Thrilled to Death

by James Byron Huggins

  Absorbing the words, Barth said, “But there are clearly elements of Satanism, Marcelle. Certainly enough to provoke concern.”

  “Yes,” Marcelle slowly agreed. “Yes, there appear to be satanic elements. But you must remember that the bizarreness or cruelty does not automatically make it such. Forgive me for seeming callous, but not all who commit ‘ritualistic’ crimes practice Satanism. Nor are activities such as Santeria, grave robbing, or even human sacrifice necessarily satanic. It depends on a combination of elements. The only true criterion for qualifying a crime as satanic is the motivation of the perpetrator.”

  “And what motivation do you perceive in this?”

  Marcelle shook his head, pausing a long time. “In all honesty, Father, I see certain elements which could contribute to your premise. But in these situations, it is easy to become irrational, so perspective must be maintained. As difficult as it may be, we must separate the religious and psychological aspects.”

  Barth was silent a moment. “I see,” he said, with an air of disappointment. “And yet, Marcelle, you have not yet investigated the situation, so you cannot confirm that there are not more ... substantial elements at work.”

  Marcelle’s eyes hardened. “As I said, Father, I have not investigated these matters for many years. I am primarily in supervision now. I am not certain how well I would coordinate a field inquiry.”

  A smile came to Father Barth slowly. “You would do well, Marcelle. I am certain that you have not lost that fearless stoutness of character for which you were ... once lauded.”

  Marcelle’s face tightened, as if he had been stung by the words. His tone deepened. “There are seasons in a man’s life, Father,” he replied. “And what you ask requires ... great faith.”

  “That is true, Marcelle.” The older priest was unfazed, and released a compassionate smile. “And I know that I cannot persuade one of your august wisdom. I only ask you to once again defend those who are not capable of defending themselves.” He paused. “It is a simple request from a simple man, my son. But you alone must decide whether the winter has ended ... or whether it shall continue.”

  Marcelle stared down, and a slow grimness emerged from behind his face that could not be concealed any more than the stout development of his frame. His eyes were hidden by shadow as he reached into a pocket. Then he shook his head, letting his hand fall away.

  “Please, Marcelle,” said the old man in a gesture of courtesy, “we are not constrained by customary practices of court. No, certainly not now. Please consider yourself free ... to smoke.”

  Slowly and without demurring Marcelle withdrew an unfiltered Camel. And an instant later he lit, expelling an amazingly thick cloud of smoke. His head was bowed, degree by degree building into a remorseless concentration. The air about him seemed to fall still, and there was no expression as he blinked once and sighed.

  “The mercy of God,” he said softly. “So severe.”

  “It wounds, Marcelle. And it heals.”

  “Very well, Father,” he added. “I am not convinced by any means that elemental forces are at work in this incident. There are essential and exacting criteria which must be met, as you well know. But I will examine the facts.” His black eyes focused. “First, tell me: What were Father Lanester’s duties in the Church?”

  The old priest released a long-withheld breath, openly pleased, before he considered an answer. “Do you, uh, not wish to first study photographs of the crime scene, Marcelle?” he questioned. “Do you not wish to study the scene of the murder?”

  “In time,” Marcelle responded, utterly cold and scientific. “But not at this moment. First, we will explore the preliminaries. What were Father Lanester’s duties in the Church?”

  Barth’s eyes roamed the desk. “He, ah ... he supervised morning mass. Usually he gave simple homilies on everyday life, means by which we sin and should repent. And he was basically inoffensive. Not a dramatic orator. But he was a good pastor, and well-respected. Then, after mass, he received confessions until noon. And in the afternoon, he assisted me in visitation and other scheduled services.”

  Waiting another moment, Marcelle said, “And is that all?”

  “Yes, yes, most assuredly.” Father Barth seemed amazed. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because there is nothing unusual in those duties,” replied Marcelle, releasing another heavy breath of blue smoke. “What has happened to Father Lanester is out of the ordinary, so there must be something out of the ordinary about his responsibilities. What else did Father Lanester do? What duties was Father Lanester, alone, assigned?”

  Barth waited a long time. His face was vaguely frightened. “Father Lanester was keeper of the Secret Archives, Marcelle,” he said finally.

  Marcelle’s face was that of a man who had long ago regarded surprise as a luxury he could not afford. He didn’t blink as he held the old man’s gaze. “Where are the Secret Archives located?”

  “In a secret vault in a hidden sub-basement,” answered the older priest.

  Clearly, he had not expected to reveal the location of that highly secretive library of manuscripts, letters, concealed documents, and controversial confessions of dark deeds. He continued, “Good God, Marcelle! We have approximately forty-five thousand documents in the vault! Its very existence is our most closely guarded secret! How could it be involved?”

  Marcelle said nothing as he lowered his head. He slowly released a thick cloud of cigarette smoke.

  “Has anyone checked the vault?” he asked somberly.

  ***

  Maggie Milton slammed a hand on the table.

  “That’s impossible, Soloman! Cain doesn’t even know who any of us are!” She stepped away before turning back to point hard at the files. “This man was dead, Soloman! Dead! He never saw any of us and never saw any information on this experiment! How can my daughter be in danger? How can Cain even know who my daughter is?”

  Soloman wasn’t certain of anything but knew that he wasn’t going to take the chance because the words kept coming to him again and again: Di liberates! I will be free!

  He tried to keep his voice calm and confident, nor was it as difficult as he anticipated as he asked, “Where is your daughter now, Maggie?”

  “At home. With a babysitter.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “It’s in Fallbrook. South of L.A.”

  Soloman turned to Hawken. “Ben, notify the Los Angeles FBI Watch Commander and tell him to get a dozen agents to Maggie’s house right now. Tell them to relocate the child and babysitter in a fortified safe-house until we arrive. Then fire up a Nightcat and scramble me some backup. Tell them we’re airborne in thirty minutes! No more!”

  Soloman went for the door as Hawken picked up the phone, speaking quickly as he fed a report into the Joint Defense Intelligence Imaging System, routed automatically to the Pentagon. But Maggie approached Soloman as he moved, her face calm as her phenomenal intelligence asserted itself to overcome her emotions, even her love for her child.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “To the armory.” He paused in the open door. “Get your files together, Maggie. Forget what’s in your room. Your things will be packed and sent to you.”

  “Soloman.” She stared. “Do you really think ...”

  Both of them controlled the moment with disciplined hearts. But Soloman caught a faint flicker of fear behind her jade-green eyes and felt a wave of compassion.

  “I could be wrong, Maggie,” he said. “I’ve been wrong before. And in any case the FBI will be guarding your daughter within a half hour. But I’m not taking any chances.”

  “But do you really think Cain will come for my daughter?” The love of a wounded mother burned in the question, and Soloman strangely felt his compassion warm. She repeated, “Do you really think Amy’s in danger?”

  Soloman was still.


  “We’re all in danger, Maggie. You know that already.”

  ***

  A colossal gloom, gothic and surreal, cloaked the atmosphere with a black cloud that smelled dusty and metallic as Marcelle descended the last steps of the long stone stairway that vanished into the dark of the sub-basement.

  Holding a flashlight because the light switch, oddly, did not work, Marcelle cautiously stood in the gloom, searching. The room was intimidatingly silent, echoing with the sound of suppressed breath. There was none of the sanctuary’s opulence in evidence here. There was a Spartan rectangular table surrounded by a dozen tall wooden chairs, and in the distance a large vault stood open, darkness within it utterly impenetrable. Marcelle sensed Barth suppressing a gasp, heard the old man’s hands tighten on the staircase railing.

  Peering into the shadows, Marcelle stepped down. He shone the light upward to the light socket and saw that the bulb was shattered, turned to the other priest. “We can fix the light easily,” he said, attempting to strengthen the old man’s nerve. “Please retrieve another bulb, Father, and a bar of soap to remove the shattered remnants of the broken one.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Barth as he turned quickly.

  As he moved away Marcelle walked cautiously forward.

  Having made the grim decision to once more assume the mantle of Eradicare In Carne, he wanted to approach the vault alone, knowing what he might encounter if the old man was right. Just as he knew that the electrifying confrontation could cause even the stoutest hearts to fail by quickly escalating into a horrifying conflict of competing will and faith, of life and death; a war waged in a world that was not this.

  Marcelle’s dead-steady hand came from his cloak holding a large silver crucifix. His other hand held the flashlight as he stared into the gloom of the cavernous chamber, the vault thrown widely open. And what he saw was made even more haunting by the surreal silence, the stench of ancient things, of dead things, of curses hidden and dark deeds buried in religious lies.

  Frightening sheets of blackened blood coated the floor where the carnage had occurred but Marcelle held his place, not revealing the fear he felt inside. For he had learned long ago, before he turned his back on what he had been, never to reveal fear. Yes, fear was a weapon that could be used against him, and he could not let his fear be used against him.

  The Enemy had weapons enough.

  With determination, he was silent. Nor did he whirl, as his racing heart demanded, to cast the light back across the room. His keen intellect assured him that the sub-basement was empty. Fear could be ignored.

  Then he heard steps descending and turned calmly as Barth entered the room holding a flashlight and a chair. Seconds later they shoved a bar of soap into the shattered metal remnant of the bulb to extract it easily. Then, after inserting a new bulb, Marcelle pulled the chain and turned to the vault in the glaring light.

  Yes, it was there.

  Blood was drawn across the floor, but not so much as it seemed in the dim cast of the flashlight. And Marcelle was confident that this was where Father Lanester’s true death had occurred, and not in the rectory. Whatever happened there was mere bestial exultation. And as he stared down, he perceived that this was something more.

  Yes, he thought, this was something more. This was the work of precious blood; blood that was treasured, and not to be spilt. He tried to ignore the faint words of Father Barth as he knelt, studying the pattern.

  There was not much to discern, but he saw the indiscriminate blackened drops spread in a strange circular pattern, as if a terrible wound had been struck while a heart beat in fierce fear.

  “Was he tortured?” Father Barth raised his voice. “Was poor Father Lanester tortured?”

  “Tortured,” Marcelle repeated coldly, sensing a path back to a life of horror he had left behind long ago, to preserve himself. “Yes,” he added. “He was tortured.”

  The old man groaned, blessing himself. “Sed libera nos a malo. Exaudi orationem meant.”

  Grimly, Marcelle stood up at those words. As he stared across the vault he could see purpose here, purpose malevolent and cunning and bestial.

  Whatever had done this would leave no living thing in its wake if it could not be destroyed.

  In a grave tone Marcelle repeated the old man’s blessing.

  “Yes, O God, deliver us ... from this Evil.”

  ***

  Two uniformed guards approached Soloman as he advanced through the star-shrouded heat of White Sands to reach the Armory. Three hundred feet in the distance a Humvee with engine roaring and lights glaring approached and Soloman measured its arrival with an enlivened mechanical skill of the Marine colonel he’d once been: thirty seconds.

  “Halt!” one of the MPs shouted at port arms. “Who goes there!”

  Soloman replied boldly to indicate his position in the dark.

  “Colonel James L. Soloman!”

  Both soldiers stepped forward. “Advance to be recognized!”

  Preliminaries completed according to regulation, Soloman approached quickly but cautiously, knowing the drill. “I’m Colonel Soloman, Private!” he shouted. “I’m under General Hawken’s command! I need access!”

  Nervous glances were exchanged between the guards and Soloman suddenly remembered that he hadn’t been issued his credentials yet. This, he realized, might become a problem because he didn’t have any time to waste. Then, engine straining to the last moment, the Humvee arrived at the door and Soloman turned.

  A square-jawed figure clambered from it and came forward without any announcement, as though he’d kick serious ass if he were challenged. Built wide and low and solid—like a human bison—the man walked with a slight limp as he saluted sharply and spoke in a southern accent faded from too many years in foreign fields. “I’m here to assist you, Colonel. I’m Sergeant Chatwell.”

  “Can you open this door, Sergeant?”

  Chatwell was already moving for the steel panel. “Yes, sir, you bet I can. General Hawken briefed me.” He shouldered the guards aside. “Move aside, boys. He said you needed a sidearm with ammo and a carry, Colonel. What do you prefer? We’ve got some .45s, we’ve got a wheelbarrow load of Berettas, and they just sent us a shipment of them brand new Sig Sauers.”

  “I’ll take a .45 if you’ve got one in good shape, Sergeant.”

  Laughing, Chatwell opened the door and hit the light as he moved forward, clearly amused. “Yes sir, we’ve got a .45 you might have some fun with.”

  Already they had reached the internal security gate and in another second Chatwell was inside the vault, laying the massive lock aside. Soloman glanced back to see the other two MPs stationed at port arms on either side of the doorway, staring out.

  “Try this one, sir.”

  Chatwell handed a black-matte semiautomatic to Soloman, who reflexively ejected the empty magazine and pulled back the slide to lock. It was incredible, he thought, how in the space of three seconds he handled the gun as well as he ever had, though it had been seven years. He heard himself speak as he worked, enjoying Chatwell’s old Army attitude.

  “You coming with us, Chatwell?”

  “Airborne, sir.”

  “You bringing shake-and-bakes?”

  “Negative, sir. Delta’s been scrambled. They’re on the deck right now wearing Air Force gloves.”

  Soloman smiled at that. “Air Force gloves” meant the soldiers were standing around with their hands in their pockets, waiting for something to happen. But Soloman knew it was also a euphemism because Delta commandos never stood around waiting for anything. They prepared.

  “Good enough,” he replied.

  The port was unloaded and Soloman dropped the slide to feel a solid hit. Then he checked the spring and, peripherally, felt the slightly wider grip. Instantly he knew it wasn’t a Colt and looked at the imprint on the slide: Para-Ordinance P-13
, a single-action .45 with a double-stacked magazine that gave it thirteen rounds instead of the usual seven.

  A formidable weapon; it looked brand-new.

  “Has this thing been broken in?” Soloman asked as he disassembled it, ejecting the loading lock and removing the slide and barrel. He knew that any pistol had to have at least five hundred rounds through it before it could be relied upon not to jam.

  “We put seven hundred rounds through it in the last two days, Colonel. But the boys cleaned it up real good after we fired it on the—”

  “Load me some magazines,” Soloman interrupted. “What kind of ammo do you have?”

  “Hydro-shock 148 grain full metal jacket.” Chatwell broke open a HI locker. “Velocity is nine hundred feet per second at twenty feet and it’ll give you six hundred pounds-per-square-inch knockdown with a one inch drop at twenty-five. Just tell me how many clips you want, sir.”

  “Load five magazines at full capacity and give me two boxes in a pouch. Then give me two of those double Safariland magazine holders and a pocket-sized cleaning kit with a perpendicular shoulder holster. And I need a pair of infrared night-vision goggles.”

  “Yes, sir.” Chatwell began loading clips with expert efficiency, slamming in the .45-caliber bullets as quickly as he could depress the spring. “Is there anything else, Colonel?”

  “Yeah,” Soloman frowned. “Give me an out-of-the-box Mylar vest with wraparound rib protection and a steel shock plate. Make sure it’s less than two years old. Break out a SPAS-12 that works on semiautomatic or pump and give me five boxes of double-ought buck. Then open the munitions locker and issue me two dozen antipersonnel grenades.”

  Chatwell laid the shotgun and magazines on the table.

  “We goin’ for bear, Colonel?”

  Soloman didn’t look up as he sharply dropped the slide, not chambering a round because it was against regulations to chamber a round inside the Armory or on a flight.