“Yeah, I know Father Karras,” he said. “His office ain’t around here.”

“Where is it?” I asked.

He looked at his oversized pocket watch, then appeared to verify its reading by looking at the sun. “Well, okay, I’ll take you there, but we’ll have to walk fast.”

“We’ll keep up.”

“Father Karras doesn’t get many people looking for him,” the man said. “In fact, I can’t remember anyone coming to look for him. His rooms are next to his office, so he doesn’t come out much.”

He led us to the far edge of the campus, past an old gymnasium and to a raggedy, two-level building next to the physical plant.

“He’s inside there, top of the stairs,” the man said over the stuttering roar of machinery. He checked his watch again.

I thanked him and watched him trot away.

The large dirty windows let in dirty light that filled a large dirty room. A single heavy punching bag hung from a thick pipe on the ceiling. We walked up the metal stairs to the second level, a mezzanine that wrapped around the perimeter of the building. A sign on the first door read Karras. I knocked.

The door swung open. A sixty-year-old man faced us, thick gray brows hovered over his bloodshot eyes, his face set in a frown. He was dressed in a frock and collar and no trousers. “What do you want?”

“Father Karras? Damien Karras?”

He focused. “I know you,” he said. “You’re the nothing guy.”

“Wala Kitu.”

“Yeah, I remember. That was back when my research meant a goddamn to me. Chicago, right?”

I nodded.

“What the fucking hell are you doing here?” He looked at Eigen. “And just who might you be, you beautiful creature?” he said. “Is that sexist of me to call a young lady a creature, because if it is, I’m fucking sorry. Shit.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Probably. Yes, it is. This is Eigen Vector. Listen, we need your help.”

Those words stopped him. “My help? No fucking one has needed my help since—well, not for a long goddamn time. What could I possibly do for you?”

“To tell the truth, I don’t know.”

“I should put on some fucking pants.” He fell back into his quarters and grabbed black pants from a chair, stepping into them while he looked at us. “You need somebody exorcised or some shit?”

“I wouldn’t mind seeing that, but no,” I said.

“Is that a dog in the bag?”

“Trigo,” I said.

“Why the fuck is he in the bag?”

“He has only one leg.”

“You see, that’s goddamn God for you,” he said.

“Is it true you don’t believe in God?” Eigen asked.

“Yes, fucking true,” he said.

“What do you believe in?”

“I believe in the goddamn devil.”

“You worship the devil?”

“Hell no. But I believe he exists. Maybe God does, too. But if he does, then he’s a goddamn alcoholic like me. Well, not exactly like me. He doesn’t give a shit. Or he’s a fucking idiot.”