I leap to the top of a corner house. I soar down the block, jumping from rooftop to rooftop. I very nearly fly. I slow to a stop on the rooftop of an empty, darkened house. I study the street below behind a second story chimney. The house is directly across the lane. My money waits for me there. I frown as I scout the area.
Damn. There they are and they are everywhere, celebrating.
Mary Magdalene’s tiny house is straight ahead, across the street, near ground zero. As I watch, an automatic rifle rips the night air. Dogs bark like Jesus is coming. Someone gets punched in the face, and falls back into a bonfire. A scuffle breaks out. Hard music frames the background noise.
Big-ass guys fresh out of the joint are resplendent with prison ink. They loiter shirtless. Nines and auto-pistols are in plain sight. There’s so much hardware concentrated on this one block. My money is waiting for me, but it’s through the gauntlet on the other side.
It is what it is.
Irritated, I palm my gun, snap off the safety. I know there ain’t nothin’ easy in The Harbor but damn if this isn’t getting ridiculous. I continue to watch the crowd below.
No mystery why no one comes here. But money’s on the line and I don’t have time for this. I can’t stay away from my phone too long. The Pharisees will be calling for me at any time now. If I don’t answer, they won’t be amused. It will be yet another problem I will have to deal with.
I check the surrounding area. The bulk of the fun appears to be consolidated right below me, here at party central. Fortunately for me, at least the far periphery is quiet. I scan the revelers one last time, jump down to the soft grass below. I pull the slide on the nine, chamber it. Then I melt into the night.
I am a blur as I run, still faster than any human eye can see. But suddenly I begin to slow down, not being able to help myself. I come to an abrupt stop while shit gets unclear. I put my hands on my knees, trying to quell the storm raging within. I fall back against the wall of a vacant, darkened house. It figures. This happens just as I am ready to give them what for. I fall further to my hands and knees. All I can think of is hiding.
Remember, the little Christ tells me and this nonsense is the result. I get dizzy and have some sort of seizure. When it’s over I have a headache and confusion, but I don’t remember squat. What exactly does Immanuel want from me?
I’m frightened of what they will do to me if they catch me vulnerable like this. I begin crawling toward a hedgerow of neglected bushes nearby. I make it under and behind the bushes. I am momentarily safe here in the dark. I lean my back against the wall, in the dark and close my eyes. I think I blacked out again.
When I come to, not too much time has elapsed. The party’s still on and now it’s time for Pilate to crash this shindig.
It takes a bit, but I finally come around. I re-open my eyes. The 9mm is ready and so am I.
I got cross-hairs on my first target. I almost feel sorry for the poor fool. Almost.
But almost ain’t enough for the fool to see the dawn.
Chapter Ten
THE FIRST TARGET FALLS BEFORE ANYONE in Clarkston hears the gunshots I spit out at the night. I snap two shots from the darkness and follow those immediately by three more to the right of the first two. Then it’s back to the left, five shots. Two more fall.
By the time three more come in from the right, I can see their weapons are in hand. Gangstas are running flat out, firing at the general direction of my visible muzzle flashes.
Gunfire lights up the night. Dozens of dogs bark angrily. Old looking young women go to the fallen and begin to resignedly wail for them. The area blows up in chaotic violence.
I run hard and away from my last series of gunshots. I find a deep spot beside a quiet shed. I drop the clip and replace it with a fresh one. I used up some of my oxygen darting faster than humans can see and shooting several houses apart. I want to give them the impression a squad is attacking. I’m not overly concerned about the O2 used. The blood I supped upon is premium and I have plenty left.
I see them run past me, firing at places from which I’d shot, always a step or two behind me. I watch them go by and turn my attention to the tiny house across the street.
* * * *
I stand there, money slung over my shoulder. I stare at her. She sleeps on the couch. No one else is with her.
The metal box in the attic crawl space is right where I’d left it. When checked, the money is in there and in good shape. I remove a few thousand, put them in my pocket.
When I went down the stairs to the ground floor, that’s when I saw her. I wasn’t expecting to, but I should have. It makes the most sense. She will feel safe here while she recovers.
I have the urge to nudge her awake, I miss her. I can’t do it. What if she doesn’t yet know about her man? How can I tell her Juan’s head wound up on a stick because of me? There’s no way. I decide to let her stay asleep.
I kneel beside the couch, lean in to kiss her goodbye. I’m very careful not to touch her, though. Afraid my chilly skin will rouse her from sleep.
“Love you, little one,” I whisper and am gone.
Mary Magdalene felt air displacement, heard security door shut. She opened her remaining eye.
“And me, you,” she told the empty space.
Outside, Mary could hear neighbors returning. They were empty handed.
I close the bay door, back in my car, money in hand. I can leave right now. Leave this place and start over somewhere else. I don’t have to do the Pharisees bidding. I still have a choice. I don’t have to take part in this. I still have a choice.
I coax my car to the edge of the street. To the left; escape. To the right is the Christ.
I stay a moment, thinking. What’s it gonna be: left or right? The street is empty and Clarkston still noisy.
I think of Herod and darken. I grip the steering wheel, a growl escapes me. It’s Herod then.
I turn right.
* * * *
The phone rings. I tell Matthias that I am ready and to call me when the little Christ has reached her destination. I am nearby and will rendezvous without delay. I can pick Immanuel up at the drop site of a small church she’s going to from a dude named Judas. No problem. I’ll grab her, put her in the car and take her silly ass to Herod. Then it will be my turn. I am going to make Herod beg.
I am deep within The Harbor proper. I pull into the parking lot of a grocery store, again barely having enough time to lock the car. My eyeballs roll up to the back of my head as another vision hits…
Chapter Eleven
WITH OPEN EYES AND A SHARP BREATH, I regain consciousness. My phone rings. I look around at the night. I’m still in the grocery store parking lot. My phone is being insistent. The new vision is still fresh in my head.
I was their food, for heaven’s sake, I’m thinking. I reach for the resolute ringing.
This is the first time I remember anything about the visions. I was a baby. I had tiny fangs poking out of my blue gums. I’m cold and hungry. My family tosses me into a cooking pot, while I was still alive.
I could have lived without that memory.
It’s still ringing like crazy. I answer the phone and listen to Matthias and his specific instructions on how I will recognize Immanuel. I disconnect and drop the phone. They are so lame.
The car starts and I shove it into gear. The Harbor is deceptively quiet at the moment. Out of frustration I stir the pot, squealing my tires angrily. All the dogs in the world begin barking at once. I wish I could join them.
“With an embrace,” I spit, quick-shifting through the column. “What a cute bunch of idiots.”
* * * *
I slow to a crawl and douse headlights as I approach the chapel. Out of habit, I park a ways up the block and under the cover of a shot-out street lamp.
I exit the car. I stand still and silent. I raise my nose to the night and sniff it. They are all present. I walk slowly toward the rendezvous point, up around the corner ahead.
I fe
el strung out. My body still holds the golden glow of rich, saturated blood, but my mind is weary. I suppose it’s the past-life visions I’d been having since she touched me. The seizures that are supposed to lead to some form of personal enlightenment are getting frequent. I think there were eight of them in all. It’s hard to believe it has only been a couple of days.
I want to know why she did that to me. That’s exactly what I’m going to find out from her. I really, really want her to tell me why.
I walk until I hear a sound coming from the chapel. I cock my ears and listen, vampire hearing bringing it crisply to me.
“Aw, DAMN IT,” under my breath.
I am a blur as I run.
I stop at the corner. What I see Herod’s cops doing to her there is distasteful and it’s enough.
In two heartbeats I am by her side.
* * * *
I see two cops dragging an unconscious man to a car. He isn’t undercover po-po, so the poor, passed-out guy must be Judas. No matter, I know who the young lady is. She’s Immanuel the little preacher girl and she is about two seconds away from getting gang raped.
I appear at her side and have taloned fingers in the cop’s mop-top of hair. My hand is wrapped in a death grip. I pull down hard and bring the would-be rapist bitch to the asphalt eye-blink fast.
The cop lands on the blacktop hard. I then turn to the man who is pressing little Immanuel face-first into the cold metal trunk of the undercover car. The cop, in shock, says nothing.
“Let go of her,” I order, but I know what they will do. The police always follow the playbook, so I know that some inane response is coming. So, before: ‘get on the ground!’ at full volume leaves his mouth, I slam a fist into the cop’s face, breaking everything.
I tug free my hot, wet fist from the cavern of the cop’s face. I calmly wipe the bloody mess from my fist with the cop’s polo shirt. I hold the man up until my fist is clean. Then I let him drop dead to the ground.
The stopping of the rape and my exchange happen so quickly no one has time to respond. I turn to the rest of the police when one did.
I hear the unmistakable sound of gunmetal scraping against leather. I see the rapist/cop on the ground. He pulls the service weapon from his shoulder holster and draws a bead on me.
Using vampire speed, I drop to one knee and grab hold of the shooter’s wrist. I jerk the arm toward me and twist it until the pointy bone of the elbow faces up. I then place my hand on the skyward elbow bone and apply vicious downward pressure.
The cop’s arm breaks. It cracks like a hard nutshell and I keep pushing down on the elbow and up on the wrist until the arm folds back on itself, the gun pointing at its owner. I make sure the gun fires. One of the hollow point bullets wedges itself so deep in the cop’s brain you can see all of his filthy thoughts.
I snatch the gun as he falls dead to the ground. I grab and hold another one of the cops with the smoking gun to his temple. I am safely hidden behind the man’s bulk. I find my own gun under my shirtfront. I aim it over the shoulder of my cop/hostage.
I tug the cop back so that his car is behind us. The others try to outflank and encircle me.
“STOP!” I shout at them, “We have a truce. I’m under the protection of the Pharisees,” I say, “You can’t touch me and I won’t let you touch her.” One of the circlers replies, stepping up to me. “You’re first,” I promise, stopping the rushing cop by sticking the 9mm in his face. “You wanna think about this,” I advise the fuming and defenseless rusher. His eyes cross from staring at the gun. It’s so close it almost kisses him. “Think about what you’re gonna lose if you make me open up your head like your buddy on the ground here,” I try, “No more wads of cash from taxing runners, how’d that be? How about no more free bottles of scotch from the liquor stores,” then hit ‘em with the big one: “and no more favors performed at gunpoint from high school girls.”
The police all stop where they are, contemplating and weighing options. To their credit, they realize that they have none.
“C’mon, be smart,” I say before they have a chance to change their minds, “Give Matthias a call,” I tell them, “While you’re still only down two.”
Chapter Twelve
“YOU DO NOT HAVE TO APOLOGIZE FOR THEM,” she tells me as we drive. I snap shut my mouth. I’m just about ready to do exactly that.
“How did you know?” I ask her. I peek at her as my car climbs the steeper street. “How did you know I was going to apologize for Herod’s police?”
Immanuel is slumped in the front seat. The handcuffs on her wrists are now gone. I gasp at the surprise of it. I blink once and they are back on, her small pale hands are folded obediently in her lap.
“Are you going to answer me?”
“Yes,” she replies, “as soon as you ask real questions.”
We are getting closer to Herod’s compound and I want some hard answers from this little preacher girl.
“Immanuel,” I say, “When I brought Mary to you, remember?”
“Of course,” she answers, “you need to know why I touched you.” That sure is it. I nod. “You need to know what it means, don’t you Pilate?”
“Yes,” I reply, slowing to a stop at a light, “Tell me.”
With Immanuel’s head still lowered and her body slumped, I look at her. She reaches up with a freed, cuff-less hand and scratches her chin. I do a double-take. I look back and the cuffs are once more secure. She is quiet.
I look at her and wait. The light turns green and I speed through the intersection.
“Well,” I ask her, “are you going to tell me?”
“There were hints, of course,” she explains, “Woven throughout your past lives, a redundant thread. It played out time and time again, you simply refused see it.”
“That’s bull and you know it,” I hiss.
“The next one,” she promises, “that is when all will be made clear to you.”
My hands begin to burn. I remove them one at a time and rub them on the material of my pant legs.
“Perhaps they need to be washed,” Immanuel suggests while staring out her passenger side window into the night. As soon as this is said, the burning sensation ceases and I quit rubbing them.
More games and I have had enough. I screech a rubber laying stop in the middle of the busy street. People begin shouting curses and they hurl rough insults at us. I don’t care. I have my full attention played on my prisoner, yelling at her:
“Why can’t you talk me straight?” My eyes are yellow warning signs, but I can sense no fear from Immanuel. “There is no common thread except I was a vampire in the visions you cursed me with. Is that my hint?” I ask, “Because if it is I sure don’t know what it means.” Out of pure frustration, I punch a gauge on the dashboard and crack it, bleeding my hand a moment before it begins to heal itself. I suck a bit of hard plastic from my hand and spit it out the window. I turn to her: “I’m warning you,” I growl, “you had better tell me what you know.”
Immanuel throws hair out of her face and glares right back at me. “Hold your tongue, young man,” she tells me. I jerk away from her, recoiling in pure raw primal fear. I begin to fumble with the door handle, aching for escape. I’d never known such terror. Then, as quickly as it came, the fear leaks away. I am left breathing heavy and my heart pounding, but feeling as peaceful as if we were in grandma’s chocolate chip cookie scented kitchen.
“But I s-saved your life,” I whine without thinking. “I just want to know what to do….”
As I trail off in a little boy voice, Immanuel smiles at me.
“You will, Pilate,” she assures me, “I promise.” She looks away once more, stating as a mater-of-fact: “When you experience your very last vision,” she says, “of your very first life. Then I will keep my promise to you and ye shall know all. You shall remember all.” Immanuel looks up and raises her cuffed hands. “But what will he do then, Father?” she asks the sky, “When we give to him yet another chance?”
&n
bsp; Right now I can tell you that I am straight up losing it. Who is she talking to, God? Are you kidding me? This is crazy. I can’t seem to keep my wits around her. To give myself a moment, I pull over to the curb. I put the stick-shift into neutral, setting the parking brake. I turn to her.
I ask, “You do know where I am taking you, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she replies, “now ask your real question.”
I pause, taking the sight of her in: powerful, subdued: allowing herself to remain cuffed. I ask her: “who are you?”
Without hesitation she tells me: “I am Truth.”
I glance out at the street, my jaw clenching from frustration. I vividly recall the terror I felt, so no more angry shouting from this boy. Blowing air out through my clenched teeth, I gun the engine and merge into the center lane, driving once more. My fingers bloodless pale as I grip the wheel and crack my tense neck.
“Truth,” I mutter low, “just what the hell is that supposed to mean?” I force myself to ignore the anger now boiling inside me. I turn to her once more and ask: “Truth? Are you for real?” The soft question opens the dam to my frustrated anger, spittle raining from my lips as I demand: “What the hell is TRUTH?”
My aggressive driving has caught us up to the thin night time traffic. I weave in and out of it. The Harbor’s a blur as we drive by.
She sighs and says gently to me: “I am the Alpha and the Omega,” she explains to me, raspy and tired. “I am the Beginning and the End. I am,” she states firmly, “Truth.” Immanuel let hair fall down over her face. “I answered all your questions,” she informs me. “Now leave me alone.”
* * * *
Herod’s Compound looms ahead, towering over The Harbor as a plague. Lights show, here and there, in the old refinery. The wind howls like the unseen demons that shriek throughout the complex. I hate this place I’ve brought the Christ to, but my masters demand such.
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