The Nocturnal Saints

by Rick Jones

  “I’ve been with the church since I was a child,” said Isaiah, “and I never once heard of them in the teachings.”

  “That’s because the Nocturnal Saints were a blight to the history of the church and buried. The only literature you’ll find about them is in the Archive, which, as you know, is restricted. I, however, being the church historian, have access to the vaults.”

  “So you’ll know things when you see them,” said Kimball, “should the crime scene reveal something no one would know except for those within this order.”

  “That’s correct,” she said. “I’ll be able to interpret the crime scenes and confer with the authorities, if the killings are the result of a cult working as a copycat faction…Or if it’s the order of the Nocturnal Saints.”

  Kimball leaned forward. “You’ve seen the reports and photos of the two murders, correct? Of Fathers O’Brien and McKenzie?”

  She nodded. “They were passed on to me by Vatican Intelligence,” she told him.

  “And?”

  “A couple of things,” she began. “First, the mutilation of Father O’Brien was significant. Such maiming of certain body parts became the hallmark signature of the perpetrators’ crime. Father O’Brien, for lack of a better term, had his genitalia removed, which was an indicative sign that his crime was of a sexual nature, and therefore against the laws of the church.”

  “But Father McKenzie wasn’t mutilated,” said Kimball.

  “That’s because his crime was considered more spiritual than physical; therefore, the reason behind his inverted crucifixion of his ‘unworthiness’ of the station he held within the church.”

  “And the words written on the walls?” asked Jeremiah, his British accent noticeable. “The Nocturnal Saints. Was that also a marked signature of the times?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “It was to let the clergy know that they were being watched and that nobody was immune. Though many have died by their hand, this order has never attempted to assassinate the pope. But that doesn’t mean that their ideologies have shifted over the centuries. It may if the pontiff is seen as the direct result of what’s going on. And we all know that even though he is beloved by the masses, there’s internal strife within the Vatican between him and the cardinals due to his viewpoints, which we all know are extremely liberal and, in some cases, against some of the teachings in the Bible. If the Nocturnal Saints point an accusing finger at John Paul III and view him as the galvanizing force behind the sudden and massive shift of religious ideology, and believe that this change is causing ‘God to bend to the will of Man’ instead of ‘Man bending to the will of God,’ then it’s possible that the Vatican Knights might have their work cut out for them. The pontiff’s life may very well be in jeopardy.”

  “But the killings are in Washington, D.C.,” said Isaiah.

  “The killings begin at a central point,” she said, “then spreads out like the ripples in a pond. The deaths of Fathers McKenzie and O’Brien are warning shots to the church and to the Vatican. But as the ripples spread out, so will the killings. If changes are not made within the ranks, then the Nocturnal Saints, if it is them, have the long arm and the resources to reach Pope John Paul III.”

  “Do you think it’s them?” Kimball asked her.

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

  “But from what you’ve reviewed so far? The photos? The reports? What’s your opinion on this? What are we up against?”

  Sister Godwin hesitated a moment before answering. Then: “From what I’ve seen,” she told them, “I would have to say ‘yes,’ they’re the real thing, even when I first believed that these actions were the result of a cult. The signatures from the Nocturnal Saints, so far, are all there. And there is no recorded literature of them outside of the church archives. And I mean nothing at all. What we’ve seen so far cannot be duplicated unless someone within the original order had the knowledge to do so.”

  “And if they are for real,” began Elijah, “how dangerous are they?”

  “Centuries of dormancy has a way to build the ranks through recruitment,” she told him. “The world is becoming a place of intolerance, making it far more dangerous than it was a few years ago—always seeming to be on the brink of an end-times catastrophe or a cataclysmic war. Either way, the Nocturnal Saints see themselves as the knights in so-called ‘shining armor,’ the saviors who will usher in peace through terror.” Then she laid a hand on Elijah’s forearm. “But to answer your question,” she told him, “they’re very, very dangerous. If not extremely so.” Once she removed her hand, she eased back into her seat just as the aircraft hit a bubble of turbulence, causing the plane to skip in the air.

  Elijah, however, wanted more of a complete answer as to the power this order wielded, which Sister Godwin apparently intuited by the look on his face. As soon as the airplane settled, she said, “And by dangerous, Elijah, I’m talking about an order that has no discernible face. They’re an underground faction made up of extremely conservative Catholics driven by their compassion of acute devotion to God without the will to tolerate any ideologies outside of their own.”

  “That Man shall bend to the will of God—”

  “And that God shall not bend to the will of Man,” she finished. “Since the order is heavily funded and well organized, it’s believed that the members are made up of doctors and attorneys, CEOs and politicians, whiteand blue-collar workers. There are also indications that priests and bishops—maybe even cardinals—are a part of this order as well. And if that’s the case,” she said, “then danger may be within arm’s length of the pontiff as we speak.”

  “Does he know this?” Kimball asked her. “The pontiff?”

  “He was informed,” she told him. “Vatican Security is responding accordingly along with members of the Swiss Guard. He’s safe for the moment.”

  Kimball realized that he had a difficult task before him. His enemies always had numbers attached to them, as well as faces to target. But the Nocturnal Saints offered neither. They could be everywhere. They could be the brother or sister you thought you knew, always flashing a smile and offering cheer, only to cut you down if your thinking was not in tune with theirs.

  “And there’s no one person we can center our investigation on?” asked Kimball.

  “Over the centuries,” she started, “the Nocturnal Saints held their gatherings at what was called the High-Seat of the Council, which was headed by someone named Hydra, a name that had been kept over that time span and never changed. Who Hydra is…we simply don’t know. He or she was always a shadow figure like the order itself.”

  Then from Kimball: “How do you fight something like that?”

  “Like I said, the Vatican Knights, if this truly is the Nocturnal Saints, will have their work cut out for them. This is not going to be an easy task to overcome.”

  “And from what you’ve seen so far, from what you told me before, you believe them to be the real deal?”

  “From the photos and reports that I’ve viewed so far,” she said. “I’m leaning towards ‘yes.’”

  “But you have doubts?”

  After a long pause, she finally said: “Not as many as I had before.”

  The plane continued on to its destination.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Alexandria, Virginia

  Eight Miles South of Washington, D.C.

  In Alexandria, Father Antonio Modesto found the night to be damp and cool. So he hiked the collar of his jacket to hide the lower portion of his face, and began to make his way back to the rectory.

  For seven years he’d been ‘cooking’ the books of Saint Mary’s Church and massaged the numbers to the tune of more than $130,000 over the past six years, which ended up in his pocket, and eventually into the hands of his bookies without any notice of the disparity from the auditors. He had manufactured fake receipts using Photoshop and software, then claimed the paid accounts as property fixtures and donations.

  After winni
ng $2,512 playing Poker in a smoke-filled basement, Father Modesto felt rather jovial because tonight’s winnings was somewhat of a rare windfall. More times than not he would lose, prompting him to dig deeper into the till, and to falsify numbers to create a bankroll for the tables for the following week. This week, however, he wouldn’t have to amend the numbers with the bundle feeling good within his clenched hand that was now deep inside his pocket, with the roll already established for next week’s wagering.

  A breeze picked up as Father Modesto walked down a quiet street of a residential neighborhood, the branches of trees swaying from side to side in concert, the leaves rattling. As the wind picked up, as Father Modesto’s shadow waxed and waned while walking in and out of the cones of light that had been cast downward from the street lamps, the sound of his echoing footfalls were mirrored by another. When Father Modesto stopped and turned, all he saw were the empty sidewalks that fronted expensive estates and manicured lawns. After a moment of combing the area, he began to walk until his clicking footfalls along the sidewalk were summarily matched once again.

  Pivoting swiftly on his feet he saw no one. “Is somebody there?” he asked.

  The wind began to rattle the leaves harder.

  “Hello?”

  Nothing.

  Then Father Modesto realized that he was carrying a large sum of money which made him a target, even if the neighborhood was upscale.

  He began to backpedal—slowly at first. Then he turned and began to jog, then sprint, the man running for the rectory that was a little more than a quarter mile away. With his arms and legs pumping, while his lungs burned because they lacked endurance, and as the muscles in his legs began to turn gelatinous by the feel of their wobble, Father Modesto could feel a resurgence of power fueled by adrenaline.

  Turning his head to look over his shoulder, Father Modesto saw a black mass following in his wake, a clump of darkness with multiple arms and legs giving pursuit. Even the overhead lights could not shed enough illumination as to who or what it was, the shape always black.

  “No!…Please!” yelled the priest.

  He continued to run.

  Behind him the mass closed in, its arms waving, reaching.

  Up ahead was the main intersection with his church across the street, the towering spires of the cathedral coming into sight above the roofline of the houses.

  The mass closed in.

  “You have sinned, Father Modesto.” The voice behind him sounded more of a hiss than normal articulation, perhaps a loud whisper.

  “No!” he yelled. “Somebody help me!”

  Then Father Modesto came to the intersection with his lungs heaving and pitching for oxygen. Across the street and about a hundred yards away was the cathedral. Behind it, the rectory. As his sight began to blacken along the edges, as the darkened rings began to flow inward to cancel his vision, Father Modesto’s gait began to take on a zigzag pattern as the power in his legs started to abandon him. With a hand extended towards the church that was so close and yet so far, his world was darkening.

  “You have sinned, Father Modesto.” The voice was closer now, almost upon him.

  “God help me,” Modesto managed softly, his hand reaching outward while he labored on weak legs. “Please God.”

  “God can’t help you now, boy,” said another voice that was deep and masculine and with a hint of a southern accent.

  Then from behind a hand centered squarely on Father Modesto’s back to a spot in between the shoulder blades, and pitched the man forward. As Father Modesto fell, as his world spun in a dizzy spiral, he saw internal stars circle in his mind’s eye as he hit the pavement hard. As his vision began to clear and the fog started to retreat, it did so in time to see a number of black limbs too numerous to count reaching out and pinning him to the surface. As Father Modesto opened his mouth to scream, a gloved hand clapped over it, stifling the cry.

  More limbs.

  A dark mass hovered over him with stark-white orbs judging him with condemnation from maybe a dozen eyes, maybe two hundred, his world suddenly a maelstrom of incongruities derived from panic, which eventually froze him with paralytic terror against the pavement. Then from the darkness, an arm extended with a balled fist the size of a ham. And then it rushed at him, the fist racing toward the point of his face, to his nose, the closed hand now the size of a ham.

  And then nothing but darkness.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Rectory of Saint Mary’s Church

  Alexandria, Virginia

  The ceiling.

  The surrounding walls were adorned with religious paintings and a cross.

  The shadows within the room.

  When Father Modesto came to, the black mass appeared spread out throughout the chamber with some appearing human, whereas others continued to cling together as if they were a single dark entity. Either way, Father Modesto’s mind tried to fight its way through a mental fog while trying to make sense of his surroundings.

  A moment ago he was in the street fighting with this all-too-powerful mass.

  Now he was in his room inside the rectory, which confused him. Did he make it after all? If so, what about these shapes that stood around him with the stillness of Grecian statues?

  Feeling a deep throb behind his eyes like a severe sinus headache, Father Modesto tried to get up on his elbows. That was when one of these shapes moved into action and forced him down onto the mattress, with the gloved hand as big as a frying pan centering on his chest.

  “Don’t move, Father,” ordered the voice. It was the same deep voice he heard earlier.

  Father Modesto’s eyes widened in distress. “Is this about the money? You can have it,” he told him. “All of it.”

  “The money belongs to the church. We don’t want it.”

  “What do you want then?”

  The black shape leaned closer, enough for Father Modesto to see a face painted with black grease. He had an ape-like appearance with a prognathous jaw and simian brow, along with deep-set eyes so pale they appeared like ice. On his head was a wool-knit cap. But he was a man, Modesto concluded, and perhaps one of many who were in the room dressed in black.

  “What I want to know, Father, is one simple thing…And one thing only.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Do you repent?”

  “What?”

  “It’s a simple question, Father. Do you repent?”

  Father Modesto proffered a deer-in-the-headlights look. Then: “Yes. Yes I repent. Of course I repent.”

  The shape stood back and removed his hand. “I can see by the look on your face that you don’t even know what you’re repenting about.”

  “All men sin,” he stated immediately.

  Then the hand came down once again to pin the priest to the mattress with such force, Modesto was sure that he would be pushed right through and to the floor.

  “Do you repent?” the shape asked.

  Though the priest’s breathing became difficult, he managed to nod.

  “And the reason why you repent?” The hand eased off the priest’s chest.

  “Because I have sinned.”

  “And your sin, Father?”

  The darkened shapes began to close in on him, a black mass coming forward, surrounding him.

  “And your sin, Father?” the shape repeated.

  “The sin of man,” he said.

  The hand came down again. “No, Father. For years you’ve been stealing money from this church to appease your temptation to gamble away money that had been slated for the poor.”

  Father Modesto was caught off guard by this, believing that his actions had skated quietly beneath the radar. Apparently this wasn’t the case.

  “Do you deny this, Father? Do you deny taking funds from the church to feed your compulsion to gamble? An amount over $130,000 dollars?”

  “You couldn’t possibly know this—”

  “Do you repent?”

  “Yes! Yes, I repent! I most assuredly do!
”

  “For the crime of thievery by stealing from the House of God?”

  This was like an epiphany to Father Modesto, this statement. Yes, he had stolen from the House of the Lord to nurture his compulsion that had gotten out of control, the devil had taken dominion over his thoughts to manufacture this impulse that had become a dark one, and had even justified his actions during the process. “I repent,” he told the shape. “I really do. Please forgive me for allowing the devil to take hold.”

  “The devil?” asked the shape as he cocked his head to the side like a baffled dog. “No doubt you have heard “Sympathy for the Devil” by the Rolling Stones,” he said.

  “A blasphemous song.”

  “Hardly. If you listen to the lyrics, then you would understand the message behind them, which is quite moral, actually.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Modesto.

  “The song mentions that it wasn’t the devil who killed the Kennedys or the Czar of Russia, it was us. Always…us. And that we should stop blaming the devil for everything bad that goes on in life and start taking responsibility for ourselves. And you, Father, did just that. You didn’t lay blame on yourself where it belonged. Instead, you laid it on the devil.” The shape held out his open hand behind him and snapped his fingers.

  Like a surgical assistant, a hand shot out of the darkness and slapped a rather large utensil into the shape’s hand, whose fingers folded around the implement’s handle. “Now hold him down,” he stated as he backed away, allowing others to converge and hold the man still.

  “Wait! What are you doing?” cried the priest.

  Just then a hand closed over Father Modesto’s mouth and shoved him against the pillow.

  In the large shape’s hand was a cleaver. A rectangular blade whose edge had been sharpened and honed to a razor’s sharpness. After seeing this, Father Modesto’s eyes ogled to the size of communion wafers. Then the large shape looked ceilingward while holding his hands out to his sides, as if paying homage to something celestial. “Let the thief no longer steal, but rather let him labor, doing honest work with his own hands, so that he may have something to share with anyone in need.” Then he pointed to the man’s wrists, a predetermined gesture to those holding the priest down to slide the sleeves upward, and to expose the flesh.