by Barry Smith
Kraven then places his right hand on the boy’s back for support and the palm of his other hand on the boy’s forehead, before dipping him backward, immersing him in the water for a few seconds and then, raising him back up while saying,
“Arise, my child, and be born again for you are now a Disciple of Zion, and soon to be a fisherman of the King. You have been called to fish out the lost and spread the word of thy Lord.”
The nun then hands Father Kraven a sparkling blue “Sapphire of Life” necklace, a religious accessory proudly worn by Disciple members. Father takes it and places it around the boy’s neck, while speaking to the widely grinning boy softly, “The Lord giveth unto you a new life, and when you become of age, you can turn in your Sapphire of Life to become a Brother of the Missionary.”
After that had been done, Father Terence steps out of the baptismal font, and made his way further up the steps while the choir, who had earlier reduced their singing to a muted level, increased its intensity.
When he reached the large landing between the two flights of stairs where a flimsy ribbon impedes his path, he turns to speak to all present:
“The Lord Savior has given unto us, our newest Temple, now the fifth in Corbindale Bay and one of the largest ones in the nation. Rejoice ye, as ‘The Grand Temple’ is now opened to thee.” The crowd cheers.
After allowing his audience to express their jubilation, Father Terrence raises both hands to quiet them. Decorum soon returned to the background.
“The Lord Savior, in his graciousness, has also given onto us his anointed reverends, to guide us on our spiritual journey. Allow me to present Archbishop Patrick Gallagher, anointed high-priest and director of all Temples within Corbindale…”
A white man, in his golden years, with a hoary head and bushy beard, then descends the stairs from the dark alcove that ensconced him; his beautiful chasuble is handcrafted with some of the finest material in the world, which glimmers in the stage lights. The flowy material gives him grace that appears to float down the grand steps. His matching miter that sits high upon his head, commanding everyone’s attention as he comes forward.
“…the Mission Patriarch, Joseph Covay, with his two sons: Tyler and Mitchell Covay…”
The mentioned trio stepped forward from the same place the Archbishop had. Joseph Covay is a Caucasian in his mid-40’s, with a face that fooled many into thinking he was much younger, even though he had entirely silver hair; he is dressed in a sharp black suit, with a white shirt and a tie of the most expressive blue. Tyler, his first son, is very much like him in physical appearance, while Mitchell, his adoptive son of African-American heritage, both wearing their missionary uniforms.
“… and the new generation of Disciple youth,” concludes Father Terence.
Out steps several young ladies and men; the ladies are dressed in knee-length school-girl plaid skirts, knee-high socks, and then, a short-sleeved shirt with a vivid blue tie and sweater vest. The young men on the other hand, the Brothers of the Missionary, donned white long-sleeved shirts, black pants, and the same expressive blue ties as the girls wore that seem to glow in the night.
After the introduction by Father Terence had ended, the Mission Patriarch, Joseph Covay, steps forward to make an appeal:
“Praises be unto the Lord Savior, for without him, we could not achieve these great heights. But he, and the Mission are in need of your sons, the strongest of our disciples to spread the word of thy Lord to as many inner-city children and their families. I have made the sacrifice of my two sons, and they make me proud every day for their efforts; I am certain yours will too.”
Charmed by his words, the crowd began to chant,
“Zion! Zion! Zion!”
Father Kraven is then presented with a ribbon-cutting set by the nun from earlier. As he snips the ribbon, a deafening applause erupts from the crowd, with the members of the movement dancing to the songs sung by the choir, who had once again, increased the intensity of their singing.
“Let a new day dawn!” Kraven bellows. The crowd celebrates and begins to make their way up the glorious steps to enter into the Grand Temple’s wonders.
***
Somewhere in a dark room, surgeons have just finished operating on a patient laying on a table, lit by a sole light. A man in is his early 50’s of Indian heritage, has just finished watching the procedure from a glass window viewing room. He has a wavy black pompadour hair, and a well-groomed beard, dressed in a flamboyant pine green suit, with sunglasses on, while indoors. On his shoulder, is his pet cockatoo that he begins to speak to,
“Nira, I think we have it perfected,” the man says to his pet bird.
Inside the operating room, surgeons are surrounding the patient checking his vitals, blocking the sight of the patient from the onlooking man with the bird.
“How are you feeling?” asks one of the surgeons leaning over the patient.
“I feel very strange,” the man replies slowly, “Maybe this wasn’t the best idea.”
“Ooow, my head is pounding. I think something is terribly wrong.”
“You’re ok, it will take some getting use to,” the surgeon says to comfort the patient.
The man behind the window moves to the side to get a better view of the commotion being blocked by the surgeons.
From between the surgeons, the man behind the window can see the patient soon grabs his arm, as if to be having a heart attack. “Oooow, it burns. Help, Help!!”
“Don’t panic, let it take its course,” explains the surgeon.
Suddenly, a dark blur flies upward from the table, and takes out the only light. The room goes pitch dark. The man behind the window could only hear screaming and horror from inside the surgery room. But then, the room goes silent. As the man with the bird stares with concern, he is startled when one of the surgeons slams his face and hands against the window. The surgeon tries to mouth the word ‘help’ as he begins to slowly slide down the window’s pane and out of sight. More silence pursues until the darkness inside is abruptly broken-up when a concrete wall, opposite the viewing window, is demolished and comes crumbling down. The massive void in the wall lets light in from across the harbor, where Corbindale Bay’s downtown skyline shines brightly in the moonlight. Not too much time passes before the dark blur flies out the room, into the darkness of night.
In the viewing room, the man’s open mouth of disbelief gradually becomes a proud smile.
”We’ve done it. The ultimate killing machine in my bird collection.”
Chapter 2
The next day, Ryan is in his office with his hands at the back of his head, eyes closed, smiling sheepishly while leaning back into his chair.
“Swett! What the hell’s wrong with you?” barks Captain McCormack, as he stands in the doorway of Ryan’s office.
“Uh… Nothing, Cap!” replies the jolted detective, as he makes frantic efforts to put something out of sight beneath his desk.
“You sure about that?” questions McCormack, with a raised brow.
“Definitely, Cap. I was just, you know…” replies Ryan, while his mind races to find an excuse, “…napping; these cases and all can really drain a man of energy.”
“I guess you are right. ‘Missing Persons’ cases can be the worst; take it from a man who has had a ton of ‘em,” agrees McCormack before continuing,
“Well, I didn’t drop in for a courtesy call, Swett…”
“I suppose not,” interjects Ryan.
“… but to introduce you to the man I told you about earlier,” finished the Captain, while coming fully into the office, “Swett, meet Bryce Delles.”
In walks a man who looks nothing like anyone to take serious. He is an Italian in his late twenties, with striking good looks, and ruggedness dressed in his biker wear. He wore studded boots, ripped jeans and a sleeveless leather jacket with no inner shirt, which exposes the tattoos on his abdomen and chest; the former being a biohazard sign around his belly button, and the latter being angel wings o
n his chest. He has a perfectly chiseled face and the physique of Apollos, with a machismo all men will admire.
“Delles, this is Detective Ryan Swett, Corbindale’s newest addition,” continues McCormack, “Swett, Bryce should be of great help on the Wicked Haven investigation; he partnered with Pinkerton on the initial case.”
As Bryce went to go shake Ryan’s hand, he thought it rude that Ryan didn’t stand up to greet him. He instead, shakes his hand while sitting down.
“I’ll let you two get acquainted,” says the Captain with his back turned to them, “Will love to stay and play in the sandbox, but I’ve got a meeting at City Hall,” and just as quickly as he walked in, he glides out.
“Have a seat,” offers Ryan, but Bryce’s gaze falls to the bottom of Ryan’s desk;
“Those are nice shoes you have on, but those high heels can’t possibly be comfortable on assignment.”
The stilettoes that are peeking out from underneath the desk, suddenly recede further underneath, and out of sight. Moments after, the administrative assistant, Monique, a stunning petite with cherry blonde hair, rises from beneath Ryan’s desk.
“Pardon me,” whispers the lady with a bowed head and flushed cheeks, as she takes the ‘Walk of Shame’ out the office door, with Bryce smirking at her.
“Sorry about that man,” begins Ryan, “I needed a break from all this work, and Monique is so unique, especially in the tongue department, if you know what I mean,” winks Ryan at Bryce.
“Oh, I know what you mean!” exclaims Bryce, “And she must have got some mad skills; with the look on your face, one would think you are on Cloud Nine.”
“You have no idea!” replies Ryan, as both men laugh.
“But I’ve got to fix that; I have an overactive libido,” confesses Ryan.
“He’s got that right!” interjects Gloria, “To think you would engage your urges in the Precinct, with a fellow employee, under the Captain’s very nose. You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that!”
“Did…did that wall just talk?” asks Bryce, with a quizzical look.
“Oh, right. Pardon me. Gloria, meet Bryce, hopefully my savior on my Wicked Haven case. Bryce, meet Gloria, my electronic personal assistant.”
“But I don’t assist him in the way Monique does!” chirps in the computer.
“Haha, real funny!” responds Ryan, in mock laughter.
“I like her,” comments Bryce.
“Then you, kind Sir, have fine taste in women. As a matter of fact…” replies Gloria.
“That’s enough, Gloria,” booms Ryan, cutting her off, “He’s here to work.”
“Do you mind if I take a smoke?” asks Bryce.
“Aah, a cigar smoker,” replies Ryan, “Sure, go ahead; there’s an ashtray on the table next to you. Gloria, please turn on the ventilation.”
“Turning on ventilation system.” spouts Gloria.
After taking his first few puffs from his lighted cigar, Bryce proceeds to tell Ryan about himself:
“I don’t know if McCormack told you, but I used to be on the force. I started out with the CBPD as a young rookie cop at age 21.”
“21?” asks Ryan.
“I know, right,” replies Bryce, “Then, they trusted me well enough to do undercover work as a young drug dealer, but I ended up quitting five years later, due to the scandals within the Force that were rampant in those days.”
He pauses, to draw more smoke from his cigarette, before hurling it into the air in front of him before continuing:
“But I gotta say, I miss all the action of catching the bad guys, and fighting for justice. It gave me a rush of adrenaline and even more, a purpose. But now, at 28, working as a mild-mannered Investigative Reporter for the Corbindale Bay Newspaper, Now I get my adrenaline rush from riding my Harley and the occasional bar fights.”
“Bar fights, really?”
“Yeah, need to give these babies a workout once in a while,” replies Bryce, while flexing his biceps.
Ryan smiles at his gestures before asking what Bryce knows about ‘A Wicked Haven’.
“Well,” begins the tattooed Italian, “ I initiated the Wicked Haven investigation and was, as the Cap earlier mentioned, working with Detective Niall Pinkerton, may his soul rest in peace,” prays Bryce, with a slight bow, “I suspected prostitution had resurfaced on the island; since you know, it had been outlawed ever since those Zion Disciples came to town. It all started when, one night, I meet up for drinks with a good buddy and former co-worker at the paper, Chase Armstrong. At the time, Chase was going through a rough breakup with his girlfriend, Sage, a famous hooker, who used to work at the old brothel, ‘Penelope’s Cathouse’. But I found it quite suspicious when he told me that Sage miraculously, turned from being a prostitute to becoming a singer and hostess at the then, new Quist nightclub in A Wicked Haven, almost overnight, and wanted nothing to do with Chase anymore. Chase had planned on leaving Corbindale because he had a gut feeling that Sage was cheating on him. He believed it was with someone she called the Bossman, a name he heard when ease-dropping on a few of her phone calls discussing a new partnership. I myself, visited the nightclub a few times during its first year of establishment, had me a good time, but I did notice a few suspicious transactions, all leading to a guarded back room; felt I needed to share this suspicions with CBPD, and that resulted in me being partnered with Pinkerton. But our investigations of A Wicked Haven was always met with a brick wall, and after he went there solo one night, he never returned. I think you know what happened after that.”
After the long-winded narration, Bryce puts out the stump of his cigar on the ashtray Ryan had put out before saying,
“You know, I kinda feel guilty for Pinkerton’s death. Perhaps, if I had gone with him that night, maybe…” he sniffed, “…just maybe, he would still be alive. That’s why I insist you take me along on your investigation, Detective; I am no stranger to A Wicked Haven or going undercover; those fuckers need to be brought to justice for what they did to Niall.”
“And they will, kid,” assures Ryan, “But this is more than just revenge, prostitution and even a dead detective; hundreds of missing, probably still living people, are tied to this case. At least, that’s what my gut tells me.”
“You see!” confirms Bryce, “This is a two-man job; you can’t possibly do this on your own, take a page from Pinkerton’s book!”
“He’s right!” offers Gloria, “We wouldn’t want your charred remains to end up on the doorstep of some family.”
“Like there’s a family,” thinks Ryan.
“So…what’s it gonna be?” asks Bryce.
After deep thought, Ryan finally speaks up,
“Just make sure to wear more clothing when we go there tonight.”
“Don’t worry. I clean up nicely,” replies Bryce.
“Well, of course you do,” Ryan sarcastically comments, as Bryce walks out the door.
***
On the far side of town, among Corbindale’s slums and ghettoes, a jeep pulls up in front of a decrepit-looking, but heavily guarded, building in an area popularly called ‘Trouble Town’. From the vehicle, disembarks a hefty man with dark shades and several guns, flanked by two others. They march to the guards at the entrance, who are armed to the teeth, and then, made the ‘Peace’ sign on both hands, before crossing them to form the letter ‘X’. The guards responded with the same gesture before letting them through. the trio strode to the elevator, which was a very sophisticated piece of gadgetry that should have ordinarily, not be found in such a run-down building.
The three men rode the lift all the way to the top floor, where they entered into a lounge which was elegant and retro in furnishing; with red velvet, juke-boxes and pool tables, and an atmosphere that hung heavy with the smell of nicotine and marijuana. They walked past inebriated men drinking straight from bottles, and snorting drugs off the naked bodies of nubile women lying on tables into a foyer, where a set of imposing, ornately designed oak doors stand, which was
guarded by yet, another thug.
“Open up! I’m here to see Damien,” bellows the head thug of the newcomers.
The thug on guard, aware of the status of the muscular man who stood before him, immediately obliges him, allowing him and his company push the towering doors open and saunter in.
The bespectacled man walks into an exquisitely furnished but empty office, with the hollowness of the space being accentuated by the large screen behind the office desk showing the news.
“Boss!” calls out one of the men in his guard, “I hear something coming from that room.”
The addressee headed in the direction pointed and pushed open, the doors that obstructed his path.
Inside, was Damien Estrada, leader of InfliXion, in bed with three women, who all tried to cover their nudity with the bedsheets upon the unexpected entrance; Damien being the only exception. Damien was a rough-neck Hispanic in his mid 30’s; he wore a buzzed haircut, had a mustache, and a barely-thriving goatee. He also had a scar near his right eye, and was always in a tank-top which did little to hide several tattoos on his body that he acquired while doing his time in prison, face inclusive.
“What the fuck’s this supposed to mean?” demands the gang leader, while caressing the ladies to his left and right, “Thought we weren’t supposed to meet till tomorrow?”
“Ran into a little snag, Boss,” was the reply he received, “Our shipment of ‘Bliss’ got detained at a surprise police check-point on Route 96. When our guys got the call, we split up to find our men and the trucks. My men reported back to me that our guys weren’t registered at the police station and hadn’t been arrested. So, I traced our trucks from the tracker we installed only to find what? The HB-17 posed as cops and hijacked our shit. I got the location of where they are keeping our stuff, if we gonna take it back tonight.”