Initiate

by Bill Bennett

  Some people called him the Fallen Priest, because he always wore his traditional church garb complete with dog collar and silver cross to the extractions. Within the Golden Order of Baphomet he was often simply called the Collector, because that’s what he did; he collected souls for his Dark Master and Mistress.

  He was only given the big jobs – the heads of state, the influential celebrities, the internet identities, the cultural icons, or the CEOs of major corporations whose decisions could affect the hearts and minds of millions. Sometimes he poached a wayward cleric or bishop, once he even turned a would-be saint. He regarded that as a major triumph, to clutch her soul away from the light just before it claimed her.

  On his driver’s licence his name was Father Michael O’Leary. An innocuous enough name. If ever he was pull­ed up by the highway patrol and they ran his details, he would check out clean as a whistle. And before they’d even driven away they would have forgotten all about the gentle pastor they’d stopped. On the police databases there would be no record of their enquiries.

  He had a social security number that was similarly chameleon, and an ATM card and various accounts in Swiss banks, which in anyone’s calculation made him one of the wealthiest men on the planet. Understandable, because he had been alive for more than three hundred years, and during that time he had plundered many a rich man. Money held no interest for him, though. He lived in the real world, but he existed outside it too.

  He drove back up the muddy track to the ruined church, and with three swift movements of his double-edged silver dagger, he sliced open the door on his unseen cone and drove in. To an observer, the truck just disappeared. Once inside, he closed the cone behind him.

  He eschewed the normal comforts. The high-steepled wooden church had tiles and timbers missing from the roof, a wall half-collapsed by a fallen tree, stained glass windows busted by youths with no respect for their god. In winter a sub-zero wind whistled through, snow turned to ice on the floor, there was no running water, no lights, no heat. He didn’t feel the cold but he sat by a fire anyway. He liked to watch the flames. It took him to dark remembered places.

  He had no interest in television or radio or the internet. He had no interest in what was happening in the world outside. He was there just to serve. He slept on a stark wood-slatted bed, no blankets or mattress, and only required three hours sleep a night. His one concession to modern living, other than his Lincoln Navigator, was his phone, which he kept charged by running a small portable generator only when necessary. It was through the phone that he got his calls to collect and deliver.

  He had arrived in the Great Country with a boatload of colonists in the late 1600s, a parish priest from the small village of Gerrish in Roscommon, Ireland. He had been banished from the church for ‘wicked licentiousness’ and sought to start a new life, explore new pleasures in a wild and free land. He settled in Ipswich, Massachusetts, and established a church on the riverfront. He soon had a loyal and growing congregation. His oratory was florid and impassioned and he regularly invoked stirring passages from those sections of the bible that quickened the blood. With his rousing voice, his craggy looks and his tall lean frame, he quickly won the hearts of his female parishioners.

  But he was only interested in the young ones.

  Sweet little Betty Rice became his plaything, but when she inexplicably went into seizures one night after they’d spent a particularly vigorous afternoon together, and with no medical cause to be found for her condition, she was arrested for witchcraft. The child, to try and save her sorry soul, pointed her finger in his direction and he too was imprisoned, put on trial, and sentenced to be hanged as a witch.

  The night before his execution a dark-robed man visited him in his cell. How he entered the jail and got into his cell was beyond the priest’s comprehension. The man kept to the shadows and spoke in silky whispers. His words were tainted with a foreign tongue, but the condemned priest understood the substance of his proposal; if he were to sign a contract in blood with his Lord Master and Lady Mistress, then he would be freed and could indulge his carnal and sensual pleasures for all eternity. The price was his soul.

  Father O’Leary, facing the noose the next morning, and believing his soul to be corrupted and destined to the nether reaches of hell anyway, nodded his immediate acceptance. The man in the shadows produced a gleaming sharp knife, took the priest’s hand, slit his palm, and with a feathered quill sought his signature on a sheet of goatskin parchment there and then in that dank fetid cell.

  Upon the final flourish of his signature, the priest fainted. When he awoke, he was in a vast and empty underground chamber, lit from below by dancing flames, at the end of which was a creature sitting on a stone altar. It would be his first audience with His Lord and Lady, Master and Mistress, the Two Evil – the masculine and feminine duality that was Satan.

  Over the years, the decades, the centuries, he slowly gained more favour, more power, greater access to the magnificent malevolence that was the Palace of Fires. He became the inner sanctum’s most important emissary, the one they sent out to bring back a prized acquisition, the one they used when terror was required to bag an elusive and valued conquest.

  He saw himself as a simple Irish rover – prepared to go anywhere, do what was asked, bring back the goods. And the goods were souls. Difficult souls. Recalcitrant souls. Equivocal souls. The souls that no one but he with his special skills could coax across the dark ravine from the light to the dark.

  The priest’s cell flashed and vibrated. He picked it up slowly, took the call, held the phone away from his ear like it was something alive, and merely listened.

  It was the Hag, her voice venomous. ‘It’s time to come.’

  __________

  She rubbed her yellowed eyes, shook her head at the idiocy of the Inquisitor. She had sent through a video of Angela Maguire taken with a phone, lifeless and all trussed up like a hog ready for the spit, lying on the floor of a trash-filled warehouse somewhere in San Francisco. The old woman replayed it again on her computer. Yes, it was good that she’d finally been caught, this woman they’d been after for all these years, but what about the daughter? To extinguish the line finally and completely, they had to have the daughter too.

  Outside it was dark now but she could hear the laughter of young children as they did duck dives into the condominium’s pool, trying to splash their stupid half-drunk parents lying back on their plastic recliners gossiping among themselves and guffawing at their kids’ cretinous antics.

  She would have to deal with those idiot children. Their noise had gotten worse lately with the onset of warmer weather, and it infuriated her. It distracted her at times when she needed pin-sharp concentration. She hated children. She hated their inane frivolity, their mindless abandon, their naive and foolish belief that the future was theirs without struggle or pain. They would soon learn.

  She picked up her phone, called the Inquisitor. Kritta answered, obviously seeing her caller ID because her voice was tremulous. ‘Yes, Hag?’

  ‘Do you have the girl yet?’

  ‘Not yet. But it’s only a matter of time. We’re doing everything . . .’

  ‘Shut your blather. I’m not interested. Do you understand this is a directive from the Inner Sanctum itself? That’s what you’re dealing with here. You will be answerable to That Below.’

  There was silence on the end of the line.

  ‘Don’t disappoint us,’ the Hag said, then hung up.

  She wheezed, her chest rising and falling with her agitation. Outside and fourteen floors below, a child squealed shrilly with delight, then splashed into the pool. She hated children. They laughed too much, and without good reason.

  Kritta’s favourite TV show was The World’s Deadliest Ambush Predators. She must have seen the show more than twenty times. She liked to draw from nature. That’s where witchcraft came from after all, from a celebration and worship of nature. And she celebrated these creatures, these beasts, these monsters that used
traps, disguises, stealth and stillness to hunt and ambush their prey.

  The Nile crocodile was one of her favourites. She liked that it could pull down animals more than three times its size, purely through guile and patience. With just its eyes peering above water, it would wait sometimes for weeks at a time before pouncing on a stupid antelope or gazelle. Kritta identified with these ambush predators – the deadly spiders, the poisonous snakes, even the praying mantis that blended into its background and used exquisite stillness to ensnare its prey. She liked the way they waited till their quarry was off guard and vulnerable before striking with deadly precision.

  That’s what had given her an edge over the years. That’s why she was now so feared. She didn’t rush in impulsively. She was like a Nile crocodile, using sly cunning to take down victims way bigger and stronger than herself. There was so much to learn from nature.

  She watched from the shadows as the squad car parked out front of SFPD Central Station, a large, brick-like nondescript building less than a mile from San Francisco’s Fisherman’s Wharf. One of the cops, the woman, escorted the girl inside, then the cop car, containing the suitcase, moved off and turned into a side street where it entered a secure compound.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Bess asked, leaning on her bike beside her.

  ‘We wait,’ Kritta said.

  She was now a crocodile, hiding in the dark, her eyes just above water, waiting for her moment to pounce.

  Officer Pat Dougherty walked over with a pizza box stained with seeping grease. When she opened the lid, the smell of anchovies and cheap olive oil caused Lily to nearly gag. The cheese on top had solidified into something resembling plastic.

  Dougherty offered her a slice. ‘It could be a long night,’ she said.

  ‘No thanks,’ Lily said, looking away. The cardboard box would be more edible, she thought.

  ‘Okay.’ Dougherty walked off, shaking her head as if she couldn’t fathom why any kid in their right mind would pass up pizza on a Saturday night.

  She sat down at her desk, opened the box, grabbed a limp slice and chomped into it, then began tapping on her desktop keys, writing up her report with greasy fingers. Remembering, she stopped and kindly offered the box to Ramirez, who sat opposite. He too was typing. He took one look at what was on offer, wisely shook his head, no thanks, then grabbed a packet of Advil, pushed out two tablets, washed them down with a can of Diet Coke, and kept working. From the bleached look on his face and his fixed determined gaze, Lily figured his back was still hurting him.

  A woman suddenly sat down beside her. She was in her late twenties, wore jeans and a white blouse under a waterproof hiker’s jacket. She had no jewellery except for a wedding band on her right hand, and a cheap digital watch. Her hair was cropped short, and her only concession to make-up was a slash of pale ash-pink lipstick in dire need of freshening. There were dark circles under her wide brown eyes, she had long lashes, and eyebrows that looked like they’d never been plucked. Her gaze was direct, and she had an unguarded openness that made Lily immediately trust her before she’d even spoken a word.

  ‘Hey Lily, I’m Detective Marley Davis. Call me Marley. I’ve been assigned your case.’ She held out her hand and her grip was strong. She smiled, and Lily thought it probably wouldn’t take much for her to be very pretty, if she put some effort in. Obviously, though, she had other priorities.

  ‘Do you have any news?’ Lily asked.

  Marley picked up a printout of an email. ‘Some. The good news is there’s been no reported accidents involving your mom, and we’ve checked all the hospitals and your mom hasn’t been admitted. So that’s the good news. The bad news is we don’t have a clue where she is.’

  She put the email down, then passed across a black-and-white mug shot of the doll-like girl Lily had seen at the market, and at the motel.

  ‘Was this one of the women that frightened your mom this morning?’ Marley asked.

  Even in a photograph, the girl exuded a viciousness that seemed to leap out at Lily and chill her down to her bones. Her eyes were like diamond drill-bits. Sharp and glittering. Her mouth cut a cruel mocking smile, showing her utter contempt for the criminal justice system that was taking her photo.

  ‘Yes, that’s her,’ Lily said, absorbing every detail of the small malicious face that spat out so much hate. ‘Who is she?’ She handed the photograph back to the detective, feeling sullied by even having touched the picture.

  ‘Her name is Kristine Kredlich, aka Kritta Kredlich. Until a short time ago she was head of a coven of witches that operated out of San Diego.’

  ‘Witches?’ Lily said. ‘In San Diego? Are you serious?’

  ‘There are witches everywhere, Lily, believe me.’

  ‘How come you’ve got her mug shot? Does she have a record?’

  ‘Oh yeah. She’s got a record.’

  ‘What sort of record?’

  Lily hoped it would just be for minor misdemeanors. But the savagery in the girl’s face made her think it was for things way more serious.

  ‘She’s wanted for questioning in relation to a string of offences, Lily. So far she’s evaded capture.’

  ‘Murder?’ Lily asked. She had to ask, but she didn’t want to know.

  The detective hesitated. ‘Yes, murder. Several counts. She’s a very dangerous individual, Lily, I won’t try and hide things from you. If we’re to work together, then there’s got to be transparency on both sides, okay? Which means you’ve got to be forthcoming with me, too.’

  Lily nodded, still absorbing the news that her mom had been abducted by someone who had killed several times.

  The detective looked up at her with a gun-barrel gaze. ‘Your mother hasn’t ever had anything to do with witchcraft by any chance, has she?’

  ‘No way,’ Lily said. ‘Of course not. My mom’s into meditation. New Age stuff. She runs an online meditation school. There’s no way she’s into witchcraft.’

  ‘What’s the name of your mom’s website?’

  ‘Light on Light Meditation,’ she said, then added, ‘but you’re wasting your time. I know my mom. We’re unbelievably close. She’d find just the thought of witches and witchcraft totally disgusting.’

  The detective stared at her for longer than Lily felt was necessary, then asked, ‘Have you ever heard your mom mention the word “Baphomet”?’

  ‘Baphomet?’ Lily shook her head. ‘No. What’s that?’

  ‘It’s a secret organisation of witches. Their actual name is The Golden Order of Baphomet. They’ve been around for centuries. They’re based out of Europe, but they also have a strong presence here in the States. And it’s getting stronger. We don’t know much about them, but we do know that this Kritta Kredlich is a mid-level operative. A very dangerous witch.’

  Lily felt a pain between her eyes. It throbbed. She rubbed it. This is where her mother said her third eye lay. ‘I don’t know what any of this has got to do with my mom,’ she said. She sat back in her chair and folded her arms.

  Marley scribbled some notes. Then she looked up again. ‘Okay Lily, let’s talk about this morning. Why did your mom check you both into a motel? Why didn’t she go back home?’

  Lily was losing patience. She didn’t want to have to answer any more questions that would lead nowhere. ‘I’ve been through all this with those other two cops. Mom gets freaked out easily. Ever since my dad’s death.’

  Marley picked up a file, thumbed through it. ‘He died in a road smash in Florida four years ago, right? A head-on with a truck . . .’

  ‘That’s right,’ Lily said tightly. She really didn’t want to be reminded of her dad’s death right now. It was hard enough holding it together as it was.

  ‘The driver of the truck crossed over onto the other side of the road, hit your father’s car, it exploded on impact, and your father died in the resulting fireball. Incinerated.’ She lingered on some photos of the crash site, and the charred remains of the rental car. ‘It seems the driver of the truck left the
scene and was never apprehended.’ Marley looked up at Lily. ‘That must have been tough.’

  ‘It still is.’

  Marley put down the file. ‘I have to ask this, Lily. I hope you understand. Does your mother suffer from any form of mental illness?’

  Lily temper flared. ‘My mom’s not crazy!’ She said it louder than she intended, and was suddenly aware that the other detectives in the room had stopped and were staring at her. She blushed.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lily,’ Marley said, her voice soft and calm. ‘It’s just that it’s odd behaviour, that’s all.’

  ‘My mom is odd, okay? She’s seriously odd. But she’s not crazy and she’s not a goddamn witch!’

  Marley looked down at the photograph of Kritta on her desk. ‘Why is it that I feel there’s something here I’m missing – that you’re not telling me?’ She looked back up at Lily, pinning her with her gaze.

  Lily suddenly felt the letter throb in the back pocket of her jeans. But then she remembered all the promises the police had made after her father’s death – that they’d find the truck driver, they’d bring him to justice and he’d stand trial for killing her dad. It never happened. The cops had lied to her, let her down. She’d long ago lost her faith in law enforcement.

  ‘I’ve told you everything I know,’ she said flatly.

  ‘Okay then,’ Marley said, pushing back her chair. ‘So let’s talk about the suitcase. Do you have any idea what’s inside?’

  ‘Haven’t you opened it yet?’ Lily asked, surprised. As soon as she’d arrived at the station, a couple of cops from the SWAT team had grabbed the Samsonite and taken it away.

  ‘No. The guys have tried everything,’ Marley said. ‘Even an oxy-hydro blowtorch, and those mothers can cut open a Chase Manhattan safe. But it never even made a mark. So then they X-rayed it, put it through one of those TSA security scanners they use at airports, and nothing.’

  ‘What do you mean, “nothing”?’