeting ended, riding RC's Yamaha V-Max to Bonnie's apartment. Waiting was not an easy thing for either man, especially when they were nervous. RC broke the silence. "Yo, Michael, I don't know what we're gonna do if he takes off. I mean, I've done some pretty heavy modifications on this girl, but if he takes off at full speed, we're gonna top out at 160, 170 miles an hour. And that's gonna be one damned scary ride."
"Be glad that the SPM was taken off last year." Michael saw the humour had fallen short. Turning serious he continued, "No really, RC, this is going to work. I know it is. Hey, look, here he comes now."
They watched the black car approach the opposite end of the block, the scanner tracking haphazardly. "Looks like he doesn't have full control of all the systems yet. That works well to our advantage."
He raised his commlink to his mouth saying, "Kitt, we're ready for the transmission now, buddy. Beep me once you're sending."
"Will do, Michael. Good luck."
A few moments later Michael's watch beeped at him, but they didn't need it to know the transmission had been sent. The car looked like it was having a seizure, rocking from side to side, the scanner tracking maniacally, the lights blinking on and off with no discernible pattern.
"Looks like it's working," Michael said to himself.
What the hell is this? LaCroix thought. This has to be falsehoods. They're lying. But something told him they were telling the truth. He had known of the man, his promiscuities. It was completely possible. Now what? Exasperated, he started checking the few systems he had full control over. Nothing was working, and at the same time, with his rage going into high steam, he felt something tugging at him. His mind flailed wildly at the information, the lack of response from the car. Then it happened. The final message from the conscience of the computer that belonged here. It caused him to crack, to shut down temporarily, else he would have lost his mind completely. He needed to recharge, recuperate.
The car turned silent, unmoving. Michael radioed the tow truck into position. In two minutes the car was heading toward the church. RC and Michael followed at a distance.
Gunter Mathius, a rogue Catholic Monk, used to the strange and unreal from his studies, was still trying to get used to the idea of performing an exorcism on a car. But, he had been ordered to do just that, surprisingly, by the Archbishop himself. When they arrived with the car, he ordered the driver of the tow truck to back it into the large garage behind the church. It had been prepared in advance. A large crucifix adorned one wall, rosaries everywhere, a large amount of blessed water. The building had been sanctified by ancient rites, the day before. Everything that could be done, had been done. He hoped. It was not his first exorcism, but he had highly doubted the validity of the claims of the previous ones. There had been two before. Gunter thought it more likely they had just been overly troubled teenagers.
The driver of the tow truck hastily dropped the car after backing it into position, then accelerated quickly out of the area. RC parked his bike outside, and both men walked into the garage. Michael was shocked at the image of Gunter Mathius. He was not what was expected. He had been expecting an older man, plump and balding. The man in front of him was in his early thirties, and obviously did a lot of exercise. Trim at five foot ten, blonde haired, with intense grey eyes. He spoke with a thick German accent. "Do you gentlemen mind stepping outside please. This is not a rite that is allowed to be witnessed by outsiders other than family. And since this is a car..."
"We are family." Michael growled. "We're family to the computer in that car. And that computer is as alive as you or I. And I will not leave him."
RC put a hand on Michael's arm, "Easy Michael. Don't piss him off okay? We need this guy, man."
Gunter recovered from his shock at being spoken to so harshly. "That's alright. You can stay, but you must promise to never declare what you will be witness to. This is, after all, one of the rites that the Church deems dark. Please stay where you are until I am done. And do not converse."
Gunter started the rites by spraying a small amount of the holy water onto the car, speaking loudly in Latin, then weaving his rosary around.
Where am I? What the Hell!? LaCroix came back to consciousness, feeling eerily drawn. He could feel something pulling at him. He tried to switch on the car's sensors. Nothing. None of the systems responded. Frustrated, he tried to leave the car. Something blocked him. He could leave the computer to sit in the car, but he was locked in the cabin. He could see the robed man speaking at a feverish pitch. He almost laughed. An exorcism. He had a few of these performed on him over the years. This one seemed different. This one obviously believed in what he was doing. Was proficient at it. LaCroix screamed in rage and agony.
Michael stood in mute terror as he saw the unearthly glow in the cabin. The noise in the garage was deafening. The monk yelling his chants, wind blowing crazily around them, roaring in their ears, the unhuman screams coming from the car.
Gunter was tiring fast. He had to keep the spirit contained inside the car, and also to advance it on it's way to Heaven or Hell, whichever it was ordained for. But the spirit had an extremely strong will. It was fighting. He had an idea, but how to get the large man standing behind the car to do what he wanted without stopping his rites.
Michael's eyes moved to the monk, caught him making small movements with his hands, motioning to the door of the car. Michael responded by making a motion of opening the door. The monk nodded. Was he nuts? Michael slowly walked to the passenger side, put his hand on the car. It rocked violently toward him. Taking a breath, he opened the door. He regretted it instantly.
FREE! LaCroix flew through the door, and tried to leave the building. He couldn't. Only thing to do then. He pushed himself into Michael Knight's body, taking over the mind. Growling, he advanced on the monk.
Gunter immediately noticed the change in the man. The eyes went dark and lifeless, the face contorted into a grimace. He advanced. Gunter walked to him, dabbing a drop of holy water on Michael's forehead before he could respond. Michael screamed horribly.
LaCroix, screaming, backing away from the body, looked at the other man in the room. He had no choice. He drove himself into RC, charging immediately.
Gunter was waiting for it. He saw the black man's face change to a rictus, waited for the fast charge. Gunter's hand came up and out in a large arc, spewing forth a large quantity of the holy water. It hit RC across the face. He screamed like he had been burned.
LaCroix was so enraged he wasn't thinking clearly. If he had been, he would never had done his next move.
Gunter knew he would be next. He was prepared. He had written scrolls over his entire body. Every inch was covered with one rite or another, except his face. He had drank holy water. He had sanctified his body by bathing in the holy water. He was completely true to his faith. The spirit would not be able to enter him. Both the other men were unconscious on the floor, useless to this spirit.
LaCroix charged for the monk at full speed. He let a short scream out as his impulsion carried him completely to the chanting man. As he hit, he could feel his being dissipating, could feel his second death. He screamed in hatred, but a small part of him, perhaps the only sanity left in his mind, was thankful. It was over.
Gunter felt the impact from the spirit. He fell backwards against the car, then nothing. It was over. He collapsed in exhaustion. He hadn't expected anything like this, but he was glad that he had always been taught to prepare for any eventuality. His last thought before passing into unconsciousness was that this would be wonderful for the book he was writing.
Michael, RC, and Devon were at the door, waiting for a reply. When the door opened, they yelled in unison, "Trick or Treat!" Bonnie jumped back when she first saw them, then laughed. Loud.
As they walked into her apartment they all took of their sheets with holes cut in for eyes. They were laughing, in fine spirits for a Hallowe'en party.
The conversation was friendly, informed. A small discussion of the previous days experiences ensued. "One question, Kitt?", Bonnie said to the commlink on Michael's wrist. "You added an extra bit to the transmission. What was it?"
"Simple, Bonnie. I told LaCroix that he would also have to destroy both the car and myself to fully be rid of the Barstow's. After all, I am your creation."
"Tasty," said the creature, hanging onto the outside wall, looking in the living room window. "Said, not near. Hmmm, tasty..."
Author: Asp
Rating: Hard R (for gratuitous grodiness)
Disclaimer: The original characters are not owned by me, all others are. But I make no profit from this. Unfortunately
Summary: A two hundred year old curse comes back to haunt the remaining Barstow family.
A/N: As always, many thanks to my beta reader, wife and inspiration, Tomy
The Exorkitt
by Asp
Lightning crackled the night sky as a lone rider galloped past trees, jumping rocky crevasses driving himself and his horse hard for safety. They were back a fair ways, but still there all the same. Led by Trevor Barstow, the closest thing the area had to a law man. The rider was not a criminal. He was a politician. Worse by some peoples standards. There were many in the New England area that believed all politicians were criminals. In 1795, trust was low. There were rumours about England, France, Spain, and other European countries invading. The worst rumours were those that dictated the countries politicians selling out. Of course none of these were true. People just had to have fear in their lives. It seemed that the fear of God wasn't enough these days. The rider knew well about fear. His name was Jean-Pierre LaCroix. One of the very few Frenchmen that had done well for himself. Now he knew it was over. If he got away from Barstow, he would never be able to return. He felt true hate for the first time.
Barstow looked down at his tracker. "Well, which path did he take?" It was more a demand than a question. This man never asked anyone for anything.
The tracker stared back up at the dead eyes of Trevor Barstow. He shivered at what he didn't see there. No remorse. No humanity. Just cold. Looking back down to the path he replied, "Mr. LaCroix did not come this way, sir. As I told you back twenty minutes ago, he turned off and went cross country. No horse nor man has been through this crossing for several hours. We must turn back to where he left the path. Sir."
Barstow's anger rose with every word. He had made a mistake, not that he would admit it. Someone else would pay for that mistake. As they always did. This is why he found himself out in the middle of the night in a thunderstorm chasing that damned LaCroix. He was a patsy. He just happened to be riding out of the inn when the serving girl Barstow had raped and killed was found. Barstow saw him riding out, and without knowing who it was, gathered a posse, and set chase. It was only later that Barstow became aware of who it was that he was chasing. LaCroix was the most respected Frenchman in New England A member of the local government, a catholic, a father and husband. His wife and children had already been arrested and put into slavery. But dammit, they had been chasing LaCroix for eight days. His men were tired. He was tired, and now he found himself making sloppy mistakes. Pulling out his long barreled, single ounce pellet pistol, he casually looked at it, cocked the hammer, aimed it at his tracker's head and pulled the trigger. The effect was devastating. The pellet went in just above the man's left eye. Upon impact with the bone, it caused the bone and pellet to start fragmenting, causing a mass rush toward the back of the head. The 2/5ths inch pellet combined with the cheekbone caused a four inch path of destruction by the time it hit the bone at the back of the head. The force was enough that some contents created a hole in the bone, causing a spray. The tracker toppled straight down in a heap, dead.
Smiling evilly Barstow said, "Truman, take the tracker position, lead us back to the exit point and don't make a mistake." The young man being addressed quivered as he dismounted He was nowhere near as effective a tracker as his friend had been, but he knew enough to hopefully keep himself alive.
LaCroix was galloping quickly across an open field, large trees straight ahead of him when he felt his horse tumble. The exhausted horse had stepped into a hole in the ground, and could not right itself. As both rider and horse went down, the horses withers cracked against a large rock. The rider tumbled safely just past, stopping in a battered heap. Slowly standing up he looked at the horse. It's neck was on an unnatural angle, it's hind legs twitching. He moved towards the dying beast, crouching down by it's head. Crying, he looked into the visible glassy eye. The horse had served him well. Too well. It didn't deserve to die. Putting his hand on the horses cheek, he said goodbye. By the time his hand moved the animal was dead. Gathering his few possessions, LaCroix started off on foot. He knew it was only a matter of time now.
He thought back to the conversation he had had in the last village. He had found out why he was being chased. He was quite sure he knew who had actually done the killing, but of course there was no way to prove it. He also found out that his wife and daughter had been taken into slavery. He would never have a normal life after this. Would never see his beautiful family again. Again he cried, thinking about the pain he had caused his family. His tears of despair started to form into anger. Hate. Revenge. His reverie was interrupted by the sound of horse's hooves in the distance, getting closer. LaCroix just made it to the trees when they appeared. He drew his sword, his only weapon, from it's scabbard, and moved into a defensive position. He was an expert swordsman, but knew that these men carried pistols. It was over.
Trevor Barstow stopped twenty feet in front of the large man holding the sword. A sword, he scoffed to himself. In this day and age. Looking at two of his subordinates, he made a nodding motion with his head toward their captive.
LaCroix watched the men dismount, heard their voices. Ignore everything but their eyes. Follow training. Watch the eyes. The shoulders. One of the men pulled out his pistol. Before he could pull the hammer back, LaCroix lunged. Slicing downward, the tip of the blade sliced through the skin and bone of the wrist. Both hands dropped to the ground. In one fluid motion, LaCroix turned the blade in mid swing, changing the direction of motion. It started slicing upwards. The attacker stopped, dropping to the ground. His intestines starting to spill out. The other attacker moved in behind as quietly as he could. LaCroix heard him. Spinning, bloodlust in his eyes, he lifted the blade up as he spun. The sword entered just beneath the ribcage, traveling on an angle upwards, cutting the man in half. LaCroix dropped to one knee, a large hole in his calf. Barstow put the pistol back in it's holster, and pulled out the second one he carried. Dismounting his horse he walked towards LaCroix, aiming at the other leg. Standing less that five feet away, he pulled the trigger. LaCroix screamed in pain and fury again. Kicking the sword out of the weak hands, Barstow knelt down beside his target. Whispering into his ear, he slowly let it out. "You are going to fall for me. And I thank you for that. As to your wife and beautiful daughter, I know where they are, and I will enjoy them when I'm done with you." Standing back up, Barstow said to the others, "Prepare the rope for a hanging. Then we'll follow an old English tradition for murderers."
Within minutes, LaCroix was hanging by the neck from a tree. But hung in such a way that suffocation was slow. It would take almost a half hour for death. Before that came, he was pulled down, and laid on his back on the grass, his head propped on a rock. Barstow again knelt down beside his quarry, with LaCroix's sword in hand. "Ever witnessed a drawing and quartering? No, I didn't think so. I did once many years ago when I was a small boy in England.. Fascinating."
Wild eyed, LaCroix screamed, "I'll kill you from the grave for this you bastard. You will die. I will have revenge!"
Looking calm, Barstow slowly sliced, using the tip of the weapon from below the navel to just below the ribcage. Then he put his hands in, and while one of his men held LaCroix's eyes open, Barstow started pulling out the contents. The goal was to see how much could be done before the prisoner died. Barstow had experimented with some runaway slaves he had found as a teen, so he knew that he was talented at this. LaCroix was not allowed to pass out, or close his eyes. He was already in a state of shock. It wouldn't be long now. When all of the contents were removed, Barstow threw them onto a fire they had started. That was when the most pain occurred. Death was swift after this moment. But it was this moment, that Barstow had learned to savour. The moment when the victim smelled his own innards roasting. Looking closely into LaCroix's eyes, Trevor Barstow watched the life pass. It was done. Taking the sword in both hands, he began the quartering. Removing the arms and legs, then head, for disposal.
Rising above his body, LaCroix was filled with such rage at what had been done to him. He knew at that moment there was no Heaven, no Hell, other than that which we lived through here on Earth. No God, only the Devil. Looking at Barstow, he knew he would not rest until he reaped his revenge. He settled to the ground, walking away from the scene. He had to find his wife and child.
As he watched his family struggle to survive over the next several years, Jean-Pierre LaCroix did as much research into his abilities as he could. He experimented with entering people's consciences, but never could do it. He could tell it was possible, just not for him. In his endless days and nights, he watched others like himself wander aimlessly. His motions were anything but aimless. They were all designed at wreaking havoc on Barstow and his new family. LaCroix had found he could enter small children, so he did this with the Barstow babies, causing as much damage as possible. By the time the children grew to be young adults, their subconscious minds were corrupted. They couldn't dream without screaming, couldn't let their minds wander without horrid images entering their vision. Unbeknownst to them, and to LaCroix, he had brainwashed them. He felt no remorse. The children of the man who killed him so brutally, then raped his eleven year old daughter, deserved nothing better
1812. LaCroix watched as General Barstow was butchered by his own men. It was a fitting end to the murderer. LaCroix expected to be released from this phantom walk as he had learned it was called. He wasn't.
1876. LaCroix watched as the Barstow winery became more affluent, more wealthy. He wished there was something he could do to this family. They were the descendants of his sworn enemy. He had made a death oath. He continued his self examinations of his abilities.
1947. He found himself moving through the milkiness of space and time, across the land. He heard they were moving to California, to expand the family wineries. As they were his vengeance, he must follow.
1983. LaCroix finally found something he could possess. The personal computer sitting on the desk in the study of Trevor Barstow the sixth was easy picking for the phantom. It was rudimentary, but it would serve his purposes. As Trevor sat down and turned on the power switch, LaCroix allowed a surge of electricity to course out into the finger. Holding him there, he pumped as much power into Barstow as he could. Exhausted, he left the computer, leaving a charred hulk on the desk, and a smoking corpse beside it. Chuckling to himself, he walked away. 'New technology will be the death of people.'
Once Jean-Pierre discovered that he could enter computers, it opened a whole new world for him. Computers were appearing everywhere, and he entered them all. Some were connected by phone line, and he found he could travel from one to another that way. He didn't understand how he could do this, just that he could. In his journeys from computer to computer, he would absorb all of the information there. He learned a great deal about himself. The ghostly self anyway. He also learned how to be more evil. Much more evil. And, he found another Barstow to unleash his hell upon.
Six Years Later
"Michael, I will be very glad to get back to Foundation Headquarters. This desert sand is really starting to play havoc with my minor systems."
"I hear ya buddy. The sun shining through the roof is starting to burn the hell out of my face. At least Bonnie can take care of you, there's not a lot that can be done for me."
"Sunscreen, Michael. Sunscreen," Kitt responded with a sardonic tone.
"It's so nice to be loved," murmured Michael.
A voice came through the car, "You are loved, Michael. Just not by me."
The voice gave Michael shivers down his spine. "Kitt? Where did that voice come from?"
"What voice Michael? I didn't hear anything. What did it say?" Kitt's voice was concerned now, all signs of playfulness gone.
"It said... Never mind, I must have imagined it."
"Wrong again!"
"Kitt! Did you hear it that time?" Michael's voice was rising, as he got more concerned.
"No, Michael. Nothing. I'll run a self diagnosis." A few minutes later, Kitt said, "Michael, there is nothing wrong with my sensors, but what I am finding is two very short blank spots in my memory banks. Both of them coinciding with you hearing another voice."
"Could it be a glitch from one of your minor systems?" Michael started calming down. There was an explanation now.
"It could be Michael, but I find that hypothesis highly unlikely. Unfortunately I don't have much else to use as a theory."
Switching the car into pursuit, accelerating through two hundred miles per hour, the rooster tail spreading almost 100 feet upwards behind them, Michael said, "Let's get home fast, Kitt. I'm still a little worried."
"So you should be," came a very quiet voice, barely audible.
The rest of the drive was spent in silence. Michael was afraid to speak. That voice sounded nothing like his partner. Hell, it barely sounded like it belonged to this world. They drove into the Foundation grounds, immediately heading around the back to the laboratories.
Pulling into bay number 2, Michael got out of the car. Bonnie and RC III were both there. RC was playing with his bike. A newer Yamaha V-Max. It cost him a lot of money, but he loved it, and with the improvements he had made to it, not much would beat it on the road. Two wheeled, or four. Looking up from his work, RC laughed. "Hey, Michael, I know Hallowe'en is in two weeks, but man, you really look like you seen a ghost." When he noticed Michael's scowl, he added, "What's wrong man? You look down right afraid of something."
Turning to Bonnie, Michael asked, "Can you take a thorough look at all of Kitt's systems? He did a self diagnostic, and found a few memory glitches."
Putting her hand on Michael's shoulder, feeling the shiver beneath the muscle, she said, "Sure, Michael, but that's not really a major problem. The effects from the desert could do that."
"There's more, Bonnie. During Kitt's memory lapses, I, uh... I heard another voice. A very unfriendly voice. I'm pretty sure it came from Kitt, but it wasn't him. Hell guys, maybe the desert sun just got to me more than I thought."
"Hey Michael, don't worry man. Bonnie and I'll take care if Kitt for you. Why don't you go take a shower, then crash for a while."
Looking between RC and Bonnie, seeing the resolute worried looks on both their faces, Michael succumbed to their prodding. "All right, you guys, I'm out of here for now, but Let me know as soon as you have anything for me. Okay?"
Escorting the large man to the door, Bonnie said, "Sure Michael. You know that as soon as we find anything we'll call you." With a friendly shove she concluded with a smiling, "Now get out."
Jean-Pierre LaCroix was able to use the cars systems to monitor the three. He had been in and out of these systems for several years now. He had wanted to see just how this Barstow did her work. If there was anything underhanded. It ran in the blood after all. He had seen several small things. Enough for his needs. Not that it would matter. He wanted to torture her. The first part of his plan was complete. He had made contact with the operative Michael Knight. Time to leave this computer, until it's diagnostics have been done at least.
As RC reached into the car from the passenger side, he felt like something had just gone through him. He shivered uncontrollably. Jumping out of the car, his face slightly pale, eyes moving wildly, he dropped the tool that he had been holding, causing a loud crash.
Jean-Pierre smiled as he passed right through the black man. Walking away from the car and people, he shimmered himself out of the area. Tonight he would go and watch some entertainment in the downtown core. He also had someone he wanted to talk to.
For LaCroix, entertainment consisted of muggings, murders and general mayhem. He had been in the vengeance game so long that he couldn't remember how to think any other way. Human suffering was a pleasure. He wasn't alone tonight. With Hallowe'en nearing, the spirits were restless. Wandering through the alleyways of L.A. he came across the only creature he wanted to talk to. The only creature he had talked to since he died. It wasn't human, his purplish skin, red eyes, and abundance of hair made that obvious. He spoke slowly, as if speech itself was an unnatural act. LaCroix would normally give a creature like this wide berth, but several decades ago, he had seen this monster do unspeakably evil acts. At first LaCroix wanted to turn away, run, escape. But he couldn't. He was fixated upon the small creature's habits. It seemed to have certain tastes. Female, young, and apparently he enjoyed fresh bowels. LaCroix had watched as the creature had disemboweled a woman, while she was still alive. It was this that caught LaCroix's attention. The pain, the screams. It was exhilarating, yet disturbing at the time. There had still been a small glimmer of humanity left in him then. Through his acquaintanceship with this creature, he had been able to lose the last vestiges of it. The creature knew of LaCroix's mission, knew his history. When it completed it's meal, it looked towards him.
"LaCroix. Need what?" It struggled the words out.
"I need nothing this evening. Other than some advice."
"Do what?" It spoke as little as it possibly could, occasionally making the conversation seem cryptic.
"I am near the end of my mission. There is only one Barstow left, and I will have taken care of her by the end of the month."
"Not near," the creature moaned.
Confused, LaCroix said, "Yes, the end is near. What do I do then? I am unsure of my future once my vengeance is complete."
The creature startled at a noise at the end of the alley, leaping fifteen feet up the side of the wall. It stopped climbing, looked back down at LaCroix and said, "Not near!" Then it was gone.
Michael walked into the work bay. As he walked beside the car he ran the edge of his fingers along the shiny skin. "How you doin' buddy?"
"Good, Michael. Bonnie has done full diagnostics on my systems. She found the remnants of what appear to be some sort of virus. But we have no idea how it could have gotten in there, nor can we identify it. The strands we found are in essence, complete gibberish."
"But, it's all been cleaned out? No more glitches?" The worry was evident in his voice.
"Yes, Michael. And, no. No more glitches." Kitt's voice held an edge of humour to it.
"No, no more glitches. Just me!" The voice came through Kitt's interior, but not from the voice modulator. Just like before.
"Kitt!" Michael yelled.
"No, Knight. Not Kitt. The computer in this vehicle has now been transferred. I am now in possession of this vehicle. Now, I must make an exit, but before I do..." The voice died off.
Michael felt something against his cheek. Then he screamed. It seemed like he had screamed for eternity. He knelt down, bending at the waist as he did so, vomiting and wretching. His face was ashen, his eyes wild. He stayed like that, shivering as the car backed out of the bay, crashing through the overhead door as it did so. RC and Bonnie came in immediately, as the alarms sounded from the collision. When they saw Michael, the ran to him. When they tried to pick him up, he scurried off into a corner. Eyes wild, froth at the corner of his mouth, he snarled at them.
Bonnie and RC were looking alternately between each other and Michael when Devon walked in asking, "What in blazes is going on here!?" He stopped short when he saw their expressions, then looked at his operative hunched in the corner. "Michael?"
"I don't know what happened Devon," Bonnie began. "Michael was like this when we came in here. Something must have happened with Kitt. He broke out of here, God knows to where."
Picking up the phone, Devon called for one of the duty nurses to bring a sedative. When the nurse arrived, RC cornered Michael, holding him down while the sedative was injected. Soon after Michael collapsed.
'Hello Bonnie' The words appeared on her screen.
"What?" She was sitting at her workstation, using her computer to try to figure out what in Kitt's systems would have made him act the way he did. It had been two days since he left, and they hadn't gotten much from Michael, other than mumblings about a horrible smell. And a voice.
'It's me, Bonnie. Kitt'
That's not possible, she thought.
'I'm in the mainframe, Bonnie. Jean-Pierre LaCroix somehow transferred me here. I tried to fight him. In the process we seemed to share some connection of our consciences. I know why he is here, but I don't understand it.'
Typing rapidly, finally convinced, she asked, 'Who did this, and how?'
'I'm not sure how he did it, Bonnie. What I do know is that he is not exactly human. At least, not anymore. He was murdered over two hundred years ago, apparently by one of your ancestors. He has plagued your family since with misery and death. Now you are the last. What he plans, I do not know.'
Confusion roared in Bonnie's mind like an earthquake. She was rocked to her core. In a way, some of this made sense. No one in her family had ever lived past fifty, and many were dead long before then. Most had been attributed to heart attacks and strokes. The scientist part of her rebelled at the thoughts. 'Kitt, this isn't possible. What you're describing is a ghost. They're a myth. Nobody believes in them, other than in campfire stories and for Hallowe'en. There has to be some sort of an explanation for this.'
'I've done some research on the name, Jean-Pierre LaCroix, Bonnie. Being in the mainframe, I was able to link into all the same sources I normally can, only faster. I discovered that there was a man of that name who was accused of a murder by an ancestor of yours, Trevor Barstow, in 1795. LaCroix was captured after he had killed two other men. He was the only case in the History of the United States to have been drawn and quartered. Witnesses at his execution claimed that he cursed your ancestor, and his family. Trevor Barstow was subsequently murdered by the men he commanded during the war of 1812.'
Bonnie sat dumbfounded. Drawn and quartered? She wasn't even sure of what exactly that was.
Michael awoke, screaming. The touch was still on his face. He could feel it. When he had first felt it, he experienced the worst pain of his life. It was like the pain of every time he had been shot combined. Only worse. When he was shot, he could smell the copper of his blood. But this, the smell associated was horrendous. There were images in his mind, fire, smoke, insane eyes, but nothing that made sense.
He jumped when the door opened. Devon walked in, worried, but trying to smile for his closest friend. "How are you this morning, Michael?"
"Feeling better. Thanks, Devon." Inside, he wanted to scurry away, hide. He didn't know what was wrong with him. Nothing was making any sense.
"Good. Are you feeling up to helping us to find the car?"
What was he talking about? Finding 'the car?' Why didn't he say, Kitt? "What's happened to Kitt, Devon? Where is he?"
"Kitt is in our computer system here, but something has stolen the Knight Two Thousand. The homing beacon was deactivated, but not until after two of our security staff were killed."
"It's killed?" Michael put all the rest of his fears as far back into his mind as he could. Unfortunately, it wasn't far enough for his liking. "Let me get a shower and dress. Let's have everyone meet in an hour."
"I'll arrange everything for you." As Devon turned to leave, he asked, "Are you sure you're up for this? I'm just worried about you, my boy."
Knowing it was a lie, Michael said, "I'm alright Devon. Thanks."
It had been four days, and LaCroix was becoming more adept at controlling the car. After crashing out of the bay, he hadn't gone far before his energy ran out. The computer had put up more of a fight than he had thought possible. And control of the car had been almost beyond him until he learned the subtlety needed. Even now, the effort needed caused him to quickly fatigue. But, it wouldn't be long and he would strengthen.
"Bonnie, you and Kitt have to do a complete history of this guy. We need to know everything. His entire life back in the seventeen hundreds. RC and I will do any legwork needed. What we need is a plan. Some way to get this LaCroix character out of Kitt's body."
Michael had been filled in on all of the details at the beginning of the meeting, causing him to groan in pain. He now knew what the images plaguing his mind were. Somehow the ghost had put it's memories of it's death into him.
"What we do know, Michael, from my brief sharing with him, is that Jean-Pierre LaCroix is out to kill the entire Barstow family. Apparently Bonnie is the last one." Kitt's voice came out of a modulator connected to a laptop computer. "With my body at his disposal, I'm afraid he will have a very easy task of it now."
"Maybe Kitt. But think about it. If it was so easy for him, he would have done it already. Remember that he died long before cars, and for me even, the power in that car took a while to get used to. He may possess your computer, buddy, but he's not you."
"Thank you, Michael."
"Hey, you know guys, I've been thinking. If this guy's a ghost, and he's possessing the car, why don't we just perform an exorcism." RC stopped when everyone in the room gaped at him. Swallowing, he continued. "You know, like the movie?"
Devon shook his head. "Reginald, even if there were someone out there who could actually perform this ritual, how would we convince them to perform it on a car. And then, how would we enable them to do it on a car that can exceed two hundred miles per hour?"
"Hold on, Devon. I think RC might be on to something here." Michael made eye contact with a grateful RC. "We have to examine every possibility..." A wave of panic crashed over him, causing him to collapse to the floor, clutching himself in the fetal position. All he could do was whimper.
RC was on his bike, roaring past other vehicles, exceeding 100 mph. He was angry. Angry at himself. For being scared. He didn't know what was going on with Michael, what had caused his breakdown. It scared him that something like that could happen to him. Fear isn't something RC was used to dealing with, so he dealt with it the only way he knew how. Over power it with anger. RC was originally from Chicago, a predominately Catholic city, and he still had a lot of contacts in the Church there. Those contacts had put him in touch with the Archbishop for the Los Angeles Archdiocese. Which is where he was now heading. He was running late. Not a good thing, to be late for a meeting with an Archbishop. But he had to try to get Michael out of his bed, to come with him. Now the large man was hanging on like a vice on the billet seat.
Michael for his part was actually enjoying the ride, between bouts of panic, caused by both RC's insane driving, and his own battle with insanity. He looked ahead, saw the large church complex, church, school, and orphanage. The Archbishop's office overlooked the playground of the school. As they pulled up to the building, Michael dismounted the bike stretching his legs. He was not looking forward to this meeting. He had been told by RC the church did not officially recognise possessions any more. Which meant they did not perform the ritual of exorcism.
They were led into a spartain but well appointed office. Mahogany utilitarian desk, leather swivel back for it's owner, with two cloth covered guest chairs. A well maintained decorous rug between the door and the desk was the only flash. They approached the Archbishop Gavin Harrow. He rose to greet them slowly, his rather large girth taking time to motivate upwards. He was well dressed in tan slacks, pale yellow shirt with a sky blue tie. On any one else, it would have looked ridiculous. On Harrow, it worked.
"Welcome gentlemen. Coffee?" Harrow looked over at the silver service on a coffee table, surrounded by two well used sofas.
RC spoke for them. "No, Father. Thank you though. We don't want to take any more of your time than normal."
Smiling, Harrow said, "you know, most people address me by either my title, or, Your Excellency. But for the son of Reginald Cornelius, I can accept 'father'. How is your father these days? I haven't seen him for several years." Seeing the stricken look in RC's eyes, he knew something bad had happened.
"Thank you, Your Excellency. My father died four years ago trying to stop a mugging outside his home. He was shot for his effort. By the victim, who then stole his wallet." The memory obviously stung still.
"I'm sorry, RC. What can we do for you two today?" He poured himself a large mug of coffee, sinking into the couch facing the door. RC and Michael sat opposite.
Never one to mince words, RC simply stated, "Well, sir, we think we need an exorcism done." Michael, started, looked at RC, wondering what the hell had happened to the strategy they had devised.
Harrow raised one large eyebrow, a look of quizzical mirth on his face. "You of course know that the church does not officially sanction exorcisms, or any of those teachings. Considered to be too close to witchcraft for the modern church." Seeing the dejected look in the face of the large man, close to tears by the looks of him, he quickly continued. "However, we do have a Catholic Monk coming in three days. He has been known to break every other rule regarding study of these arts, so I would assume he would be well versed in the ritual. May I ask who it is you want to perform this act on?"
Michael had been waiting for this question, so he fielded it. "My car. Or more correctly, the computer in my car."
The archbishop startled both men when he roared with laughter. "Stephen King's previous car?"
Michael and RC looked at each other, then smiled as the context dawned on them. "Christine," Michael said. "No, actually it's a little stranger than fiction, I'm afraid." Which he was. The panic inside started pressing against his mind, raising bile in his throat. Causing his bowels to clench and release in rapid succession. He fought all of it. Willed himself to keep a straight face, for his voice to remain calm. He won the battle, was able to tell the archbishop everything, before he had to run to the adjoining bathroom. When he returned, Harrow and RC lifted their heads from a close, silent conversation.
"RC here has been telling me about your situation. Personally. What happened to you, Michael."
He had left this part out. Hadn't really told anyone the entirety of it. He didn't know why, probably worried they would think him nuts. With a smile to himself, he admitted that maybe he was a little. But now, he found himself recounting the entire story to this unusually, if well dressed man.
He was back on the billet seat of the bike, whizzing past large cars and trucks. Michael's mind was racing as fast as the bike. The archbishop had told them to return in a few days, that the monk would be there. To bring the car, and himself. How were they going to get the car? That was the question that was wracking his brains now. Then it hit him.
He was running through the hallways to Bonnie's lab, anxious to tell her his idea. He hadn't told RC when they arrived, just hopped off the bike and ran. He was hardly looking ahead of him, barely aware of his surroundings at all. His feet flew out from under him, toppling him, sliding along the floor. He hit a wall hard, his head taking the worst of the force. People in offices started popping their heads out, saw the man lying unconscious. Some came running to his aid, others called for medics. The hallway became a kaleidoscope of noise and sound. Through it all, the figure walked through the people, his feet an inch above the floor.
Michael woke almost immediately. His vision fogged by pain. He looked down the hallway from where he had come. He glimpsed the silhouette of a man rounding the corner. Michael gaped. He swore that the man was walking above the ground. He quickly stood, scattering his would be helpers. He barged through the throngs of staff. He got to the corner only seconds later. There was nothing. Nothing but an unnatural coldness. Turning back, he made his way to Bonnie's office. She was waiting for him.
Slumping into a chair, exhausted, he said, "Don't even start. I am way too tired, but I didn't trip. It was done on purpose to me, and I think I know by who." Waiting for the proper dramatic pause, he continued, "LaCroix."
"Michael, how can you be sure? What makes you say this?"
"Bonnie. I saw him. Not clearly, but he was there. For just a moment as I came to, I saw his image, blurred, but it was him. I could feel him. Anyway, that's not why I'm here. I think I've figured out a way to get Kitt's body back for him." At her look, he continued. "Okay, this guy is from a couple centuries ago, been walking the earth with a hate-on for your family. Obviously got to know a bit about computers somehow, but probably not the cutting edge stuff that's in that car. We can use that against him."
"That's your great idea, Michael? I know all of this already, but with the homing signal switched off, there's not a hell of a lot I can do." The anger and frustration showed through for the first time since this had all begun.
Kitt's voice came from one of the computers. "I think I know where you are going with this, Michael. What you're suggesting is that we send out a signal that will be picked up by the receivers on the car."
Michael hadn't known his partner was there, but felt immense relief at hearing his voice. Excitedly he said, "Exactly. Only we don't try to communicate with him. Instead, we install a virus that will lock him down. Hopefully something that can keep him in the car somehow." He didn't know if that last part was possible, but if anyone could do it in less that three days, it would be Bonnie and Kitt.
"Leave it with us, Michael. We'll get it done." Kitt's voice sounded strained, but with some anticipation of the challenges to come.
"Thanks, buddy. Thanks, Bon. I'll see you guys later. I think I'd better see a doctor about my head now." Smiling he took his leave.
LaCroix was back in the car, and rather enjoying it. He had experimented with different systems, almost causing the car to crash several times. The turbo boost test had almost been disastrous. He hadn't expected the power to increase as exponentially as it had. As he went through the databanks during the previous days, he had found a section titled 'Super Pursuit Mode' and 'Emergency Braking System'. He hadn't located the controls for the former yet. He assumed that it had been taken out of the car. But the EBS had almost caused another collision. The braking force was incredible. He went from over 100 miles per hour to a stop in less than 80 feet. Now he was just driving along aimlessly. Every evening he went to Barstow's apartment, waiting for her to arrive. Sooner or later she would have to. She would need something from her home.
RC saw the car approach, then pull off to the side of the road a block away from the townhouse Bonnie's apartment was in. Michael's instincts had been right again. Knowing that LaCroix wouldn't be able to attack her at the headquarters building, they knew that he would have to try elsewhere. He put his helmet on, started the bike, and took off, leaving the black Trans-Am hopelessly waiting.
Michael walked into Devon's office, tired, strained, but finally not feeling afraid. The effects seemed to have worn off since his encounter in the hallway the day before. Bonnie and RC were already waiting, Kitt's voice welcoming him to the office from a speaker in the wall. He sat, waiting for this final strategy meeting, before they went into action.
Devon didn't wait long. "We all know what the overall plan is, to enter a virus strain into the computer to shut the car down. Unfortunately, there is no way to lock Jean-Pierre LaCroix into the computer. He will still be able to leave it. But, I believe I have arrived at a solution. Through various contacts in Europe, and with Kitt's help tracking the history of Trevor Barstow, I have found a rather large number of descendants heretofore unknown of. Apparently Mr. Barstow, as well as being an unlawful, unscrupulous man, was quite promiscuous. He had several illegitimate children from prostitute mothers. All of these women he sent to Europe. He gave them money, and a ticket, that was all. These women, upon arriving in various countries, mostly France and England, adopted the Barstow name for their children. It gave them a certain legitimacy. Now there are over one thousand Barstow's in Europe, all related to Trevor. In Kitt's diatribe with Mr. LaCroix, he found that he believed Bonnie to be the last in his quest for revenge."
"But how is this gonna help us, Devon?" Michael asked.
"What I propose is this," Devon continued. "We inform Mr. LaCroix of these relatives. In the transmission we send to the computer, we attach a list and region of each name."
RC interrupted this time. "Yeah, but Devon, then we're just giving him ammunition. More people for him to attack. With no hope of helping them."
"I understand your concern, Reginald. The hope, of course, is that this will overwhelm him and cause him pause. At least long enough to perform the exorcism. Unfortunately, I see no other option."
"I agree, Devon." Kitt spoke from the wall speaker. "This seems the only choice we have. I'm afraid if we don't do it, I may never get my body back. And the thought of that...that ghoul using my body for his evil Panglossian needs, is just intolerable."
Devon smiled at Kitt's unusual lack of eloquence. Then he looked to his technician, "Bonnie?"
"I have to admit I'm not comfortable putting my extended family in jeopardy like this, but I really don't see any choice."
Michael stood up. "Then it's set. Kitt, assemble the list, being as vague as possible to their location, then let's get the transmission set up. RC and I will go to your apartment and wait for him to show. When he does, we'll call you. You guys send the transmission, and we'll approach the car. Hopefully it will work and we can hook up the tow truck. Brother Mathius, the monk, will be waiting. It's a short drive to the church from there, so we'll have a minimal time lapse between the transmission being sent, and the ritual being done. Everyone good?" There were nods all around. "Good, let's get started then."
RC and Michael had left shortly after the meeting ended, riding RC's Yamaha V-Max to Bonnie's apartment. Waiting was not an easy thing for either man, especially when they were nervous. RC broke the silence. "Yo, Michael, I don't know what we're gonna do if he takes off. I mean, I've done some pretty heavy modifications on this girl, but if he takes off at full speed, we're gonna top out at 160, 170 miles an hour. And that's gonna be one damned scary ride."
"Be glad that the SPM was taken off last year." Michael saw the humour had fallen short. Turning serious he continued, "No really, RC, this is going to work. I know it is. Hey, look, here he comes now."
They watched the black car approach the opposite end of the block, the scanner tracking haphazardly. "Looks like he doesn't have full control of all the systems yet. That works well to our advantage."
He raised his commlink to his mouth saying, "Kitt, we're ready for the transmission now, buddy. Beep me once you're sending."
"Will do, Michael. Good luck."
A few moments later Michael's watch beeped at him, but they didn't need it to know the transmission had been sent. The car looked like it was having a seizure, rocking from side to side, the scanner tracking maniacally, the lights blinking on and off with no discernible pattern.
"Looks like it's working," Michael said to himself.
What the hell is this? LaCroix thought. This has to be falsehoods. They're lying. But something told him they were telling the truth. He had known of the man, his promiscuities. It was completely possible. Now what? Exasperated, he started checking the few systems he had full control over. Nothing was working, and at the same time, with his rage going into high steam, he felt something tugging at him. His mind flailed wildly at the information, the lack of response from the car. Then it happened. The final message from the conscience of the computer that belonged here. It caused him to crack, to shut down temporarily, else he would have lost his mind completely. He needed to recharge, recuperate.
The car turned silent, unmoving. Michael radioed the tow truck into position. In two minutes the car was heading toward the church. RC and Michael followed at a distance.
Gunter Mathius, a rogue Catholic Monk, used to the strange and unreal from his studies, was still trying to get used to the idea of performing an exorcism on a car. But, he had been ordered to do just that, surprisingly, by the Archbishop himself. When they arrived with the car, he ordered the driver of the tow truck to back it into the large garage behind the church. It had been prepared in advance. A large crucifix adorned one wall, rosaries everywhere, a large amount of blessed water. The building had been sanctified by ancient rites, the day before. Everything that could be done, had been done. He hoped. It was not his first exorcism, but he had highly doubted the validity of the claims of the previous ones. There had been two before. Gunter thought it more likely they had just been overly troubled teenagers.
The driver of the tow truck hastily dropped the car after backing it into position, then accelerated quickly out of the area. RC parked his bike outside, and both men walked into the garage. Michael was shocked at the image of Gunter Mathius. He was not what was expected. He had been expecting an older man, plump and balding. The man in front of him was in his early thirties, and obviously did a lot of exercise. Trim at five foot ten, blonde haired, with intense grey eyes. He spoke with a thick German accent. "Do you gentlemen mind stepping outside please. This is not a rite that is allowed to be witnessed by outsiders other than family. And since this is a car..."
"We are family." Michael growled. "We're family to the computer in that car. And that computer is as alive as you or I. And I will not leave him."
RC put a hand on Michael's arm, "Easy Michael. Don't piss him off okay? We need this guy, man."
Gunter recovered from his shock at being spoken to so harshly. "That's alright. You can stay, but you must promise to never declare what you will be witness to. This is, after all, one of the rites that the Church deems dark. Please stay where you are until I am done. And do not converse."
Gunter started the rites by spraying a small amount of the holy water onto the car, speaking loudly in Latin, then weaving his rosary around.
Where am I? What the Hell!? LaCroix came back to consciousness, feeling eerily drawn. He could feel something pulling at him. He tried to switch on the car's sensors. Nothing. None of the systems responded. Frustrated, he tried to leave the car. Something blocked him. He could leave the computer to sit in the car, but he was locked in the cabin. He could see the robed man speaking at a feverish pitch. He almost laughed. An exorcism. He had a few of these performed on him over the years. This one seemed different. This one obviously believed in what he was doing. Was proficient at it. LaCroix screamed in rage and agony.
Michael stood in mute terror as he saw the unearthly glow in the cabin. The noise in the garage was deafening. The monk yelling his chants, wind blowing crazily around them, roaring in their ears, the unhuman screams coming from the car.
Gunter was tiring fast. He had to keep the spirit contained inside the car, and also to advance it on it's way to Heaven or Hell, whichever it was ordained for. But the spirit had an extremely strong will. It was fighting. He had an idea, but how to get the large man standing behind the car to do what he wanted without stopping his rites.
Michael's eyes moved to the monk, caught him making small movements with his hands, motioning to the door of the car. Michael responded by making a motion of opening the door. The monk nodded. Was he nuts? Michael slowly walked to the passenger side, put his hand on the car. It rocked violently toward him. Taking a breath, he opened the door. He regretted it instantly.
FREE! LaCroix flew through the door, and tried to leave the building. He couldn't. Only thing to do then. He pushed himself into Michael Knight's body, taking over the mind. Growling, he advanced on the monk.
Gunter immediately noticed the change in the man. The eyes went dark and lifeless, the face contorted into a grimace. He advanced. Gunter walked to him, dabbing a drop of holy water on Michael's forehead before he could respond. Michael screamed horribly.
LaCroix, screaming, backing away from the body, looked at the other man in the room. He had no choice. He drove himself into RC, charging immediately.
Gunter was waiting for it. He saw the black man's face change to a rictus, waited for the fast charge. Gunter's hand came up and out in a large arc, spewing forth a large quantity of the holy water. It hit RC across the face. He screamed like he had been burned.
LaCroix was so enraged he wasn't thinking clearly. If he had been, he would never had done his next move.
Gunter knew he would be next. He was prepared. He had written scrolls over his entire body. Every inch was covered with one rite or another, except his face. He had drank holy water. He had sanctified his body by bathing in the holy water. He was completely true to his faith. The spirit would not be able to enter him. Both the other men were unconscious on the floor, useless to this spirit.
LaCroix charged for the monk at full speed. He let a short scream out as his impulsion carried him completely to the chanting man. As he hit, he could feel his being dissipating, could feel his second death. He screamed in hatred, but a small part of him, perhaps the only sanity left in his mind, was thankful. It was over.
Gunter felt the impact from the spirit. He fell backwards against the car, then nothing. It was over. He collapsed in exhaustion. He hadn't expected anything like this, but he was glad that he had always been taught to prepare for any eventuality. His last thought before passing into unconsciousness was that this would be wonderful for the book he was writing.
Michael, RC, and Devon were at the door, waiting for a reply. When the door opened, they yelled in unison, "Trick or Treat!" Bonnie jumped back when she first saw them, then laughed. Loud.
As they walked into her apartment they all took of their sheets with holes cut in for eyes. They were laughing, in fine spirits for a Hallowe'en party.
The conversation was friendly, informed. A small discussion of the previous days experiences ensued. "One question, Kitt?", Bonnie said to the commlink on Michael's wrist. "You added an extra bit to the transmission. What was it?"
"Simple, Bonnie. I told LaCroix that he would also have to destroy both the car and myself to fully be rid of the Barstow's. After all, I am your creation."
"Tasty," said the creature, hanging onto the outside wall, looking in the living room window. "Said, not near. Hmmm, tasty..."