Reverend Plotno brushed back a stray hair that had stuck to her eyelashes. She shivered in response. He smiled into her love-struck eyes, and then released her gaze.
“You are a true asset to this congregation.” Plotno turned to the altar to review his notes for Wednesday's sermon.
“I know how much you hate going to that place and listening to the blather he is spewing. But, dear one, I need you to go again.” Anita deflated like a balloon.
Plotno turned back to Anita and lifted her chin, fixing his eyes on hers. “Be strong, and you will be rewarded!”
“Not again, please, Martin.” She touched his arm. His heart quickened in response, thinking of what would come.
“Yes, again,” he whispered as he bent to her ear, “this time, and anytime I ask you to. You know, obedience is as important as tolerance.” He nibbled her ear.
She surrendered and hung her head. “All right,” she whispered.
“Good girl. Now off with you, I must plan for tonight's study.”
Anita Conner turned, not sure that her unsteady legs would hold her weight. She tried a step. Reassured that her limbs were okay, she strode to, then out, the heavy, carved wood doors.
“This day is feeling fantastic,” the Right Reverend mused, “fantastic, indeed.”
The church door swung open a second time.
“What is it now?” he spoke without turning.
“Stop now; your destruction is imminent. Stop now, for your sake and the sake of your congregation!” An unfamiliar voice boomed through the silence of moments before.
Martin Plotno whirled in response, holding the candle extinguisher like a sword, ready to confront the intruder. A thin, white-haired, and unshaven specter of a man stood before him.
Lowering his weapon, Plotno said, “there is a soup kitchen down the street, old man, they can help you. There's nothing for you here. Come back when you clean yourself up.”
“I am sent to help you, sir.”
“Really? Who thinks I would need any assistance you can offer?” Plotno was sure a congregant was playing a practical joke on him. That had happened before with the stripper in the cake for his 45th birthday. What a hoot!
“The God of Jacob and Isaac, Martin Plotno, who says to you, ‘Stop using Me and my Christ to lead others astray. Obey Me. Worship the one true God. You are in a teacher's position, pretending to be a man of God, and woe to you!
God spoke through James in the New Testament, Mr. Plot-no: ‘Not many of you should presume to be teachers, my brothers, because you know that we who teach will be judged more strictly.’ Change, I plead with you, or your destruction is imminent.”
Ire rose in Plotno's throat. How dare this example of bad hygiene, this disciple of the streets, speak to him in such a way!
“Do not step any farther into this sacred place, you sick old man who has no dreams or hope! Get out. We don't allow your kind here. Be gone!”
Josiah held his ground. “I am a servant of the one true God, sent to give you this warning. May God have mercy on you!”
Josiah turned, cocked his head as if listening to an unseen voice and turned to face Plotno again. “I have been instructed to clear something up for you. Whether you believe it or not, there is a hell and not all go to heaven, even though our God does not will any to perish. You are deceived and, again I say, repent!”
Josiah marched to the doors of the church, lifting his hand and thrusting it back and forth to brush back the black mist as he left. It shot to one side before he walked through, a dark curtain blown by an invisible wind. The dark mist, Atramentous by name, vibrated with hatred, then fear at what he saw. An angel of God was with this man. He bent his head to avoid the blinding light. After they passed, he raised his head, formed an invisible mouth, a deep red chasm where the black mist had been. A guttural, gurgling roar spewed out to sound the alarm, sending sleeping birds flying into the sky crying in fear. No response.
“Now what?” he pondered. Atramentous was a cunning brute who carried out Iconoclast's orders with ease. His ability to plan, though, was so slow it bordered on painful. After a laborious mental exercise, a vicious smile broadened the black line of a mouth. He knew how to warn Iconoclast, and receive a commendation for his newfound ability to plan.
Chapter 3
The Unseen and the Unwanted
Atramentous slid from the church door and retraced the path up Main. He slithered under the door of the new-age shop, wrapped his semitransparent bulk around Miggie and spoke, “get word to the one who allows you to have this place. The very one who has prospered you. The plan to complete the Congregational Alliance's good work is under attack.”
“What do you want me to do?”
Atramentous had no patience with this idiot. He shifted his form to a misty, black rope and tightened. Miggie gasped for air, and pulled at the invisible bindings for relief.
In a fluid, violent motion, Atramentous released Miggie, who fell to the floor, gasping for air.
He found breath enough to whisper, “forgive me, great one. I am but a human. Please instruct me.” He dropped into a prone position, face down on the floor.
Atramentous had only released this idiot because Iconoclast had commanded he not be harmed. “You can have him when I say; no sooner. Until then do not harm him or you will be no more!”
Atramentous’ desire to destroy Iconoclast rose to a dangerous level, threatening to make him forget his assignment. His fear of Iconoclast and those loyal to him acted as a tranquilizer and squelched his desire for battle.
“Go to the top of Ravens Ravine at sunset. Do not enter the ravine.”
“No, there are too many police! I will be questioned and become a suspect!”
Atramentous tightened around Miggie again, just enough to pressure Miggie's bones so he had an understanding of what would happen if he did not obey.
“Fool. Go to Ravens Ravine at sunset or die!”
Miggie cried out. Small capillaries broke in his eyes. The building pressure made Miggie feel as if they would pop like over-filled balloons; he heard a distinct crack as something in his body gave way to the pressure.
Atramentous released him and again Miggie fell to the floor, this time wailing in fear and pain.
“Go to the top of Ravens Ravine. Call down these words, ‘I am a messenger sent by your great guard who protects the Congregational Alliance.’ Your great guard says, ‘there is one who has come to this place, your place, who means to destroy you. He is strong in the Holy One. You destroyed his family and he seeks revenge. But, O great one, no one can defeat you. Your messenger waits for instructions.’
Sit down, cross-legged, facing away from The Corpse Mound. Be still or you will die. You will be instructed.”
“As you say!”
Satisfied, Atramentous stretched out, slid along the floor, back under the door and down the street to his post. The commander would be irate, he thought. He was glad it was Miggie delivering the news. The initial anger of the commander could be unrestrained and Atramentous did not want to be the first to tell him. If Miggie becomes a sacrifice, so be it. I do want to crush
that pipsqueak into dust, but rather he meet the commander's punishment than me. Satisfied with his plan, Atramentous settled his charcoal bulk over the door and waited for instructions.
A troubled and frightened Miggie busied himself unpacking and inventorying his latest books, potions, crystals, and adult play paraphernalia. Terror played with his mind until it became like a guitar string that tightened to the breaking point.
The back door to Miggie's shop popped open, sounding like a gunshot. Miggie jumped up from his sitting position on the floor and stumbled backward, tripping over the box he had been unloading. He plopped like a sack of flour to the floor, legs in an upside down V, arms outstretched behind him. He strained his neck upward, squinting into the blinding light. Shifting all of his weight to the right arm, Miggie threw the left one over his eyes as a shield. He recognized the familiar form o
f one of his best customers, the alluring and demure Anita Conner.
Miggie distributed keys for the alley entrance to his top customers, and Anita was at the peak. His patrons appreciated the thoughtfulness. He smiled, good business policy.
“A little jumpy today, Miggie?”
“Got to get that door fixed; sounds like a bomb exploding every time it opens.” He pushed himself vertical in one motion and began dusting dirt from his trousers.
Anita studied him for a while, noticing the redness of his eyes and a nasty purple bruise rising on his right cheek. “If you say so.”
“Looking for something in particular?” He swiped at his pants again.
“Well, needing a potion, I think, maybe a spell book or two …” her voice trailed off as she headed for the occult section across the room. She touched each book with her right index finger, reading as she went.
“You'd think working in a library you could have all this at your disposal. He swept his arm from right to left. “Cheaper, too.”
“Indeed; if I want all of Ravens Cove to question my bringing in those kinds of books. There are some big eyes watching it and me!” she said with disgust.
Miggie stared, taking a moment to admire her backside, and then shrugged. Whatever, he thought, to each his or her own. We are encouraged to be tolerant. Like a good CAer, he was practicing it.
“Here we go.” She hefted two large volumes of chants, spells, and curses in her arms.
“Now the makings of a potion or two.” She thumbed through the books to find what she wanted, placed the massive books on his counter, and walked off to Miggie's version of a grocery store, grabbing the items needed for her purposes.
She paid Miggie and headed toward the back door. Miggie went before, pulling open the gunshot contraption, stepped out into the alley, and looked both ways to make sure there was no one in sight. A garbage lid fell to the ground. Miggie swung his hands up over his ears to muffle the deafening rattle. He held them in place until the lid came to a complete stop.
“Stupid alley cats.” After another quick inspection of the alley, Miggie was satisfied. “It's safe.”
Anita tipped her head to Miggie and stepped into the alley, humming under her breath, pleased with her new acquisitions.
Now her love interest had no way of escaping! She glanced at her watch. The potions would have to wait until the library closed.
Then, she could pursue her true passion—Martin Plotno.
Josiah Williams was heading into the alley behind the Trash Bin when he heard as clear as day, “stop and watch!” He did. He observed a young, dark-haired woman exit the Trash Bin's back door, and proceed to the opposite end of the passageway. Josiah turned and walked back to Main Street. This part of the puzzle dropped into his mental box, and joined the other unexplained pieces.
The October sun, although just two o'clock, stretched the building's shadows like rubber bands at the breaking point, and heralded the coming of night.
Exhaustion had weakened Josiah's spirit, mind and body. To be out tonight would put him in grave danger. Even though the evil had not taken on full strength or even quarter strength yet, he could not chance crossing its path after dark. He would find a room, some food, and clean up from his travels.
Caitiff, Iconoclast's star spy, watched the old man leave the alley. He smiled, wicked yellow-black razors, jutting from the gaping hole that was his mouth.
“The old man! What a great prize for Iconoclast.” He raced into the sky, small, black wings carrying him to the ravine.
“I'm not getting anywhere on this report.” Kat yelled over the incessant ringing of the telephone. The phones had been trilling, almost nonstop, since she arrived today.
“Sheriffs office.” Kat struggled to keep her greeting civil. “Can I help you?”
“Hey, KittyKat, how ‘bout a late lunch?”
“Wendy, I am up to my eyeballs here. Lunch isn't in the plan.” She cradled the phone between her neck and shoulder as she tried to get another word of the report typed.
“Told you. Something big, huh?”
“You know I can't discuss an investigation in progress.” Kat said for what she felt like the thousandth time.
This game had gone on since first grade. Kat needed to keep a secret, Wendy wheedled it out of her after a long tug-of-war and matching of wits, Wendy sang to the world, “Kat's in love with Jim-mie,” or “Kat's a scaredy-cat, thinks there are monsters in her room.”
Wendy still thought they were in first grade and had made it part of her life's work, when she wasn't creating beautiful glass objects in her studio or absorbed in a new romantic interest, to wheedle the secrets out of Kat. Kat smiled. Since coming to work at the sheriff's office, Wendy had batted zero. She planned to keep it that way.
“Back off, woman. If you want to be a good friend, bring me a cup of coffee from Jo's. I'm going to be at this for quite a while.”
“Fine,” Wendy said, “just fine and be that way, Secret Sally.” The line went dead. Kat still wasn't sure if she'd see that coffee today.
“Who's that on the phone, Kat? Another busybody?”
“Something like that. Now about this report …” The phone shrilled again, making Kat jump.
“Oh, for goodness sake, and for the love of Pete … “Sheriff's office, can I help you?” Normal civility was underscored with a, “how dare you interrupt me again” tone.
“Sheriff Andersen, please.” A deep resonate (should she say thrilling?) voice answered her. Kat launched into the monologue for the press.
“If you are calling for an interview, the sheriff does not have the time today or tomorrow. We are preparing a press statement for release. Thank you for your patience.” And Wendy wonders why I don't enjoy chatting on the phone. One day like this and she'd know why!
The phone left her ear to return to the cradle. She caught, “not a reporter,” and debated about hanging up anyway. “Shoot!” Kat brought the phone back to her ear.
“Then what can we do for you?”
“I am Kenneth Melbourne with the Anchorage unit of the FBI. It is imperative that I speak with Sheriff Andersen.”
Knowing how Bart felt about outside interference in his investigations, and that he was up to his ears in this one, Kat went into protective-mode. Not in a month of Sundays, Mr. FBI, she thought but answered in a sweet tone, “the sheriff is in meetings all day. Can I take a message?”
“Then interrupt his meeting and get him to the phone. I need to speak to him now.”
That was the proverbial straw. “I'm sorry, Mr. Melbourne, is it?”
“Agent Kenneth Melbourne.”
Kat continued in the sickening-sweet tone that always preceded the scathing, sarcastic tongue-lashing she had become famous for in Ravens Cove.
“Agent Melbourne, then. Sheriff Andersen is in the midst of a murder investigation. He does not have time to break away from his meetings to talk to you. Does that make it clearer?”
Not waiting for a response, “good. Have a nice day.” Kat returned the phone to its home.
“The gall of some people.”
Riiiiing. Riiiiing.”
“That damn instrument!” Cursing was not a regular part of Kat's vocabulary. She took a deep breath. There was no reason to go into Kat-fight mode with an unsuspecting person at the other end.
“This is Agent Melbourne again. If you hang up, I will call back as many times as it takes. This is urgent. Tell your boss to pick up the phone and do it now!”
Kat-fight mode sounded the first bell in the back of her brain. She had her orders and she would enforce them.
“With all due respect, Agent, no.” She dropped the phone into the cradle.
Ten minutes later, Kat stomped to Bart's office, angry at being ordered by a know-it-all FBI agent to get her “boss.”
Bart looked up to blazing eyes and a flushed face and knew this wasn't going to be good. He leaned back in his chair, linking his hands behind his head, hoping his body langu
age would diffuse the onslaught of emotion. It didn't.
“There is an Agent Melbourne on the phone. He insists on talking to you.”
“Told you my policy on nosy outsiders.”
Being reprimanded brought the stew of frustration, weariness and hunger to a boil.
“Yes,” her voice rose, “yes you have. And, I told him that, too. And I hung up. And he called back and I hung up again. He is now ordering me, under threat of interfering with FBI business to put my ‘boss’ on the phone.”
Bart had known Kat for a long time. No matter who paid her, no one was her “boss.” She had been, and always would be, a freethinker and free spirit. He was unsuccessful in controlling the grin that crept across his mouth.
“I saw that, Bartholomew Andersen. This is not funny. Now pick up the phone. And I'm putting the other line on hold until I get your all-important report typed!” She whirled, strode to her desk and plopped down, making her point with a thud.
Bart sighed. He was going to have to smooth those ruffled feathers or there would be more hell to pay. He'd figure that out later. He turned to the phone.
“Sheriff Andersen.”
“Thanks for interrupting your meeting, Sheriff.”
“Make it quick, Agent Melbourne, is it? I have a busy schedule.”
“I believe I can be an asset to your investigation.”
Bart seethed. Another one who thought he was a small-town hick and couldn't find a key in a door lock, “really?”
“I have worked on several serial murder cases prior to moving to Anchorage. In fact, it was my specialty. It looks like you might have the beginnings of one there. I would like to come and work the case.”
“And I'd like to have summer in January, Agent Melbourne, but neither of them are going to happen. We're doing just fine.
Thanks for your concern. If I need help in the future, I'll know who to call. Until then, goodbye.” Bart hung up.
Agent Melbourne looked at the phone. Shocked by the sheriffs blatant hostility, and realizing he was once again listening to a dial tone, he hung up.
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