The Nocturnal Saints

by Rick Jones

  “Yeah…Hope.” He returned the collar to the table, but far from the ashtray so that the whiteness would not be sullied by the ashes.

  “And now you feel that your journey for the Light is a hopeless one, yes? And that the crossing over from the Gray is impossible? Or perhaps the Darkness has too much of a hold on you and has already staked its claim? Is this what you’re thinking, Kimball?”

  Kimball remained quiet.

  “If I know you, Kimball, your silence is one of anger and frustration…Not one of pity.”

  “Every time I take a step towards the Light, I do something that sends me two steps backwards. I’m angry, yes. Very. I will never reach salvation because of the decisions I make. I’ve always been a knee-jerk-reaction type of guy. If I see a threat, then the rules of the church have no meaning to me. When there’s a situation I see that has only one remedy to it…I actively avoid the canons of the church knowing that Darkness waits for me at the end of the hallway, instead of the Light at the end of the tunnel.”

  “Has it ever occurred to you that God recognizes the right for someone to kill in order to save their own life?…Or perhaps the life of someone who can’t protect themselves?”

  “So are you justifying murder, Monsignor?”

  “Should I?”

  “That’s what I’m talking about. There doesn’t seem to be one true answer.”

  The monsignor stubbed out his cigarette by dashing it against the ashtray.

  “Kimball, do not confuse wanton murder for becoming the savior to another.”

  After lighting another cigarette, he fell back into his chair and crossed one leg over the other in leisure. “There was a time in your life when you killed out of a sense of duty as an assassin for your government, something you believed to be right. But then you had an eye-opening epiphany, yes? In Iraq. Right after you killed those two boys.”

  Kimball remembered the incident quite clearly. While on a mission to hunt down and assassinate Saddam Hussein, two shepherd boys had compromised his position, prompting Kimball to kill them both. That was when he received a divine reawakening of his conscience. Instead of committing to the mission, he absconded from it as soon as he buried the boys beneath the desert sand. Then he wound up in a small bar in Venice where he met Bonasero Vessucci, his savior who offered him a chance to regain the Light, which Kimball accepted. Now with Bonasero gone, a man whom he loved as his own father, Kimball felt like he had failed him on some level. The Light was an illusion brought on by hope. I kill people, he thought. It’s what I do. It’s what I’m good at. And for that reason he would always cruise the borderline between the Darkness and the Gray.

  “I see them,” Kimball finally said.

  “You see who?”

  “Those boys. Ten, maybe twelve years old. I can clearly see the bullets taking them down, both clean shots. Kill shots. And every night they come to me in my dreams with twisted faces of agony, always calling out to me with moans and banshee cries, their wails screeching.”

  “Every night?”

  Kimball nodded. “Along with the many others I’ve killed over the years—all following me through the sands that slow my journey towards a setting sun, towards the Light.”

  “And the sun is the Light that you seek?”

  “It is the Light. For every step I take forward, as the dead follow in my wake, the sun sets until I’m completely enshrouded in darkness…The Light abandons me.”

  “The Light we speak about, Kimball, is not the Light of your dreams…but the Light within. It is a spark we all share. After you nurture that spark into a fire, then you must give it breath. And with breath comes a greater Light. But I feel in you, Kimball, a dying spark.”

  Kimball looked at the collar sitting on the table between them.

  “Pick it up,” the monsignor told him. “And put it on. It gave you the breath to build that spark into a bonfire once before. It can do so again.”

  Kimball reached for the band and pinched it between his fingers. It felt good to the touch, soft and smooth.

  “Go on, Kimball. There’s little to think about. You’ve been a great asset to the church. And for the lives you have taken, you’ve saved countless more over time. That act of becoming the salvation to others has surely lit the flames of redemption.” Then the monsignor pointed to the collar of Kimball’s shirt. “Put it on,” he encouraged. “Please.”

  Taking in a deep breath through his nostrils and releasing it with an equally long sigh, Kimball Hayden finally tucked the band within the collar. Not only did it feel good, it also felt natural.

  “It’s you,” the monsignor stated. “It really is.”

  Kimball offered the cleric an artificial smile, one that said: I hope so.

  But Kimball didn’t feel the spark within or that quick rejuvenation. It was something that the monsignor seemed to have intuited by the look on Kimball’s face.

  “It’s going to take time, Kimball. The spark is just that, an ember waiting to grow. Now you must fan it into a great fire and into a desire to serve the Light…which has been within you all along.”

  Kimball traced his fingertips over the collar, felt its smoothness. Then he lowered his hand.

  Then from Kimball: “It’s good to be back.”

  Monsignor Dom Giammacio smiled at this, if not triumphantly, knowing that the pontiff would be glad to hear that Kimball Hayden was once again in the fold as a Vatican Knight.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Lashonda Jackson was eighteen-years-old and beautiful, even though she was embarking down that road of hardship that would eventually make her look aged before her time. When Special Agent Shari Cohen introduced herself, Lashonda immediately tried to close the door on her, which Shari stopped by placing her palm against the door’s surface.

  “You’re not in trouble, Ms. Jackson. I only want to talk to you.”

  “I’m not going home,” she insisted loudly. “I won’t let that man put his hands on me again.”

  Shari wasn’t sure what she was talking about, but guessed that she was indicating a member of her family or an abusive boyfriend.

  “Ms. Jackson, please. I’m here about Father O’Brien.”

  “I’ve nothing to say to you.”

  “Did you know that he was murdered?”

  The pressure on the door eased up.

  “Last night in the alleyway—not more than a half mile from here,” she added.

  Lashonda eventually let up on the door and opened it for Shari, though with obvious reluctance. After Shari entered the room and closed the door behind her, the locking mechanism sounded off with a soft click.

  The room was an absolute mess with a chaotically feng shui arrangement of furniture. Drawers to the dresser were open with dirty clothes draped over their edges; trash lay on the carpet with a number of empty soda cans; an open pizza box with triangular slices still inside showcasing the topping of cheese, which had gone gray; windows were covered over with soiled sheets to blot out the sun; and the apartment smelled like dirty laundry. On the nightstand next to a thin paperback were the tools of self-destruction—a needle, spoon and a rubber tie, all of which were quickly swept into the drawer with Lashonda’s forearm a moment before she slammed it shut.

  At eighteen and still youthful in appearance with auburn-colored hair and eyes the shade of emerald, she was nevertheless beginning to look markedly thin to Shari. After rubbing vigorously at the spot beneath her nose with her knuckle, Lashonda took a seat along the edge of an unkempt bed with her eyes cast to the floor.

  “Thank you for allowing me this moment,” Shari told her. “I only want to ask questions about Father O’Brien.” Since none of the furniture Lashonda had seemed suitable to sit on, Shari continued standing. “I’ve been told, Lashonda, that Father O’Brien frequented you quite often. Is this true?”

  Lashonda nodded with her eyes fixed on a certain spot on the floor. “He would visit at times, yes.”

  “Lashonda…can you please look at me.”
>
  The young woman slowly raised her pointed chin until their eyes met. Shari was smiling at her with a beam that was warm and comforting. “Thank you,” she told her as she took a step towards the bed. “You’re a very pretty girl, Lashonda. Is that why Father O’Brien made his visits? Because you’re a very pretty girl?”

  “He came by often.”

  “Was he here last night?”

  “You already know the answer to that,” she said.

  “But I need to hear it from you, Lashonda. Was Father O’Brien here last night?”

  She nodded.

  “About what time?”

  Lashonda shrugged. “Nine? Ten?”

  “Are you asking me or telling me?”

  “Between nine and ten.”

  Shari took another step closer to Lashonda as a means to subtly connect with her rather than to violate her space. “I want you to know that I’m not here to judge you, Lashonda. But I need to ask you some very personal questions, if I may.”

  “Go ahead.”

  After a moment of hesitation, Shari asked, “Why does Father O’Brien come to see you?”

  “I’m his play thing,” she answered.

  “His play thing?”

  “Yeah, you know. I make him feel good.”

  “I see.” And then: “How often?”

  “Three, sometimes four nights a week.”

  Shari was astounded by this. Perhaps because Father O’Brien’s pledge to celibacy meant nothing to him at all. “And does he pay you?”

  Lashonda nodded. “He pays me…Then he preaches over me and calls me a blasphemous whore and a heathen, saying that I’m the one who has corrupted him.”

  “I see. So Father O’Brien does what he does—then I’m assuming he pays you afterward—and blames you for the entirety of the act once it’s over.”

  “Yes.”

  Shari had seen this before in her psychological studies. Father O’Brien was deflecting his sins upon her as a means to cleanse his spirit, the ritual a deed of justification. “Did he always do this? Sermonize after every act?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why do you allow this?”

  “Because he pays me well.”

  Shari looked at the track marks along Lashonda’s forearms, which Lashonda subconsciously ran her hands over in an attempt to hide the streaks of collapsed veins from Shari’s appraisal.

  “It’s all right, Lashonda. I’m here to help you, if you’ll let me.”

  “I’m not going to a shelter and I’m not going home. I can take care of myself.”

  Shari thought this to be a lie. “Did Father O’Brien express any concerns or fears to you?”

  “No. He just looked at me with eyes as if I was the devil, you know. Then he would gesture for me to take off my clothes, which I did. When we were done he put the money on the table, got dressed, then he went into his sermon—all fire and brimstone-like.”

  “But he never said anything to you about any of his concerns? Nothing at all?”

  She nodded. “No. Whenever he spoke to me it was all about the condemnation of my soul. Never ‘hello’ or ‘good-bye.’ It was always how I was the devil’s succubus who had the power to corrupt.”

  “Are you sure, Lashonda, about Father O’Brien not mentioning anything outside of his sermon? Anything at all?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Not even a group called The Nocturnal Saints?”

  “I never heard of them.”

  Shari nibbled on her lower lip for a moment. If Father O’Brien had any concerns at all regarding The Nocturnal Saints, he never once telegraphed his anxieties to Lashonda. Reaching into the pocket of her shirt, Shari produced a small business card and handed it to Lashonda. “That’s my number,” she told her.

  “I want you to contact me if you need me for anything. Like I said, I’m not here to judge you. But I do want to help.”

  “You’re not going to put me in a haven?”

  “Why? So you can run away ten minutes later? No. But that,” Shari pointed to the drawer that hid the goods of her heroin addiction, “is not the way. I can show you a better way, if you’ll let me.”

  “How’s that?”

  “All I ask is that you trust me. But only when you’re ready.”

  “And how will I know when I’m ready?”

  “The same way that people like you always find out,” she said. “By hitting rock bottom. And when that day comes, Lashonda, I want you to call me.”

  “I’m of legal age,” Lashonda repeated as if to emphasize her point. “I’m eighteen. So you can’t force me to do anything I don’t want to.”

  Shari feigned a light smile at this. “Lashonda, we all need help at one time or another.” She pointed to the card in Lashonda’s hand. “So please don’t lose that.

  You can call me day or night, it doesn’t matter. I’ll be there for you if you need me.”

  Lashonda’s eyes began to well with tears. “You’re a very nice person, Special Agent Cohen. Nobody’s ever been really nice to me before.” She held up the card.

  “It’ll be on my nightstand. Always. I promise.”

  “Remember Lashonda, day or night.”

  “Day or night,” she repeated.

  When Shari left the apartment, she felt no further along in the investigation than when she first entered the room. Father O’Brien was a misguided priest who deflected his sins upon others as a cathartic means to absolve himself by using Lashonda as an empath to absorb his shame; hence, the sermons. In the end Lashonda knew nothing of Father O’Brien outside of serving his desires, this Shari was sure of.

  She then looked skyward and noted the uniform blue canopy without a cloud to be seen. And then she closed her eyes. Whoever these Nocturnal Saints were, she wondered, and for whatever reasons they were targeting priests, it would be a long trail to follow.

  Grabbing her car keys, Shari Cohen was beginning the day with nothing to go on.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Tombs beneath Saint Peter’s Basilica

  Vatican City

  After his session with the monsignor, Kimball went to the vaults beneath the basilica to visit the tombs of Bonasero Vessucci and Leviticus. The hallway, which was lit by a gauntlet of torches that were fed by lines of natural gas, resembled a train tunnel that was long and cramped and had a low ceiling. Dancing fires cast ghoulish shadows along the walls, ceiling and floor, which gave the surroundings a macabre appeal that was more stygian than hallowed. And off to the sides were small outlets that contained ornately carved crypts that housed past popes, exalted cardinals, and fallen Knights.

  In one outlet, which barely accommodated the sizeable crypt belonging to Leviticus, Kimball pressed his forehead against the marble. “How have you been, my friend?”

  Silence, with the exception of the crackle of the flames inside the torches.

  Kimball sighed. “I should never have left my brothers behind. But I did. And for that I hope you can forgive me. Maybe if I had hung in there and didn’t run away from my problems and fought through them…maybe you’d be alive today.” Kimball leaned his forehead against the marble, which was cool to the touch. “I hope you can forgive me, Leviticus. I’m sorry for letting you and the team down.” Then Kimball started to feel a sour lump building inside his throat. Though he had mourned the loss of Leviticus, he continued to feel the burden of his death upon his shoulders as another cross for him to bear, the weight becoming ceaseless. “If I had manned the team in Damascus, if I was the one who led, then perhaps it would be me lying inside this tomb instead of you.”

  Kimball closed his eyes and remembered the past. Leviticus had been his second lieutenant since the beginning, a man who was pious to the core and lived by the mantra that ‘Loyalty was above all else except Honor.’

  “That was you through and through, my friend. And because you were a good and decent man…that will always make you a better person than I will ever be.”

  After kissing the surface of the tomb,
Kimball retreated from the outlet with parting words: “I’ll visit soon, my brother.”

  Walking the full length of the corridor, and as the flames continued to cast awkward shadows along the walls, Kimball finally reached the tomb of Bonasero Vessucci, a one-time pope who invited Kimball into the fold of the Vatican Knights.

  But he was much more than a recruiter to Kimball. He was a paternal figure who offered Kimball the tools of life to succeed, and tried his best to give him direction.

  Taking the three steps down into the chamber, Kimball kissed the surface of Bonasero’s tomb and returned to the steps where he took a seat. The vault was lavishly designed with the bas-relief carvings of angels and cherubs blowing trumpets. After a long moment of contemplation, Kimball finally said, “I just came from

  Leviticus’s tomb. And I pray that you were there to greet him upon his arrival.”

  As the last word left his lips a hand alit upon his shoulder. It was soft and warm, and its touch somehow radiated a sweeping wave of indescribable peace throughout his entire body. “Not to worry,” said the voice. “Leviticus is at peace beyond understanding.”

  Kimball smiled at this. And then the smile was gone, his lips now a grim line.

  “Did he forgive me?” he asked.

  “There’s nothing to forgive, Kimball. All men have free will and you made your decision. Events always play out by the choices men make. But as for Leviticus, his passing was not of your doing. You needed to seek out the course of your life which you believed was best for you. And your path ultimately led you here.” The hand continued to lie upon his shoulder, warm and comforting. The voice, however, was something Kimball could not determine as to who it belonged to since it sounded oddly like Bonasero and Leviticus…But not.

  When Kimball tried to turn to see who it was, the grip tightened, the gesture telling Kimball to keep his eyes forward. “Always look ahead, Kimball, and never behind.”

  “I’m confused,” Kimball finally admitted. “And I’m scared.”

  “Any man who doesn’t admit that he is frightened at one time, Kimball, is a man who deceives himself. At least you’re true to yourself.”