Leviathan

by Nicholas Gagnier

  There is nothing about this place which suggests it was once a thriving community of churchgoers. Ascending the centre aisle, I walk slowly, listening to lethargic wind blow in the site of my trespassing. I stare down each row, imagining the children who sat in these rows with their parents, much like I once should have.

  Instead, there are only ghosts.

  Finding nothing of interest in the nave itself- other than Christ undressing me with his eyes like most men- I spot a door in the corner. One locked door is no match for my foot pounding against it, splitting wood. When the handle falls away, I push the rest aside.

  A long hallway invites me past the frame, with several offices and a staircase at the end. The floor is full of debris and rubbish I kick aside. A tattered Bible is open, faced down. Bending down, I pick up the book, turning it over. The pages are crumpled at the corner from the angle it met the ground.

  Across the two which touched the ground, the dual columns of both pages are scribbled from end to horizontal end.

  We are beasts of the sea.

  Beneath felt tip ink desecrating Revelation 12:9, I read the passage which catches my eye.

  And the great dragon was thrown down, that ancient serpent, who is called the devil and Satan, the deceiver of the whole world—he was thrown down to the earth, and his angels were thrown down with him.

  Weird. Replacing the Bible where I found it, I pass the offices, and nothing stands out. They are left undisturbed, and I wonder if the plane ride down here was worth it.

  I arrive at the staircase which leads downward. Careful to avoid a step which has rotted away with time, my feet begin the descent into further darkness. Its wood steps creak beneath my weight, to the point I think none will hold it.

  At the bottom, the sight which awaits me is nothing like what I saw on the upper floor. It makes my jaw drop, heart sink in my chest.

  Beyond the staircase is a large, open room. Within that room, a shrine has been assembled. Its candles are gone cold, not lit in ages.

  At the shrine’s centerpiece, a clothesline hangs above. Wooden pins support thirteen black and white photos along the rope. Framed as mugshots, each features a young boy dressed in white robes, or albs.

  Looking between them, none of the boys are older than eleven or twelve. Scanning every face, their expressions are grim. Each holds a Bible against their chest. I recognize a younger version of Jordan West.

  His manifestation in these photos marks a rare appearance. I snatch the photo down, studying him. There will be time later to examine the others. Within the solemn brown eyes and emotionless face, it is beginning to make sense.

  Glancing down at the shrine, it is little more than rocks and candles. Across the middle stone, a beaded rosary is laid out symmetrically, its corners manipulated in the shape of an S.

  And on the walls around me, heavy black writing is etched into the shadowed drywall, similarly to the Bible I found open on the ground. The light is low down here, but I make out their messages perfectly.

  Death to the priest.

  Yahweh is our weapon.

  We are beasts from the sea.

  Simultaneously trying to limit tremors in my bones and fear consuming my innards, Father Lowe pops back in my head.

  The Bible mentions a creature of the sea called Leviathan. Some have said the description fits Satan, others might tell you it’s the Mesopotamian equivalent of a crocodile.

  West and his crew were altar boys, and something happened to turn them against the Church.

  He never divulged much. What I can tell you is his faith was challenged at some point. God put a trial in front of him- a Leviathan, so to speak. Something which would make him doubt his creator to no end.

  I finally have my motive.

  Returning to the street, Hardwick and the agent Tomlinson await with bated breath. The heat suffocates my nose and mouth as I climb between the window’s carcass.

  Hardwick asks why I look like I’ve seen a ghost.

  “We need to get a full forensics team in there,” I reply as I join them, glancing at Tomlinson. “Now.”

  Our liaison disappears, unquestioning of the order. Hardwick grabs my arm; forcing me to slow down, and give him answers.

  “Knox, what in the Hell?”

  I search his expression to afford my own some comfort; to prepare my partner for what I’ve found.

  “West and his crew were altar boys at this church.”

  “So?”

  “So,” I say, “based on what I found inside, something drove them to this, Stephen. I’m thinking molestation.”

  “Molestation? By a priest?”

  I nod, pale skin cooking in the humid air.

  “It makes sense. Father Lowe said West was an altar boy here in Los Angeles. Everything the man has done is out of revenge against the Catholic Church.”

  Stunned, Hardwick is unable to reply as Tomlinson joins us, informing me the forensics team is on their way.

  “Good,” I reply, “Set up a cordon, too. We don’t want civilians- or worse, the media- getting their hands on this.”

  Tomlinson agrees and disappears again, leaving my partner flabbergasted.

  “I’m trying to wrap my fucking head around this thing, Knox. Are you seriously telling me the disappearances of all these kids is linked back to West being molested by a priest?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Jesus fuck,” he replies, burying the creases of his forehead in both palms, trying to smooth them out.

  “Appropriate.”

  Recovering, Hardwick shouts at some of the surrounding local agents to sweep the building. We watch them enter the same shattered opening I did, service weapons drawn.

  They won’t need them, because the damage is already done.

  “We need to get back to Washington,” Hardwick muses, “Report to Hazel. I’ll let Tomlinson know.”

  As he turns to leave, I call my partner back.

  “There’s one more stop I have to make.”

  Hardwick frowns.

  “Where?”

  Where it all began, Stephen.

  The tiny brownstone house stares back at me. In this Valencia suburb, it is more decrepit than all the homes surrounding it. The screen door is not completely secured within its hinges; the windows are stained brown with the weight of abandonment.

  Hardwick called me crazy the whole way here. It can’t be crazier than hurling stones through a church window, risking God’s wrath.

  In a way, it reminds me of my parents. I have no recollection of Daniel Knox or Tiffany Stewart beyond the stories I’ve heard from Maya but she once told me they lived in a house just like this one.

  “I’ll say it again, Knox. You’re playing with fire.”

  I ignore Hardwick, walking past him up the neglected stairs, knocking on the door. In my own reflection on the screen door’s top half, I catch glimpses of the past, almost expecting my long-dead mother to appear behind the screen door.

  When it does open, a young boy stands in the doorway, glaring suspiciously at the visitor on his porch. He can’t be older than fourteen, but the features are familiar. Brown eyes, shaggy hair in need of a brush, no attentive parent around to make him straighten his posture or tuck his t-shirt in.

  Just like I would have been, if not for Maya.

  “Who are you?” the boy asks. The lips curl in a scowl of distrust, while I struggle to place the sense of deja vu flailing itself at my psyche.

  I don’t want to startle him.

  “Hi. My name is Ramona. I’m an agent with the Bureau. Are your parents home?”

  The boy frowns, eyes drifting to the holster on my hip, and the badge next to it, gleaming in the scorching afternoon heat.

  “Bureau?”

  “Yes,” I reply, “The FBI?”

  “Is this about my sister?”

  “Yes,” I repeat, trying to keep the tone light, my expression blank as ever. “Are your parents here?”

  He shakes his head, glancin
g at my partner standing well behind me on the sidewalk. Even with the screen door between us, cars passing at faster speeds than the neighbourhood permits unnerve the boy. Every glare and change in the scenery is a trigger.

  “My mother is not well,” he explains, “She is very sick, and does not wish to be disturbed.”

  Suddenly, I am four years old again, Police came to the door; drenched by the rain beating against my bedroom window, they told Maya nothing more could be done on Tiffany’s case.

  “Please?” I ask between the barrier, “We may have found information on your sister’s case she may want to know of-”

  The boy interrupts me.

  “She has no further interest.”

  Time for new tactics.

  “What’s your name?” I ask him, and am not ready for the answer which clicks a thousand connections into place.

  “Tim,” he says, “Tim Hawkins.”

  His features slide into familiarity’s revelations like they always belonged there. Once more today, I have to keep my mouth from hanging open.

  That’s why the man who calls himself Death is so fucking interested in an orphan; a little girl with no business becoming a federal agent, but is one anyway. A million subtle emotions rage through me as the boy grows into something very different, right before my eyes.

  His sister was one of the initial victims.

  How this sullen child became a celestial presence is something I’m not meant to know. So many questions pour up my throat. I can entertain none, because this kid is not the man who calls him Death, either; not yet.

  He would have none of the answers I would ask of him.

  “Ramona?” the boys says, tearing me back to reality. “Are you okay?”

  “Um, yes. Well, here’s my card. Please tell your mother to call me if she changes her mind.”

  The boy accepts my number through a crack he allows in the door. I thank him, turning back down the walkway. Rendezvousing with Hardwick, he looks at me like I have three heads.

  “Everything okay?” my partner asks.

  “Yeah,” I reply, “Mother’s sick, apparently. Not interested in talking to us.”

  “Back to D.C., then?”

  I nod, trying not to think of the flight I’ll have to endure to get home. Part of me wants to plead with Hardwick to take the train.

  I might do it alone, if he refuses.

  “Yeah. Let’s go fill in Hazel.”

  Chapter Seven

  The third time I met the man who calls himself Death, I was seven. A wide-eyed youngster, my memory of him was intact from the day I fell in the woods, and he sat with me, awaiting help.

  This time, I was not injured or scared, but sad. For a short while, we fostered a golden retriever named Lexi. She was found battered and abused, rescued by a good Samaritan on the side of the highway in the rain. Maya thought the dog staying with us for a few months would benefit me after everything.

  Suffice to say, the day Lexi was adopted because we couldn’t afford to keep her tore my fucking heart out. Inconsolable in the hours after she left with her new owner, Tim appeared to me.

  Why are you crying, little one?

  Sniffling, cross-legged on my bed, I sobbed like an idiot and told him I missed Lexi. There was no shame at such levels of despair, and I didn’t feel the need to hide it from him. That day, it felt like no one else would ever love me that way again.

  Unconditionally.

  Sitting on my single bed beside me, the man in a perfectly pressed suit placed his hands over mine.

  You know, just because our loved ones move on, that does not mean they stop caring about us. Lexi will always be with you.

  I didn't understand at the time. All I knew was the docile canine’s departure left a gaping hole in my chest; manifested sadness I didn’t even know was there. She had become my best friend, the only being in the universe I felt a connection with.

  Arriving home from the airport, I am greeted by the sounds of Maya’s oxygen. No bag in tow, there isn’t a personal possession in the world I care about enough to bring along for a day trip to Los Angeles.

  The old woman is asleep in her chair, wheezing despite the tube through her nostrils. Stepping lightly, I draw the blanket fallen down around the knees up her lap, kiss her on the forehead and lower the volume on the television. I don’t turn it off, because its glare is the only light left in this world for somebody like her.

  Reaching the kitchen, I close the swinging door behind me. Once more, the man who calls himself Death sits in the chair. In front of him, all the information about Jordan West at my disposal goes ignored; we’ve both looked over the disparities and seen nothing.

  Except now, I have something new.

  “Really like that corner, don’t you?”

  Tim grimaces.

  “How was the trip?”

  I shrug.

  “Apparently not enough fun for Death to follow me there.”

  “I don’t have many good memories of the place.”

  I know more about him now, too. The mysterious facade is slowly falling away, revealing a human being beneath the ambivalent logic and cool exterior.

  “Learn anything?” he asks.

  I open the fridge, pulling a glass bottle from the door. Setting it down on the adjacent counter, I fish around the cutlery drawer for a corkscrew. Contents of that bottle are transferred to a wine glass; lifted to my lips, all the other muscles find new middle ground between tension and calm.

  “Would I just be telling you something you already know?”

  “Indulge me.”

  I chuckle.

  “Altar boys.”

  “Altar boys?”

  “There was a church in Los Angeles. Abandoned. I broke in, poked around. Turns out our boy Jordan West, along with several others, served the priest there.”

  “And you think this has something to do with West’s abducting of children.”

  I close my eyes, but reopen them, knowing what waits behind the darkness (burn the priest, yahweh is our weapon, we are beasts from the sea). I will not entertain that image another second.

  “Oh, it has everything to do with it.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, “Gut feeling, maybe? It’s the only lead Hardwick and Partridge glossed over.”

  Tim falls silent.

  “There is something else, Ro.”

  I don’t know how many more surprises I can take today. Knowing this supernatural being started out human helps mitigate that a bit, even makes him relatable.

  Close as Death can be to relatability, that is.

  “Maya,” he says.

  I take a long sip from the curved rim of my wine glass, setting it down more aggressively than I need to. The stem hitting the counter reverberates through the rest of the drinking apparatus, creating a slight sound like lasers. Grabbing the bottle from the fridge, I fill it once more.

  “What about Maya?”

  I already know what he is going to say.

  “It is almost her time, Ramona.”

  “See?” I say, downing the whole glass and refilling it again. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

  “It means, Ramona, I have a job to do,” Tim says, “For some insane reason, I was entrusted with these powers to make the hard decisions when they need to be made.”

  “Is that where you disappear to, then? Just going around like some morbid Santa Claus, killing off people?”

  The man who calls himself Death stands from the chair, walking to where I’m pouring the fourth glass of wine inside ten minutes.

  “If only it were so simple. Or ideal. In those final moments of people’s lives, I get to comfort them. For all the pain their ending may bring them, I have to be a voice of reason against irrational, dying agony. I have to tell the children blown to smithereens in a minefield they will be alright.”

  “So, what? Do you talk to their pieces?”

  “Not quite. I developed a place; a
safe middle ground before they come to my world, where we can meet for the first time. On average, a person dies every one point two seconds, somewhere in the world. I personally greet each and every one of them.”

  “How do you manage so many? And of course, be around for all this?” I ask, not lifting the wine glass; only leaving it there to tempt me.

  “Part of my gift is appearing in different places at once. As you will learn someday, when you die, everyone deserves the dignity of not being rushed. In creating the Arcway, as other versions of Death have created something before me, I have made a safe place to transition from life to death.”

  “I see,” I reply, “And what happens if you just…call in sick one day, because you don’t feel like doing it anymore?”

  “I’m not sure what you’re asking, Ro.”

  “Do those people still die?”

  The man who calls himself Death, with his perfectly parted hairline and immaculately trimmed beard which never seems to require actual trimming, ponders the question.

  “I don’t know. Haven’t failed to claim one.”

  I have never been an emotional person. Most things which would affect normal people slide right off. Knowing Maya will soon leave this world, though, pulls the left corner of my lower lip down, sends my heart flailing against the chest housing it. There is no tide of emotion I have seen so many others display at the impending death of a family member, let alone their only family member.

  There is only a naked sadness to it.

  “How long does she have?” I ask.

  Tim shakes his head.

  “Not long, Ro.”

  Finally picking up the glass, I chug it in three gulps, placing it down to rot like my sentimentality. But it will just stay there until I move it.

  Drinking so much was not a good idea.

  “Just do me a favour,” I tell him, “Make it painless. If you have to take her sooner to accomplish that, so be it.”

  Through the swinging door, I leave behind the table of facts others have compiled prior to me. That they missed West’s connection to the Catholic Church so badly is forgotten.

  That so many lives are ruined is all but driven from my mind, gravitating to the person who once saved mine. Maya rouses, every breath a struggle for her lungs to process. Sitting in my regular spot, which has been far too vacant lately, I reach for her hand.