The Nocturnal Saints

by Rick Jones

  As Father Modesto thrashed ineffectively beneath the weight that had trapped him to the bed, the dark shape came forward, raised the cleaver above his head, and brought it down in a perfect arc. Not once but twice.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Washington, D.C.

  5:53 A.M.

  Though it was early morning, Lashonda Jackson stayed up all night climbing the walls for a fix that never came. She had craved heroin to the point of policing streets for a john since two in the morning, coming up empty. As every nerve cell in her body seemed to light up with pain as her stomach began to cramp, Lashonda appeared to have aged exponentially over those hours of craving. Her face became blanched. Sweat beads poured from the top region of her forehead. And she often doubled over as a means to curb her cramps. All of which served as red flags to potential johns who simply waved her off.

  By the time she returned to her apartment, streamers of light began to surface from the horizon to mark the beginnings of a new day.

  As she entered the stairway that smelled like urine—it always smelled like urine, whether fresh or stagnant—she labored to make the steps, forcing strength when she had little. But when she reached her door, there was a small package lying on the floor with her name on it: Lashonda.

  When she picked it up she swore every muscle in her body would twist and cramp, and then she shook the package. Something inside rattled, though it didn’t have much weight to it. Entering her apartment with the windows already covered to hold back the light, Lashonda tossed the package on the kitchen counter, placed a forearm over her abdomen to brace herself against an oncoming cramp, waited for the pain to subside, and then she grabbed a dirty knife from the sink. Carefully, she used the blade to cut along the edges, removed the tape, and lifted the lid. Inside was a bunch of packing paper stained in red. Peeling back the pieces, she finally pushed aside the last piece to expose the contents. Lashonda’s eyes ogled in disbelief. Suddenly hot bile rose in her throat, sour and biting as she vomited a yellow fluid, until her gagging eventually turned into dry heaves. Inside the box lay the genitalia of Father O’Brien, the penis gray and as flaccid as a slug, along with testicles that had shriveled to the likes of prunes, both deflated and wrinkled. Also inside this box was a single card, it was white with a smearing of red. It simply read:

  FOR THE SINS OF THE FATHER

  Lashonda Jackson screamed.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Rectory of Saint Mary’s Church

  Alexandria, Virginia

  The nuns who serviced the rectory, the church and Sunday school, were sequestered in another part of the rectory with their quarters stationed in the wing that was opposite to the managing priest, which was Father Modesto. But when Father Modesto didn’t arrive for his morning breakfast, Sister Ellen Marashio knocked on the priest’s door, softly at first, and then louder. When there was no response, Sister Marashio took the liberty of opening the door about a head’s width to peek inside. The room was dark as the drapes remained closed, and the area had a stink to it, like her uncle’s butcher shop in Chicago. “Father Modesto?” At first her voice was soft, as if she didn’t want to frighten the man from sleep. But when she received no response she became more vocal. “Father Modesto?” She opened the door wider before stepping inside. The room appeared clean and immaculate. The books were neatly shelved inside the bookcase. The tables were clean and clear. On the wall a clock ticked as a small pendulum swung evenly from side to side.

  “Father Modesto?”

  Sister Marashio stepped further into the room with her awareness suddenly growing to heights the same way a dog raised its hackles when sensing danger. And the smell was growing stronger the deeper she encroached on Father Modesto’s territory. The scent of Chicago, she thought, the smell of my uncle’s shop where he chopped meats.

  The bedroom door.

  Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

  “Father Modesto?”

  Nothing.

  She reached for the knob and turned it. It moved slowly and easily in her hand. And then she opened it, but just enough to get her head through the opening. Here, the smell was overpowering.

  “Father Modesto.”

  No answer.

  “Are you awake?”

  Still no answer.

  So she opened the door wider.

  The room was darker than the living area, the drapes drawn.

  “Father?”

  When she received no answer, she parted the drapes and filled the room with light. When Sister Marashio saw Father Modesto clinging to the wall in mock crucifixion with his head toward the floor and his feet toward the ceiling, she brought her hands to her face and screamed, her cries moving rapidly through the hallways of the rectory.

  With the surprised look of his own mortality from eyes that were beginning to film over, Father Modesto had been nailed to the wall with his hands missing.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Dulles International Airport

  Washington, D.C.

  By the time the plane skipped its way along the runway and came to a full stop at the terminal, the Vatican Knights exited the small jet with Kimball helping Sister Godwin along by gently holding her arm as they took the descending stairs. As they reached the gate they were met by two members of the FBI. They were facsimiles of one another: same colored clothes, conservative haircuts and slender builds.

  As the groups closed the gap between them, one of the agents extended a hand to Kimball. “Are you Father Hayden?” he asked.

  “No,” answered Kimball. “I’m not a priest. None of us are. We’re here serving as emissaries on behalf of the Vatican.”

  “I’m Special Agent Terrance Shore.” They shook hands. “And this is Special Agent Moore.” Shore indicated his associate by pointing to him.

  “I wasn’t aware that we were to be met at the gate,” said Kimball.

  “I know you’re tired and want to get settled in,” said Shore. “But we’ve had another murder. The body was discovered two hours ago inside the rectory of Saint Mary’s Church. The area’s been cordoned off.”

  “Another one?” This coming from Sister Godwin. “Was he crucified in an inverted position?” she asked Agent Shore. “Upside-down?”

  “All I was asked to do, Sister, was to escort everyone to the crime scene. And don’t worry about your bags,” Shore assured them. “We’ll handle that. They’ll be taken to the archdiocese while you’re making your inquiries at the crime scene at Saint Mary’s.”

  Having been escorted to ‘passenger pickup,’ two black SUVs were waiting.

  However, Kimball noticed two men sitting inside an olive-green sedan as their car idled behind a chain-link fence, watching everything the Vatican Knights did with uncommon interest.

  With Kimball Hayden and Sister Godwin in one vehicle and the Vatican Knights in another, the units drove away from Dulles and made their way towards St. Mary’s Church in Alexandria, Virginia.

  Kimball, possessing that very special sense that some call paranoia, already felt a tingle of danger.

  * * *

  Two men sitting inside the olive-green sedan watched the Vatican Knights disembark from a small jet that had been chartered from Alitalia Airlines through the Vatican. There were four soldiers and a nun, Sister Godwin. The big man, no doubt, was Kimball Hayden. As everyone got into a pair of SUVs, they noticed that Kimball Hayden had looked their way in observation before entering his vehicle. As soon as the SUVs were in motion, the olive-green sedan pulled away from the curb, made its way around the chain-link fence, and followed the Vatican Knights from a respectable distance.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Rectory of Saint Mary’s Church

  Alexandria, Virginia

  The room at the end of the rectory had been cordoned off as crime scene investigators continued to examine the area for trace evidence. Inside the priest’s room besides CSI personnel stood Shari Cohen and John Trycord, who was also from the FBI. The room smelled like a butcher
y, with the caustic and stinging scent of blood hanging heavy in the air. On the wall hanging upside-down was father Modesto, his skin beginning to mottle as lividity began to set in. After putting on a pair of rubber gloves that fit like membranes, Special Agent Trycord stood before the crucified priest, and looked him up and down in appraisal. Then he pointed out to Shari the nails that pinned Father Modesto to the wall. “Nine-inchers,” he stated, “like all the others.” Then he got onto a bent knee for closer examination. He noticed the penetration wounds through the priest’s wrists and biceps area, the nails biting all the way through to the wall studs. Then he carefully inspected the single nail that had punctured both feet which tacked them to the wall. “Sixteen inches apart,” he said to Shari.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sixteen inches apart. That’s how far the studs behind the walls are from one another. Whoever did this knew exactly where to place the nails before they hammered them home on the first try. There are no other holes to signify that it took multiple attempts to pin him against the wall.”

  Shari pointed to Father Modesto. “One person couldn’t have done this,” she said.

  “No way. Father Modesto weighs about a buck eighty. To hold him above the floor and against the wall while he was being nailed would have taken immense effort. So I’d have to say that outside the one who was doing the nailing, I’d have to guess that another two, maybe even three people, held Father Modesto in place as he was being nailed to the wall. This,” he pointed at the body, “was a unified effort.”

  Shari moved closer and looked at the priest’s wrists. They were straightthrough cuts, the separations appearing that clean. “It looks like a single cut to each wrist,” she commented. “No sawing, whatsoever.”

  “An ax?” mentioned Trycord. “Maybe a hatchet.”

  She stood. “Maybe. Question is: where are his hands?”

  “And then there’s this,” said Trycord. Peeling back the unbuttoned portion of Father Modesto’s shirt to expose his chest was a carving against his flesh. It read: Ephesians 4:28. “That mean something to you?” he asked her. “Ephesians 4:28?”

  She shook her head. “I haven’t a clue.

  Trycord let the fold of the priest’s shirt fall back into place. “And of course,” he pointed to the markings on the wall to the left of Father Modesto, “we have this.” Then he read the message out loud. “The Nocturnal Saints.”

  The words were spelled out with the blood of Father Modesto.

  Trycord turned to Shari. “So what do you think?”

  Shari began to appraise the location, her eyes scanning the entirety of the bedroom, which appeared relatively neat and clean as if it was purposely sanitized. The bed was made. And nothing appeared out of place to indicate whether or not a struggle had taken place. In fact, it appeared like a motel room that was neatly prepared.

  Then she turned to look at Father Modesto. “What do we know about him, if anything?”

  Agent Trycord removed a small booklet from his pocket and peeled back the cover to expose his notes. “Not much,” he answered. “He’s been the mainstay of this church for a long time. Seems to have been committed to his churchly duties. Has nothing in his background to speak of. And no known enemies.” He then slammed the cover closed and tucked the book into his shirt pocket. “Obviously we’ll have to dig deeper.”

  “And we can start with Ephesians 4:28,” she told him. “That was carved into his chest for a reason.”

  “I’ll get on it.”

  “And what about the nun who discovered him?”

  “Sister Marashio? She’s in near hysterics. Neither she nor the other nuns could offer anything other than Father Modesto was late for breakfast, which he never was. This prompted Sister Marashio to see what was up.” He looked at the crucified priest. “No pun intended.”

  Shari Cohen went to the wall and looked at the nails that had been driven through flesh and wood. “These are nine-inch nails that have been driven all the way through,” she said. Then she turned to Trycord. “Are you telling me”—she turned and counted the nails, five in all—”that no one heard the pounding?”

  “We’ve already asked them,” said Trycord. “The sisters’ chambers are at the opposite end of the wing, and are divided by thick walls and long corridors. Nobody heard a thing.”

  “And what about the timeframe?”

  “We’ll have to get that from the coroner.”

  Shari shook her head as if she was being taxed. There would be little trace elements for CSI to find, this she knew because the area had obviously been cleaned with methodical precision by the Nocturnal Saints.

  Then in a tone just above a whisper, she said, “Why are they targeting priests?”

  Trycord shrugged. “Victims of a satanic cult?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “This has a different feel to it. Something more sophisticated.”

  “I still think it’s a cult,” he told her.

  “And if that’s what you think,” came a voice from behind, “then you would be wrong.”

  When Shari Cohen and Special Agent Trycord turned to the source of the voice, they saw a nun wearing her habit and gray-cloth uniform. Behind her stood the Vatican Knights and a pair of agents that Shari recognized from the Bureau. And in the middle of this group and standing head and shoulders above the rest was Kimball Hayden.

  Wading his way to the front until he stood alongside Sister Godwin, the two incongruous in height to one another, with one obscenely tall and the other obscenely short, Kimball removed his beret, rolled it in his hand, and smiled. “How are you, Shari,” he said softly. “It’s been a long time.” And then: “You look good.” Shari Cohen swore that her heart clenched inside her chest. Then closing the gap between them in a few quick strides, Shari leaned into him and they embraced. “It’s good to see you, too.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Anacostia, Washington, D.C.

  “Emissaries from the Vatican have arrived,” said the one with the deep voice.

  “Early this morning. Four men and a nun.”

  The basement shelter was dark, but warm. And a single lamp burned at the center of the large table, keeping those who sat beyond the fringe of the light’s reach in the shadows.

  “Priests?” This from a husky female voice caused from too much smoking.

  “I’m not sure. They were dressed oddly.” In the shadows, everyone could see the blackened shape cock his head inquisitively to the side. “They were wearing cleric shirts from the waist up, and a Roman Catholic band in their collars. But that’s where the similarities stop.”

  “How so?” The woman with the husky voice asked.

  “From the waist up they appeared priestly in dress. From the waist down, however, they appeared to be wearing military fatigues and combat boots. And on their heads they wore berets with a special insignia on them.”

  “Did they appear like priests…or more like soldiers?”

  “Both.”

  The woman with the rough voice eased back into her chair, brought a cigarette to her lips, lit a match which gave everyone a quick glimpse of her features, and waved the match dead before tossing it into the ashtray. After taking a drag and releasing the puff of smoke through the corner of her mouth, she asked,

  “What did they look like?”

  “One big guy. Huge. The others appeared lean and athletically built.”

  And then from the woman: “Vatican Knights.”

  Everyone at the table remained silent.

  Another drag from her cigarette. “The church has taken notice and is afraid,” she finally said. “And Pope John Paul III believes that the Vatican Knights are the answer to the troubles that plague the church, and view the deaths of the priests as a crisis instead of a cleansing.” With the cigarette almost a full stick, she stamped it out against the ashtray.

  “I’ve heard of the Vatican Knights,” said another within the shadows, awoman. “I believe they’re an extension of the Swiss Guard, yes?”


  The husky-voiced woman nodded, her head a black shape with what looked like an expensively coifed hairdo that was as large as a football helmet. “No,” she said. “They’re an elite commando unit who deals with situations abroad. And they could be trouble.”

  “We are many,” said a male voice.

  But another male voice intervened. “As many as we are,” he said. “The Vatican Knights are never to be taken lightly. They are masters of warfare. And they hold the title as being the best warriors in the world. Outside of that, little is known about them.”

  “And the big man,” said husky-voice. “Was he about six-five, six-six, with shoulders as wide as a house?”

  “Yes.”

  “That would be Kimball Hayden,” she told everyone. “A man of global reputation.” Then the shape of her head appeared to look ceilingward as she started to recite a verse. “It’s said that when the world isn’t right, then a man steps out of the shadows of St. Peter’s Basilica to make it whole again. He is the priest who is not a priest. And he’s an angel to some and a demon to others.” She lowered her head as if to gaze upon the light in the lamp, its glow feeble. “And his name is Kimball Hayden,” she finished off. “And those who are with him, they’re just as good with each man possessing special skill sets of combat.”

  “We have soldiers, too,” said the deep-voiced man.

  “That we do,” she answered.

  “SEALS. Rangers. Four against many. They’ll be no problem at all.”