by Rick Jones
The Nocturnal Saints
The Vatican Knights, Volume 15
Rick Jones
Published by EmpirePRESS, 2018.
PROLOGUE
Washington, D.C.
9:47 P.M.
Since Father O’Brien always had a fondness for the flesh, he had justified his weakness years ago and regarded celibacy as if it was a suggestion rather than a mandate. Now having served as a Catholic priest for more than a decade at the Cathedral of the Sacraments in Washington, D.C., his shameful secret was no longer a skeleton inside the cupboard. For months he had shared in the desires of the flesh with a young woman by the name of Lashonda Jackson, and had engaged in sexual acts using the payments he had taken from the alms box, which had been money donated to the poor. She was from Baltimore, a lost soul and a runaway who at eighteen began to showcase the pinprick dots along her forearms from heroin abuse. Father O’Brien would routinely make his clockwork visits and hand money that was meant for the poor to Lashonda, and have his needs gratified. After he was satisfied, Father O’Brien looked down on Lashonda and openly condemned her by calling her a ‘whore’ and a ‘succubus under Satan’s hand.’ He sounded like a preacher while punctuating the air with fist pumps, his anger becoming paramount as the veins in his neck stood out like cords, cursing and berating her for having the sins of a harlot, and then blaming her for what had just taken place. Once he was able to justify his actions and place the blame on Lashonda Jackson, he laid a fifty dollar bill on the nightstand right next to her cooking spoon and needle, something he did after every rebuking sermon.
Hiking the collar of his jacket around his neck, Father O’Brien left the second story apartment and ventured into the adjoining alleyway. After he lit a cigarette and took a drag, he began to make his way through the alleyway towards the rectory that was less than a mile away. All the while he remarked angrily under his breath and condemned the ‘whore,’ always claiming to be weak under her lascivious enchantments. But he would pray for her, nevertheless.
A cat that had been digging through a Dumpster hissed before it disappeared into the shadows, the feral creature startled by the priest about as much as the priest was startled by the cat. Placing a hand with the cigarette wedged between his fingers over his heart, Father O’Brien exhaled a sigh of relief before he continued on.
And then a whisper from the shadows, words that were hardly perceptible.
“You should have saved her, Father.”
Father O’Brien turned around and saw nothing but stilled shapes behind a veil of darkness.
“Hello? Is anybody there?”
Silence.
Father O’Brien backpedaled a moment before he turned and hastened his way down the alleyway.
“You should have saved her…Faaaaaatheeeeeer.”
Again this whisper. Though it was louder.
Father O’Brien turned once more to face the shades of darkness that appeared to stalk him, the shadows closing in. “Is somebody there?” he called out with nervous tension that was clearly obvious. “Is anybody there?”
Nothing.
Oddly enough, however, he took a step closer to the surrounding shadows rather than to be repelled by them. “I’m a priest,” he said. “I can help you. Is somebody there?”
Nothing.
A moment later he heard a voice that was clear and distinct, something that sounded more like the hiss from a steam pipe due to the soft articulation of words.
“You should have saaaaaaaaved her…Faaaaaatheeeeeer.”
“Who’s there?”
“You should have saaaaaaaaved her…Faaaaaatheeeeeer…O’Brieeeeeeen.”
The priest began to backpedal.
Then the shadows around him became animated as numerous limbs with splayed fingers reached out for him, all wanting to grasp and pull him close. But this silhouette appeared like a single mass that merged and separated like the cells beneath the eye of a microscope, breaking apart and coming together, a dark entity.
“You should have saaaaaaaaved her…Faaaaaatheeeeeer…O’Brieeeeeeen,” it said.
“Not denyyyyyy her the help sheeeeeee neeeeeded.”
“Who are you?” the priest cried out with alarm. “What do you want?”
The shape, the moving limbs, all coming closer, all reaching with shadowy fingers, all worming.
“Nooooo!” As Father O’Brien turned to run from this approaching wave of darkness, he was eclipsed by another mass that had been standing behind him. It was large and obscenely powerful as several arms dragged him to the ground.
“Nooooo!”
“You should have saaaaaaaaved her…Faaaaaatheeeeeer…O’Brieeeeeeen. You should have given her the help she neeeeeded.”
Hands held him against the floor of the alley. Above him were numerous shapes that wove and divided into a single mass or into several, with nothing that had any discernible or recognizable feature. Father O’Brien tried to fight back, though his actions were pointless as he was easily overcome. “Who are you?” he cried. But his mind was actually thinking: what are you?
“Youuuuuu’re going to Hell, Fatheeeeer…Theeeere’s a special plaaaaaace for people like youuuu there…Waaaaitiiiing.”
And then it became clear to Father O’Brien. This was a demon with its many arms coming to collect his soul that had tallied a number of sins over the years, while wearing the white band of a Catholic priest.
“No!” Father O’Brien yelled as he attempted to slap at the shape above him, only to have his hands pinned down.
“The beam,” someone said. “Who’s got the beam?”
To Father O’Brien it didn’t sound like a demon at all, but a man.
“Right here,” said another. In the alleyway, the figure entered Father O’Brien’s peripheral corner of sight with the man’s features obscured by the light of a distant streetlamp, which surrounded him like a halo. In the shape’s hand was a rod. Then from this man: “Turn him over onto his stomach.”
Many hands forced the priest to turn over, his struggles weak as someone placed a rod along the top of Father O’Brien’s shoulders, and began to lash his arms to the pole.
“What are you doing?” Father O’Brien was now in a panic.
“Beeeee…quiiiiiiiet.” It was the same demonic-sounding voice, different from the others.
“Somebody, please help me!”
Then someone struck Father O’Brien on the head with enough force for the priest to see internal stars floating within his mind’s eye.
A moment later, as his sight began to clear, he saw someone holding something in his hand. It was a knife. Something with a keen edge to it.
“You should have saved her, Father,” the voice said. “Not used her. That’s what you were supposed to do in life; guide the lost…Not lead them further into darkness. You betrayed both your faith and your station within the church.” When Father O’Brien collected his thoughts after the blow, the voice that sounded demonic now spoke in a normal pitch and tone. Then he realized that the hiss of the man’s voice was most likely imaginary, such as a clock ticking louder when it really wasn’t during critical moments of time. It was most likely a product of his own demons speaking to him rather than those who bound him to a rod.
“Why are you doing this to me?” the priest asked.
After being lashed to the pole and flipped onto his back, the one with the knife said, “Because you were given the gift to show the way to God’s Light by the power of your silver-tipped tongue, through the art of sermonizing. But you abused that right and became a dark stain upon the church. And that cannot happen, Father. Never.”
“Who are you people?”
Many shadows and shapes loomed over him, all looking down with faces steeped in darkn
ess. No lines, no features, nothing.
“What are you going to do to me?” asked the priest.
The one holding the knife said, “You’re unworthy of your station, Father. A corrupted soul. The church is better off without you.” As the shape brought the knife to Father O’Brien, the priest began to scream as the blade bit deep. Then as someone cupped a hand over the priest’s mouth, the shape wielding the knife continued to cut and slice.
CHAPTER ONE
Washington, D.C.
Following Morning
When Special Agent Shari Cohen was severely injured after a sniper attempted to take her life, with the resulting shot costing her a portion of her left lung, the department offered her a full pension which she declined. Instead, she demoted to an investigative position, though her pay grade remained the same. Now that she was a part of the Investigative Unit, one of her departmental responsibilities was to investigate the crimes of serial killings.
Even before she was able to reach the J. Edgar Hoover Building, she was rerouted to a location one mile north of her position, and to an area she knew all too well. It was a seedy part of Washington with low-income residences whose walls were tagged and graffiti-ridden, and a known hub of drug-dealers and prostitutes.
After pulling up to the yellow DO-NOT-CROSS tape, Shari exited the vehicle, showed her badge, and was summarily allowed inside the investigative area that was being manned by Detective Darce Earl of the Metropolitan Police Department. Closing the gap to greet her, he said, “This isn’t FBI jurisdiction…At least not yet.”
She smiled. “How are you doing, Darce?”
“I should be asking that about you,” he returned, also smiling. There was something about Shari Cohen that endeared her to him. Perhaps it was her eyes that always shined like newly-minted pennies, or perhaps it was the raven hair or caramel-colored skin. In his eyes, there was no one prettier. “I’m glad you’re all right,” he told her. “I’m glad you made it through.”
It was close, she told herself. If it wasn’t for the voice of a man she knew half a world away, a man who always walked with her through the darkness and towards the light, she knew she would have given up. Even in my coma he was there with me, holding my hand and guiding me through the Darkness as if he knew it well, and releasing me when I finally reached the Light. When I turned to thank him he was gone, my savior slipping back into the shadows where he felt most comfortable.
“I’m glad to be back,” she told him.
“Still,” he said. “As much as I like seeing you, this is not FBI jurisdiction.”
“Well, maybe the powers that be see it differently,” she offered. “Or they wouldn’t have called me here.”
“Two murders hardly qualify for the actions of a serial killer,” he said. Before Father O’Brien, there had been another priest who was murdered in a township close to the fringes of D.C. a few days prior.
“No, but it’s certainly the makings of one,” she answered. “And since this is D.C.…” She then let her words hang for a moment before asking: “So where’s the victim, Darce?”
The detective pointed straight up.
Suspended above them was Father O’Brien, the priest swinging in passive rotations while hanging upside down in mock crucifixion with his arms extended outward along a pole, his arms lashed while dangling from a chain that was attached to his ankles and moored to a wrought-iron fire-escape. His pants were missing along with his genitalia.
“Mutilation,” she said simply.
Darce Earl nodded. “Genitals are missing and are nowhere to be seen.”
“But we know for sure that it’s the same people—or person—involved?”
“For sure.” Then beckoning her with his hand to follow, he said, “This way.”
After rounding a Dumpster, there on the brick wall scrawled in Father O’Brien’s blood was:
THE
NOCTURNAL
SAINTS
“The Nocturnal Saints,” she read out loud.
“Same as last week when we found the other priest crucified upside down as well. On the wall, in his blood, was written ‘The Nocturnal Saints.’”
“The Nocturnal Saints.” She turned to him. “That mean anything to you?”
“Nothing,” he answered. “We checked data bases for gangs, extremist factions, people in the area who may have ties to terrorist organizations—but we found nothing. So we’re thinking maybe it’s a rising cult…Maybe an order that’s not yet on the books.”
“Possibly,” she said. And then: “What can you tell me about the priest?”
“Name’s Stephen James O’Brien. He’s been with the Cathedral of the Sacraments for over a decade. Though well-liked by his churchgoers, it appears that the good father had a fondness for the flesh.”
“Fondness for the flesh?”
“He enjoyed time with the prostitutes. In fact, he was being investigated from as high up as the Vatican’s Promotor of Justice, who opened a case against Father O’Brien roughly the same time the other priest was murdered. Father McKenzie. Maybe even as soon as the day after McKenzie was killed.”
“Coincidence?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Can’t really surmise at this point. It’s too early.” Then he pointed to Father O’Brien’s passively swinging corpse. “After this, however, and seeing the writing on the wall,” he then pointed to the bloodied script on the bricks, “the Vatican has shown great interest in both cases.”
“Really?”
“So I’m told.”
“Which may be why I’m here,” she told Darce. “This might be something that goes much deeper than what we see on the surface.”
Darce Earl faced her. “Don’t you have ties to the Vatican?”
“I did,” she responded. And for a brief moment, just a glimpse in her mind’s eye, she saw Kimball Hayden. A moment later, she said: “But not for a while now.” As CSI continued to investigate the area and pick it clean for trace evidence, Shari Cohen spent more than three hours at the scene gathering information about Father O’Brien’s habits; his friends; his enemies, if any; or the person who might have seen him last. After learning that Father O’Brien held a certain affinity for a prostitute in the downtown area, Shari started on this lead to seek her out. When Darce offered to have coffee with her sometime, she smiled and kindly rejected him, which caused him to place his hands over his heart as if he was mortally wounded.
Getting into her car with the image of Darce Earl in her rearview mirror, she went to seek out a girl by the name of Lashonda Jackson.
CHAPTER TWO
The Office of Monsignor Dom Giammacio
Vatican City
Kimball Hayden was sitting in a chair that was opposite the monsignor. With the insistence of Bonasero Vessucci, who reigned as pope before John Paul III and a man who was more of a father to Kimball than a cleric, it was decided that Kimball should seek out his inner thoughts through sessions with the monsignor, who was a psychologist. Though the means for Kimball to discover the inner Light that shined within him appeared to be nothing more than a muted flame and a smoldering wick, he always felt this horrible sense of emptiness. Sitting on an end table that was situated between them were two things: the white band of a Roman Catholic collar, and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts.
After the monsignor stabbed one cigarette dead, he quickly lit another. With the cigarette wedged in between his index and middle fingers, he pointed to the white band on the end table. “Have you decided?” the monsignor asked him.
“About?”
“You know what I’m talking about, Kimball. You brought the collar to my table.”
Kimball stared at the pristine white band. Hesitated. Sighed.
“What’s the matter, Kimball?” the monsignor finally asked him, pressing.
“I put it on when I visited my quarters,” he answered.
“And?”
“It felt right. It felt…good.”
The monsignor leaned closer to
Kimball. “But?”
When Kimball did not respond, the monsignor said, “I’m not the enemy here, Kimball. You know that. Talk to me.”
“You know how much I hate these sessions,” he told him.
“I do,” the monsignor admitted. “But it was you who came to me.”
Kimball picked up the tab and held it before his eyes as if weighing something about it. At one time it was his prized possession as a Vatican Knight, a constant reminder of his goal of seeking the Light. Now it had become a constant reminder of his repeated failures to do so, the Light no more than a teasing hope that had become unattainable.
“Kimball?”
Kimball lowered the white band, though he continued to toy with it by rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger.
“Why are you here?”
Kimball Hayden closed his eyes, sighed, and then: “That time when you came to see me in Venice—inside the bar, do you remember?”
The monsignor nodded. “Of course.”
“You placed the band of the cleric’s collar before me and I rejected it.”
“I remember.”
Kimball held the white band up for the monsignor to see. “I found this in my quarters,” he told him. “Inside the drawer of the nightstand.”
“It was right where you left it when you left, Kimball. Your quarters remained untouched, hoping that someday you would return.”
Then the monsignor saw the whites of Kimball’s eyes turning red. And then his Adam’s apple bobbed a few times, as if he was trying to swallow a sour lump in his throat.
“Are you all right, Kimball?” asked the monsignor. “Do you need a break?”
Kimball nodded. “No,” he said. “I’m fine.”
“Then talk to me.”
Kimball shook the cleric’s band that was pinched between his fingers, as if to emphasize its importance. “Do you know what this represented to me at one time?” he asked the monsignor.
Dom Giammacio nodded. “Hope.”