Thrilled to Death

by James Byron Huggins

  “I won’t insult your intelligence, Father. I think you know who I’m looking for. What can you tell me?”

  Marcelle was silent as he took another long breath of smoke, which spiraled up lazily from his stout, square face. His response came slowly, as if he were carefully weighing each word. “I can tell you some things, Colonel. And, not to your surprise, there will be things I cannot tell you.”

  “That’s not much of an answer,” Soloman purposely dropped the “Father,” hoping to communicate with the priest man to man.

  Marcelle understood what this soldier was doing, and agreed that it had been far too long since anyone outside the Church had done so. Slowly he stubbed out the cigarette, took a sip of wine. He set the glass down carefully, running a finger gently over the lip. His tone revealed quiet amusement: “Tell me, Colonel. How can you know that the man you seek is guilty of the murder of Father Lanester?”

  “It’s a suspicion. I’ve seen photos of the crime scene, and killing isn’t enough for this man. He wants his horror show. Plus, he speaks, or in this case writes, in dead languages. It’s one of his signatures.”

  “And who is this man?”

  “His name is Cain.”

  Marcelle’s finger froze on the edge of the glass, as if he’d been cut. He nodded after a moment. “And now you want to discover what I know about Father Lanester, so that you may track this man, Cain, and kill him?” He looked up with a world of experience hard-gained at the price of Jesuit pain. “Is that not true, Colonel?”

  Soloman detected no surprise and no judgment.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  Marcelle responded with a somewhat bitter smile. “Killing Cain may be more difficult than you presume.”

  “Look, Marcelle, there’s a lot here I don’t understand. But I do know there may be … unexplainable … forces at work.”

  “Satanic forces, Colonel?” the priest asked without any hesitation at all, as if he’d been waiting for the time. “Is that what you’re alluding to?”

  “That’s unlikely.” Soloman paused. “I just meant that there were certain things happening that are hard to explain.”

  Marcelle’s quiet smile masked something else. “Did you know,” he began simply enough, “that Satanism is no more illegal than Catholicism – though the acts of Satanists do tend to gravitate to the illegal? That’s why the FBI has trained a handful of experts. I have consulted with them on several publications which explored the herd mentality of what is true Satanism.”

  Blinking, Soloman asked, “And what is true Satanism?”

  “True Satanism,” Marcelle said, “is not the worship of lunar gods or pedestrian witchcraft or even Santeria, which is only a combination of Catholicism and Haitian paganism. True Satanism is the singular worship of Lucifer, the supposed fallen angel, as the one true God of this universe. True Satanism does not entail the worship of nature, or fortune-telling, or Tarot reading, or horoscopes. True Satanism is a highly systematic act of worshipping Satan as singularly eminent to the Hebrew God, Yahweh. It is self-contained, and though there may be vagaries from cult to cult, which can itself be a misleading term, true Satanism is very narrowly defined.”

  Soloman stared in silence.

  With a faintly amused expression, the priest bent his head. “What do you fear to tell me, Colonel? Because in this . . . inferno . . . where we have been hurled, I fear that fear gives us no advantage. Believe me when I tell you that I have been here before. And it can be an apocalyptic ordeal.”

  Soloman knew that the priest had just issued a warning, but he didn’t understand what it was. He also realized that whatever he said about the experiment at White Sands could be construed as a breach of national security, landing him in prison. But his bones told him that the man had knowledge that he needed, and badly.

  Making a deadly decision, Soloman told him of Cain’s bizarre resurrection and escape, proceeding into the last days of the chase when Cain slaughtered the FBI agents, only to escape again. Yet he purposely omitted the phenomenon of the HyMar virus and the pending plague.

  Never before had Soloman used actual truth to persuade cooperation; always it had been mixed with lies. But now, seated among the cathedral shadows, surrounded by secrets he could never imagine, he knew there was no other course. And at the end of it Marcelle sat in silence, staring with a slightly bent head into the fire. He spoke with a sense of melancholy, almost amused.

  “What beasts men have made of men,” he commented. “A dead man who lives . . . and yet it is not a new thing.”

  Soloman scowled. “What do you mean?”

  “It has been done before, Colonel.”

  “When?”

  “Three thousand years ago.”

  “This science wasn’t available then, Marcelle. I don’t think that you fully understand what I’m telling you. I’m saying that this man is scientifically enhanced to be, for all practical purposes, unkillable.” Soloman shook his head. “What I’m trying to tell you is that this guy was dead, and now he’s alive. And he is not human.”

  A bitter laugh escaped Marcelle. “None of them were, Colonel. No ... none of them.”

  Something about the priest’s enigmatic turn gave Soloman pause. He stared for a long time until Marcelle spoke again, as if reminiscing.

  “Tell me, Colonel,” he began. “What part of a man must die before he is truly dead? Does death come with the death of the body or the brain? Or does death come with the destruction of something more than the brain?” His expression was wistful. “Descartes taught that all things not man were automata which obey sensory and mechanical laws that regulate Nature. But in man the automata were infused with psycho-physical parallelism, a symbiosis that could only be severed by the death of the soul. And this, my friend, was the birth of modern psychology. A revelation that Descartes and Locke first posited on the dualism of man. Also a premise highly respected by Jonathan Edwards, who perhaps held the greatest logical mind to ever exist.”

  Soloman said nothing. His eyes narrowed.

  “Hebrew legend holds that the ancients knew the secrets of human resurrection because they understood the dualism of man far better than we,” Marcelle continued. “And I have, perhaps, seen evidence of it. So, although your people may have done it without that occult knowledge, it is not a new thing. What has been done ... has been done before.”

  Silence darkened the room.

  “Did you know, Colonel,” he continued, “that Augustine designated the will as the force that moves both intellect and inner sense to action, but the will itself is ethically and psychologically free?” The priest laughed. “Homo corpore utitur.”

  “Man making use of a body,” Soloman said.

  Marcelle seemed impressed. “You understand Latin?”

  “Latin, German, French – a smattering of a few more. Why don’t you just say what you mean to say, priest?”

  Leaning back, Marcelle continued. “Man acts upon a body, but is not acted upon by it. And that is what I mean to say. Nor are these elemental forces easily understood or controlled. Like imagination and memory, understanding and intellect, all of them dominated by a force that is classified very, very vaguely as ‘will,’ which is a woefully inadequate term for whatever, in the end, defines the true essence or soul of man.”

  Soloman pursed his lips. “I’ve thought a little about that, Marcelle. And you might be onto something. But right now I need to know what you know. I need some answers.”

  Unfazed, the priest withdrew another cigarette, speaking without hesitation. “Proceed with your questions, Colonel. I will withhold virtually nothing – measure for measure.”

  Concentrating, Soloman’s mind kept returning to the words Maggie had spoken after exiting Amy’s room. He didn’t understand them but knew they were somehow important. “Tell me, have you ever heard the term ‘grim veris’?”

 
Frozen in waving shadow, Marcelle took a long time to reply. “Yes, Colonel, I believe I know the term. Is that what Cain said to the child before your confrontation in the tunnel?”

  “Yes.”

  “So ... yes.” Marcelle stared away, expelling a breath toward the hearth. “Yes ... what Cain spoke of was very likely ‘The Grimorium Verum.’ It is a book – a centuries-old book, and a cursed work. It was never reprinted for the masses because the fear of what it contained was too great even to those who did not believe in it. The only surviving copies are in Hebrew and Latin and sealed in three places.”

  “What places?”

  “One copy is sealed in the Los Angeles Museum of Natural History,” Marcelle answered, eyes narrowing with what appeared to be a sudden suspicion. “Another is sealed in New York’s Museum of Natural History. And the last is secured in the Secret Archives of the Vatican. They are very ancient and fragile, and not available for reading.”

  “Why would Cain want it?”

  The priest shook his head. “Who can be certain, Colonel? All that is known is that The Grimorium Verum is the ultimate encyclopedia of Black Magic. According to accumulated legend and superstition, and what I know personally, men can supposedly use it to access powers as mysterious to modern man as electricity was to ancient Romans.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question,” Soloman said. “Why, exactly, would Cain risk exposure to actually possess this book? Can’t he obtain whatever information it contains from another source?”

  “No, Colonel. The spells contained within The Grimorium Verum are vastly complicated and intricate. Some of the incantations require ancient names and spectacular combinations of elements.” He gestured vaguely. “Some must be performed in specific locations with fresh water or salt water or different types of blood dried for an exact number of days on a sword or knife that is polished at an ordained hour of a certain day. Some require detailed diagrams or pentacles and signs or fantastical elements even more complicated. And everything must be done in exacting sequence.” He sighed. “If one does not go step by step with each conjuration then the spell, according to legend, is useless. And as I said, there is no other source but these three copies. So, I surmise, this is why Cain would risk much to possess one of them. In his mind, it can provide the meticulous incantation he wishes to evoke. At least, that seems a logical deduction.”

  Soloman nodded slowly to indicate his agreement. “Have you ever read this book? Do you know what Cain might want it for?”

  “I have examined it,” the priest replied quietly; he obviously didn’t want to remember the experience. “But it is a vast work. There are any number of things Cain may desire. Right now we don’t have enough information to even couch the question.”

  Studious, Soloman turned it in his mind, thinking half-aloud. “So Cain apparently needs this book to ensure that he correctly evokes some sort of spell, or the spell is useless.”

  “It would seem so,” the priest said, expelling a long stream of smoke. “But no man can say with absolute certainty whether there is any truth to it. All we can say is that Cain apparently believes that it contains something he seeks. That is why he so mindlessly mentioned it in front of the child; a mistake born from obsession. Though ... I can say that whatever the purpose, it will probably involve a sacrifice of human blood.”

  Soloman frowned. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because virtually every page of the manuscript contains such an incantation.” Marcelle bowed his head as he continued, “There is human sacrifice for the gain of wealth, for knowledge, for the death of an enemy. And it was for that reason, more than any other, that the book was archived by Pope Innocent III. You can certainly understand that there are deranged persons who would have taken it and committed atrocities that have been easily avoided by its suppression.”

  Soloman sensed his heartbeat quicken. It was the first moment of encouragement that he’d felt in the hard battle to bring Cain to the ground. And in the moment he considered the priest as a colleague, compelling him to ask, “Who are you, Marcelle? I mean ... really.”

  Marcelle’s faint smile faded to nothing, then a frown, and he leaned back more deeply in the opulent chair. Smoke from the cigarette floated up to cast a thin white veil between them.

  “You’re an exorcist,” Soloman said.

  There was another long cloud of smoke released. “I am a priest, Colonel,” Marcelle answered calmly. “And I serve the Church in many capacities that I am not at liberty to discuss, even if I should feel inclined. I hope that is sufficient. But, to add, I will say that there are probably few who understand Cain as well as I.”

  “And what do you understand?”

  “I understand that, because of what your people have done, Cain may be the purest of his kind.” He concentrated his tone. “He is undead and yet unliving. And although I have dealt with occult phenomena, I have never confronted anything like this. Regrettably we are both cast into a strange and unknown arena. And, to be honest, I do not know if my faith or skills will avail us anything at all. In fact, I doubt it.”

  “Still, maybe we can help each other,” Soloman said. “You seem to have insight that I could use.”

  “Perhaps,” Marcelle paused. “But I am not under military command, Colonel. My jurisdiction is delivered by the strong right hand ... of a superior realm.”

  Soloman nodded with respect. “As it should be, Marcelle. But that doesn’t change the fact that you do have insight into Cain. You might even be able to understand him better than me because you understand the occult better than I do.”

  Marcelle took a long drag on the cigarette, eventually turned his shadowed face to the flames. His brow hardened in concentration. “I can say, Colonel, that it would be an unusual alliance.”

  “It would be a useful alliance, Marcelle, because I have access to everything that can track Cain. And you have the psychological insight that I need to predict his moves. Together, we might stand a chance of hunting him down before ...”

  Marcelle gazed back. “Before, Colonel?”

  Without moving at all, Soloman said, “You’ll have to trust me. Right now I want your best guess on Cain’s next move.”

  A concentration as impregnable as a fortress solidified the priest’s face. His black eyes gleamed, reflecting shadow and flame together, and his frown became deeper, the cigarette burning forgotten in his fingers. “Cain has lost the child,” he said finally, “so he will attempt to claim a copy of The Grimorium Verum. Then he would logically attempt to obtain knowledge of the child’s whereabouts and come for her once more.”

  “Why will he immediately attempt to obtain this book?”

  “Because he fears time.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because of things I have not yet told you.” Marcelle’s confidence was contagious. “But have no doubt, Soloman, Cain indeed fears time. And so he will come for the book. Perhaps even tonight.”

  With an angry aspect Soloman glanced at his watch; six hours remained until daylight. He hesitated a single breath before he rose, staring down at the priest.

  “Let’s go to the museum,” he said.

  CHAPTER 11

  A night of shadow surrounded Soloman as far as he could see or sense. It was an azure haze of street light that cast a dead-air atmosphere over the Los Angeles Museum of Natural History. And the building was Soloman’s focus; one of the three surviving copies of The Grimorium Verum was secured inside the steel doors.

  Leaning against a wall on the opposite side of the rear parking lot, Marcelle at his side, Soloman surveyed the back of the monolith, lamenting the fact that they were so far away. There was probably three hundred feet between them and the building, but Soloman’s night vision was adequate for the task; he could see clearly enough.

  Traffic had thinned on surrounding side streets, but heat hovered, carried through the ni
ght to smother them in fumes. And Soloman remembered that he had always hated this city with the traffic and traffic and traffic, the noise and pollution and five seasons of Hell. Even Death Valley or White Sands was better than this. Then he shook his head at the thought, amazed that it occurred to him in this perilous situation. He concentrated again on the building.

  Cain would attempt to make entry as covertly as possible, taking all precautions against another confrontation. And not because he couldn’t easily kill whoever came against him; it was because he didn’t want the complications of another escape.

  Soloman grimaced, remembering how he’d only narrowly defeated the monstrosity in the tunnel. And at the thought he lifted the heavy shotgun beneath Marcelle’s frowning gaze, sliding back the ejection shield to ensure that a round was chambered; it was. He was glad that he’d exchanged the .00 rounds with Malo for exploding .12 gauge three-inch slugs.

  Filled with mercury and a small measure of C-4, the magnum rounds impacted with the force of a small grenade. Capable of blowing a wooden door in half, they were only issued to elite counterterrorist teams like Force Recon or Seal Team One. Soloman was mercilessly determined to see how Cain could survive one of them.

  Glancing at his watch, he saw that only four hours remained until daylight, and shook his head with fatigue. Then he cast a glance to see Marcelle so stoic, so infinitely patient as he calmly smoked another cigarette, and felt a measure of respect at the composure. Truly, the priest was an exceptional man. He had not even shown fear when, an hour ago, a trio of street thugs wearing red bandannas stalked down a nearby alley. Immediately threatening, they had retreated quickly when Soloman casually raised the SPAS from behind his back, saying in a deathly cold voice, “I’m busy. Maybe later.”

  They never came back.

  Since then, he and Marcelle had been quiet together, each understanding and respecting the other’s discipline and patience. But the combined silence also seemed to reinforce to both of them that the darkness was lending cold reality to their fears.