The Nocturnal Saints

by Rick Jones

  “We’ll contact Kimball and brief him regarding the mission,” said Father Auciello. ‘Them’ meaning Vatican Intelligence. “The team will be his to assemble.”

  “Excellent. I’ll contact Sister Godwin who will accompany them. Whatever assistance she can provide she will. I’ll need her and the Vatican Knights prepped and ready to go as soon as possible. I would like them to be in Washington by morning, should a charter be readily available through Alitalia.”

  “Of course, Your Holiness,” both priests stated in unison.

  As soon as they left the pontiff’s chamber, Pope John Paul III thought of Kimball as a man of great strength and fragility, who sometimes wore his emotions on his sleeve. When feeling angered he often displayed a sense of savage anger and brutality, the man becoming a whirlwind who often cut right through his enemies. In moments of vulnerability, however, he often ran when the pressures became too great, the Vatican Knight walking away from the church on two occasions because the emotional conditions just weren’t right.

  Sometimes, the pontiff thought, some souls never find direction, which he believed was Kimball’s case. The Light was nothing but a distant beacon just beyond the ridgeline of a horizon he knew Kimball might never reach. And as far as he allowed his hope to extend itself, something would happen where Kimball would reel it back in and surrender.

  Now that Kimball was back, Pope John Paul III would pray and hope that Kimball would be strong enough to find the strength to press on, emerge from the Gray, and step into the Light.

  “You’ve always been standing on the threshold of its Brightness, Kimball,” the pontiff said lightly. “All you need to do is take one step forward.”

  The pontiff closed his eyes and thought of Shari Cohen, who was well respected within the Vatican after she had placed her life in jeopardy to save the life of a former pope. Ironically, he thought, how the woman who once saved the church now had the power over a man who could do the same. Perhaps they could complete each other and see this through, he prayed. But if divided, if Kimball could not cope with the emotional indifferences, then the Nocturnal Saints would only grow stronger.

  The pontiff sighed.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Vatican

  Kimball Hayden had been briefed about the mission by Father Auciello rather extensively, the entire process taking more than two hours. Though Kimball had never heard of the Nocturnal Saints, he learned that they had been an underground faction for five centuries, though they had been dormant for the past two. Then guesses had been bandied about regarding their sudden resurrection, with the most logical reason behind the insurrection being the conservative values and widespread corruption. The Nocturnal Saints deemed themselves as the Right Hand of God who were empowered to recalibrate Christian standards. And since they saw the values of the church sinking, it was up to them to level a listing ship and give it balance. In the end, at least in Kimball’s mind, the Nocturnal Saints were nothing more than a cabal who acted as judge, jury and executioner, and were no more than a terrorist group.

  The second part of the briefing was to inform Kimball that Shari Cohen would be heading the investigation since the murders took place on U.S. territory, and was therefore within the jurisdiction of the FBI. The primary objective of the Vatican Knights was to defend the priests who may be in jeopardy. But the underlying objective of the mission, which was out of the earshot of FBI principals, was for the Vatican Knights to seek out and neutralize the faction, and end its reign of terror that had existed for five hundred years.

  When the session ended, Kimball returned to his quarters with all the materials containing informative data, sat along the edge of his bunk, and placed the folders beside him. Then he looked at the stained-glass window—at the image of the Virgin Mother—but saw no light. And for a long moment he sat there waiting for this crepuscular ray to shine through the pane. It didn’t. So he closed his eyes and thought of Shari Cohen, her face as clear as if she was standing in front of him, through his mind’s eye.

  Her smile was magnificent as her even lips parted enough to show rows of ruler-straight teeth. Her raven hair was shining against the rays of the sun, causing blue wreaths to dance across her crown. And her eyes glinted like newly minted pennies.

  Kimball smiled. Then he opened his eyes. Removing his cellphone from his shirt pocket, he brought up the number belonging to Shari on the screen. The face of the phone lit up with her picture, something he looked at often. Those eyes.

  That same smile. All so beautiful.

  Though he had the courage to go into battle against armed personnel with only his fists, he lacked the same when calling her. Whenever she picked up and he heard her voice, his words would always catch in his throat. His heart would race almost to the point of misfiring in his chest. And then she would hang up; nothing but silence as he continued to hold the phone to his ear, waiting to hear one last word. Now he would see her once again with senses so heightened, he’d be able to smell the shampoo in her hair—strawberry, he thought, her favorite. And then the memory was wiped away, his memory becoming a blackened slate.

  According to Father Auciello, there were concerns on the part of the pontiff who questioned Kimball’s ability to concentrate on the mission at hand, should Shari Cohen betray his aspirations as to how he wanted things to happen between them. Kimball’s response was simple as he leaned into Father Auciello: “Should the pontiff ever doubt my ability,” he said, “then tell him this: I kill people. It’s what I do…It’s what I’m good at.” This statement was enough for Father Auciello to believe that Kimball Hayden, no matter the distraction, would get the job done. Shutting off the screen and returning the phone to his pocket, Kimball Hayden went back to the information within the files, and read up on everything there was to know about the Nocturnal Saints.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Vatican City

  The population of Vatican City, which also happens to be the smallest country in the world that’s no larger than an 18-hole golf course, is 1,000 people with thirty-two of those citizens female. Some are daughters to Vatican employees, whereas others are wives to those of the Swiss Guard. Sister Tammy Godwin, however, lived in one of the two communities inside Vatican City, which was completely land-locked by Rome.

  Though her apartment was small, its setting was comfortable with antique style furniture, well-maintained, and held a wonderful view of the basilica’s dome from the balcony. Opposite the balcony doors stood a book-lined wall that was stacked with religious and historical texts from floor to ceiling. Sister Godwin, short and shaped like a barrel, was a woman in her fifties who had served the church for more than thirty years since high school, her calling that great. So when word came down from the Holy See that she’d be traveling to Washington, D.C. to determine if a centuries-old order had risen to cast a black hand over Catholicism, or to determine if the ritualistic killings were actually the result of a fraternity that mimicked the society, Sister Godwin had believed in the latter. As she sat in a wing-back chair leafing through the pages of a book written in Ecclesiastical Latin, she went through the myriad passages regarding the Nocturnal Saints. They had formed during the Protestant Reformation, a Christian faction who remained within the church but pressed their messages against those deemed corrupted by way of inverted crucifixion, the image of unworthiness. The faction was an uprising against the belief that the management of the church was straying and becoming corrupt as they grew more powerful. But the Nocturnal Saints made it clear that they were waiting in the wings to snuff out those who would continue to cast an immoral shadow over the church. She read about the recorded victims beginning in the 1500’s, a long list, as well as their alleged crimes, and whether or not their bodies had been mutilated. She noted the drawings of crime scenes that appeared as if they had been created with the point of a quill, the drawings somewhat sloppy in their renderings. But the major points were there: the upside-down crucifixions, with some depicting missing genitalia to mark sexual devian
ce, and the words ‘The Nocturnal Saints’ written close by as a signature marking.

  Though Sister Tammy Godwin knew the historical background of the Nocturnal Saints well, it could only be surmised that the dormancy of the group was due to one of three things: the Nocturnal Saints had disbanded long ago; this was a copycat ensemble formed from the ideas of old and unrecorded histories, which would classify them as a cult; or they had been around all along and saw the need to rise again. With these three considerations, Sister Godwin believed that the group was nothing more than a cult who sought to redirect the church’s current philosophies through acts of terrorism, and to become more conservative. And because she knew every intricacy and nuance of the Nocturnal Saints as recorded by history and archived documents, she’d be able to pick up on the clues to determine whether or not the group was a copycat imitation of an old regime.

  If it was a cult, then the Vatican would back off and allow the local authorities to handle the situation. But if it was the Nocturnal Saints, Sister Godwin could not hold with certainty or faith that the Vatican Knights could suppress the situation. She turned the pages until she came to the drawn image of what the Nocturnal Saints were believed to be at the moment of their conception. The drawing depicted an amoeba-like shape with a head that sported a set of horny protrusions, along with a number of tentacles that reached out from this figure like serpents writhing skyward as if from the crown of Medusa.

  “Hydra,” she whispered while tracing her fingertips over the image.

  Closing the book and returning it to its rightful slot on the bookshelf, she went to the balcony. The air was fresh and clean. And St. Peter’s Square was milling with tourists as a strip of orange light lay across the horizon as the sun began to set. Then in her mind, though not in prayer, she hoped that the Nocturnal Saints were not the troubleshooters of old.

  If they were, then the Vatican would once again come under a dark cloud where no one would be safe.

  “I’m told you’re leaving soon,” a voice said from behind.

  Sister Godwin continued to stare at those in the square. “I won’t be long,” she answered.

  Sister Maria Elefante had been Tammy Godwin’s sister-mate for the past six years. And together they shared the same apartment, a two-bedroom suite.

  “I’m told you’re going to Washington.”

  Sister Godwin took in a breath of fresh air through her nostrils to invigorate her. “The sunsets will never be as pretty as they are here,” she finally said.

  Sister Elefante joined Sister Godwin on the balcony and rested her hands on the railing. And then, while continuing to stare at the fading light, she said: “Please be careful, Sister Godwin.”

  The sister smiled. “I’ll be fine,” she told her.

  “Do you really believe it’s the Nocturnal Saints?”

  Sister Godwin shrugged. “Who’s to say?”

  Then Sister Elefante began to drum her fingers nervously against the railing.

  “If it is, you may be placing yourself in jeopardy.”

  “I won’t be alone,” she told her.

  Sister Maria Elefante turned to her. “No?”

  Godwin nodded. “No. I’m being escorted to D.C. by the Vatican Knights. In fact, we leave just after midnight.”

  “That soon.” This was a statement and not a question. But Sister Godwin treated it as a question and answered anyway.

  “Yes,” she said. “So if you don’t mind, Sister, I think I’ll try to get a few hours of sleep before the flight. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  “I’ll be quiet,” she returned.

  When the nun turned to head to her retreat, Sister Elefante reached a hand out and grasped Sister Godwin gently by the forearm. “I’ll miss you,” she told her.

  Then she released her arm and stared out at the horizon, which was growing increasingly dark.

  When Sister Godwin had resigned herself to her room, Sister Maria Elefante continued to drum her fingers against the railing with fanatical pacing.

  * * *

  At ten minutes past the midnight hour there was a knock on the apartment door. Two members of Vatican Security greeted Sister Godwin, and one offered to carry her bags. They were big men who were well-muscled, both former rugby players who turned in their uniforms to wear the scarlet suit coat, white shirt, black tie and black pants. From her bedroom window, Sister Maria Elefante watched as security placed her luggage into the back of a black SUV, escorted the sister into the vehicle, then drove across the cobblestones that sheened with wetness from a quick rain, and towards the airport. Once the vehicle was out of sight, Sister Maria Elefante picked up the phone and dialed an overseas number. After a series of connecting clicks, the line started to ring. Someone on the other end picked up after the fourth jingle.

  “Yes, Good Sister.”

  “The Vatican is sending a local team along with Sister Godwin.”

  “Godwin. The historian?”

  “Correct.”

  “To verify if we truly are as we say we are.”

  “That’s also correct.”

  “You said a local team.”

  “She’s being escorted by the Vatican Knights.” There was silence on the other end, a long lapse before Sister Elefante finally spoke “Are you there?”

  “I haven’t gone anywhere,” said the husky female voice. And then: “How many?”

  “She didn’t say. She just mentioned that they were to escort her to Washington.”

  “I see.”

  “I should have pressed for more.”

  “It matters not,” stated the guttural voice. “We’ll have people waiting for them.”

  “Be careful,” said the sister. “The Vatican Knights—”

  “I know everything there is to know about them,” the voice interrupted. “We have the resources to deal with them.”

  “It might not be that easy,” said Sister Elefante. “I hear that Kimball Hayden is back to manage the team.”

  “Kimball Hayden is a wayward soul,” she answered. “And wayward souls have no true direction or purpose. So this will be much easier than you think, since the Vatican Knights are only as strong as their leader.”

  “Still. I have met this man. Once, however. But it was long enough to know that he is incredibly formidable, lost soul or not.”

  Instead of carrying on this thread about Kimball, the husky-voiced woman asked, “I assume they’ll be arriving into Dulles?”

  “On Alitalia Airlines.”

  “That’s all I’ll need to know, Sister. Thank you.” And then the line was disconnected, leaving Sister Elefante holding the receiver as a straight-line drone sounded through the earpiece. Hanging up the phone softly with a slightly audible click,

  Sister Elefante wondered if she was doing the right thing, having been told that she was a true instrument of God and a crusader against the liberal attitudes that were crushing the virtuous ideologies of the church. But somehow, as she stood by the window, she felt nothing like a pious instrument of any sort who was looking to right a listing ship in a tumultuous sea. In fact, Sister Maria Elefante felt dirty as she looked at her hands, perhaps looking for the stains of her guilt.

  * * *

  Anacostia, Washington, D.C.

  After hanging up the phone, the woman with the husky voice sat in her home office looking out a large window that overlooked her backyard. The lawn was well-maintained, perfectly trimmed and manicured. And the shrubbery had been meticulously pruned as nearby roses bloomed in their gardens in a riot of different colors. And as she sat there thinking, she wondered about the difficulty now that the Vatican Knights were involved, a curveball she did not see coming. What this meant was that the Vatican was nervous enough to send in their players for the Agame, their muscle. But the Nocturnal Saints had been around for centuries and garnered a lot more power. Still, the Vatican Knights would not be an easy counter, especially when Kimball Hayden was back in the fold. She had heard stories about him, most of them being
chalked up as fables since few men were truly larger than life. It was said about Kimball that when he cut a path through his adversaries, he always did so by leaving a trail of bodies a mile wide in his wake. And the woman scoffed at this as a raspy bark escaped her, while raising the corner of her lip into a snarl that had the thinness of a fishhook. Lost souls, she told herself, stand little chance against those who bathe in the Light.

  She would be wrong.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It was just after midnight when Kimball and his team of Vatican Knights boarded a private charter through Alitalia Airlines, with a nonstop flight into Dulles and a flight time of nine and a half hours. Also onboard was Sister Godwin who, along with Kimball Hayden, held council with the Vatican Knights, which was comprised of his second lieutenant Isaiah, Jeremiah and Elijah, regarding the Nocturnal Saints. They were crowded in the center of the plane with Sister Godwin the focal point of their attention.

  “The Nocturnal Saints,” she started, “began with the Protestant Reformation. Whereas Martin Luther became divided from the Roman Catholic Church, the Nocturnal Saints were the circle who stayed within. After 1517, when they started to flourish, they saw themselves as the enforcement agency who would keep corruption in check. Over the centuries they became very powerful, much like a guild, with the support of very important and powerful people which included the wealthy. So with financial backing, the Nocturnal Saints became a global network of trained killers. They were skilled assassins who used the inverted cross as their signature, since it represented unworthiness.”