The Nocturnal Saints

by Rick Jones

  “Whoa, wait a minute,” Kimball said, curling his fingers over the glass to keep it from rising.

  “You mind letting go, Father? Before you do some damage?”

  “Do you remember birth?” Kimball asked him.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Birth…Do you remember it?”

  The passenger gave him a quizzical look. “Of course not.”

  “Let me see if I can help you remember.” Kimball reached into the small opening in the window, grabbed the passenger by the head, and started to pull him through the slot.

  “Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” cried the passenger.

  When the passenger’s head got jammed between the sedan’s roof and the top of the pane, Kimball rammed a fist into the glass and smashed it, the tempered glass as small as diamonds going everywhere inside the vehicle. When Kimball grabbed the passenger, he easily heaved him out of the car and on to the wet pavement. Just as the driver saw this, he opened his door and began to remove himself from the vehicle, while reaching for a firearm inside his shoulder holster. As soon as he was out of the car and swinging his gun free, Isaiah was standing before him as if he had appeared out of nowhere. He was much smaller than the driver, who was big and beefy with a muscle roll on the back of his neck. Then in lightning quick fashion, Isaiah lashed out with both hands, struck the driver’s wrist and the back of his hand simultaneously, and knocked the Glock free. Then Isaiah moved forward with a series of punches, his arms moving like pistons, the strikes nothing but blurs—left-right-left-right-left-right—to the driver’s solar plexus, hitting the man a dozen times in three seconds, before the driver finally dropped to the pavement.

  And as quickly as it began, the situation had been neutralized.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The Archdiocese

  Temple Hills Section, Washington, D.C.

  The Vatican Knights were inside the master chamber along with Cardinal Bishop and Sister Godwin, who appeared ill-at-ease as the two men from the sedan sat on the couch with their hands bound behind them with flexcuffs.

  Ten minutes later, Shari arrived.

  Having been escorted into the rear of the archdiocese by Sister Godwin who answered the door, Shari entered the room that was vast and finely decorated with floor-to-ceiling drapes with scalloped edging, gold fringes, ornamentally designed furniture, and a large fireplace that had the bas-relief carvings of harpsicordcarrying angels above the marble mantel.

  Shari looked at the men sitting on the couch. The big guy with the bald head appeared fine. The one with the glasses, though the frames appeared slightly bent, had scrapes along his cheeks. It was obvious to her that their hands were bound behind them as Kimball stood at one end of the couch with Isaiah standing at the other, with their arms folded across their chests.

  When Shari stepped forward she did so with appraisal. Then when she was about three feet in front of them she turned to Kimball. “Release them,” she said.

  Kimball dropped his arms slowly, the Vatican Knight baffled. “What?”

  She pointed to the men on the sofa. “They’re Metro,” she told him. “Danny Parcells and Cecil Cooper. Both detectives with the department.”

  These were two names Kimball immediately filed away for future reference.

  Then from the one wearing the misaligned glasses and addressing Kimball specifically, he said, “You’re lucky I don’t bring your ass up on charges, you know that?”

  Kimball turned to Shari. “Neither one of them had ID on them. Which I find a little strange.” Then he turned his piercing blue eyes to Parcells with a pinning stare, and then to Cooper. “And they’ve been surveying us ever since we arrived at the airport.”

  Shari turned to Parcells. “Is that true?”

  “We’re here because the killings of Fathers O’Brien and McKenzie still happen to be in our jurisdiction,” he told her.

  “Not anymore,” she said. “The Attorney General signed off on it about an hour ago. The killings have now been classified as serial, which means that Metro is no longer involved. You and your supervising officer, which I’m assuming is Darce Earl, have been dismissed.” And then: “What did you expect to gain by observing the archdiocese anyway?”

  “We were ordered by our superiors to maintain watch,” said Glasses.

  “Why?”

  “Like I said, the cases—at least we thought—were still under the jurisdiction of Metro.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question, Danny.” It was the first time Shari used the man’s name.

  “I don’t have to lay out information to you,” he told her. “I’m an officer of the law. And now that we’re no longer a part of the investigation because the AG apparently saw fit to put the investigation entirely in the hands of the feds, I would appreciate it if you undid these flexcuffs!”

  Shari gave the man a hard look before she turned to Kimball and said, “Go ahead. Cut him free.”

  The muscles in the back of Kimball’s jaw began to work, the order obviously rubbing him raw. But he removed his KA-BAR combat knife from his sheath, gestured for the man to lean forward so he could get at the ties, and cut both men free.

  Detective Glasses stood up rubbing his wrists. Then he gave Kimball a once over and noted the odd configuration of his attire: cleric from the waist up, soldier from the waist down. “What kind of priest are you anyway?” he said sourly. Kimball leaned into him. “The one who’s about to say your last rites as my fist is ramming your teeth to the back of your throat.”

  “Kimball, please,” said Shari, who attempted to broker a peace accord.

  In the meantime, the bald detective remained quiet, though he continued to give Isaiah sidelong glances.

  “I’m surprised Earl didn’t call you,” she told Danny, who tried to realign his glasses.

  “Apparently I didn’t get the memo.” Then he held the glasses out to Kimball.

  “You’re going to pay for these.”

  Shari was getting tired of the heated exchange. “You no longer have any say in the matter,” she informed him. “The case has been delivered into the hands of the Federal Bureau. So please, take your leave.”

  Danny, as he folded his glasses and tucked them into his pocket, clapped his associate on the shoulder and directed them to the doorway. “Don’t bother showing us out,” said Danny. “We already know the way.”

  But Cardinal Bishop gestured to Sister Godwin wanting her to usher them out of the archdiocese regardless, which she did.

  As soon as they were gone Kimball faced off with Shari. “No straight answer from either one of them.”

  “They weren’t under arrest, Kimball. In fact, they were being illegally detained by you.”

  “They were being detained, Shari, because something isn’t right here. Since when do police officers stop carrying their badges? They don’t,” he answered for her. “In fact, they had no form of identification at all.”

  Jeremiah stepped forward. “In fact, there was nothing in the glovebox, either. Same with the trunk. Nothing on their person or in the vehicle to identify who they were.”

  “I know who they are,” she told him. “I’ve worked with both of them.”

  “Then answer this,” said Jeremiah. “Are they or are they not supposed to carry ID with them at all times? Especially a CCW if you’re carrying a weapon.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then why did they sanitize themselves?” Kimball asked her.

  Shari didn’t have an answer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Saint Mary’s Church

  Alexandria, Virginia

  The Following Day

  The drizzle that started the night before continued throughout and into the following day. The sky was slate-gray with few patches of smoky clouds that were much darker than the overhead canopy. At times the rain was torrential. Other times a fine mist. But it had never let up. Just inside the nave of the church, there was a heavy metal box that had been bolted to th
e floor and was secured by a large padlock that had been threaded through the rings. The mite box was for receiving monetary donations for charitable purposes. Deacon Marcos, who served at many of the weekend Masses and worked closely with the parish's Spanish Community, removed a set of keys from his pocket, inserted a key into the padlock, then removed the lock and opened the lid, only to be hit by an awful wave of stench and decay.

  Inside the box and mixed in with loose change that had been bloodied, were two hands held together by elastic bands to resemble an attitude of prayer.

  Wedged between the hands was a bundle of bills in the amount of $2,512, the exact amount that Father Modesto had won on the night of his murder.

  Slamming the lid closed, Deacon Marcos’ face blanched as he fell back and stumbled to the floor. Getting quickly to his feet, Deacon Marcos raced from the nave and into the chancery, the man screaming for help.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Saint Mary’s Church

  Alexandria, Virginia

  Cruisers once again parked before St. Mary’s Church and cordoned off the location. Shari Cohen was onsite along with Kimball Hayden and Sister Godwin, who stood back as CSI took photographs from every possible angle of the hands inside the mite box, before dusting the container for prints.

  “They won’t find anything,” said Sister Godwin. “No prints. No trace evidence. What was left behind was done as a symbolic message.”

  Shari turned to her. “Message?”

  Sister Godwin nodded. “Ephesians 4:28: 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 she pointed to the box. “The hands were bound together in an attitude of prayer as if he was asking for forgiveness. And since the hands were discovered in the poor box and the bills trapped between these praying hands, it suggests to me that Father Modesto, even in death, is doing honest work by sharing with anyone in need. Ephesians 4:28. The significance of the amount may or may not have meaning.”

  “Perhaps it was the amount stolen,” Kimball suggested.

  “Maybe.”

  “And the genitalia sent to Lashonda Jackson?” asked Shari.

  “Also symbolic,” said Sister Godwin. “Mutilations do not go without meaning for the Nocturnal Saints. Every act has a purpose behind it. In the case of his missing genitalia, an act of forcing celibacy by its removal, is an offering to Ms. Jackson to let her know that Father O’Brien had paid his penance.”

  “That’s a rather macabre message, don’t you think?” Kimball asked her.

  “But one that’s effective,” she returned. “The price of Father O’Brien’s penance for not helping the woman when she needed him most, while he used her during her moment of greatest need, was his ushering towards a stygian darkness where there is no Light. Now he sits emasculated in a world of eternal darkness as a spiritual eunuch for his crimes against God.”

  “And you believe this?” asked Kimball.

  “I’m not forwarding you my beliefs at all, Mr. Hayden. But the beliefs of the Nocturnal Saints. They are methodic in what they do, and have meaning behind every act they commit no matter how heinous that act may be. Though in the end, Mr. Hayden, that act is justified in the name of God because the easiest thing any man can do is to justify anything.”

  Kimball knew that all too well, that man could justify any atrocious act of violence, if given the time.

  As Special Agent Trycord showed up—and immediately questioned the presence of Hayden and Godwin on the crime scene—Shari had to remind him that the Assistant Deputy Director, in collusion with the Vatican, granted them every right to venture on the scene to offer what narratives they could about potential suspects. Trycord, however, disagreed, even though his authority had been restricted by the powers that be.

  After the evidence had been collected, once the bills had been counted, bagged and tagged, the hands were carefully removed by the gloved hands of a crime scene investigator and placed into a clear evidence bag, which was also tagged.

  Then when minutes turned into hours, and as the Deacon was informed that the church would have to be closed for an unknown period of time because it was a crime scene, it was recommended that services for this coming Sunday be cancelled. When asked about when the doors could be reopened, the answer was ‘unknown.’

  Then as Shari drove Sister Godwin and Kimball back to the archdiocese, it was Sister Godwin who spoke first.

  “I never expected such violence,” she said. And for the first time from a woman who appeared so strong with such a tough exterior, she was beginning to show the lines of breaking, which came when her voice began to crack. “The violence…in the name of God,” she said. And then she brought her hands to her face to stem the flow of tears she knew was coming.

  Even though Kimball had been desensitized to it long ago, he understood. Some things simply stayed with you like an indelibly black stain within your mind’s eye. And he was sure that some of the images that Sister Godwin had seen would never let her go.

  When they reached the archdiocese, Sister Godwin left the vehicle whereas Kimball stayed. It was still raining out, the wipers clearing the windshield with timed sweeps as they sat there watching the good sister take the steps.

  “It’s beginning to get to her,” said Shari.

  “She’s a nun who loves history, which is second to God in her book. And she wasn’t built to see what we’ve been trained to see. What we’ve been trained to accept.”

  “And still,” she added, “we’re no further along in this case than we were when we first discovered Father McKenzie hanging upside-down on the billboard.” And then: “These Nocturnal Saints—they are methodical, aren’t they?”

  “They’re a terrorist faction,” Kimball answered. “And we’ll deal with them like we would with any terrorists.”

  “So far, Kimball, we’ve been chasing a phantom.”

  Kimball stared out the window, at the rain.

  “Tonight I have a dinner date with Detective Earl,” she threw out there. And this gave more of a response from Kimball when his eyes started, as if he was shocked by the abrupt announcement. “He sensed that the cases would eventually land on the Bureau’s desk,” she continued. “He says he can probably add to the case what the reports don’t glean on.”

  Kimball nodded. Ever since Shari lost her husband and daughters to a home-based assassin, she put up impenetrable walls to isolate her, the pain of their loss too colossal to bear without them. Is she finally surrendering these walls?

  “A dinner date?” he asked to confirm her meeting.

  “Dutch,” she said. “At Mastro’s. Seven o’clock.” She turned to Kimball. “If he can give me something that we’ve been missing, something that can start us off in the right direction, then we can move. But right now, Kimball, we need to do something instead of waiting around for the next victim, while hoping that the Nocturnal Saints leave something of value behind besides missing body parts.” Kimball agreed. So far, and with three deaths hanging over their heads, they had nothing.

  Looking out the window, and as the gray sky grew darker, Kimball said, “It’s getting late.”

  Shari nodded. “I’ve got to get going,” she told him.

  Then from Kimball. “Just be careful,” he said, still looking through the raindappled glass. “We don’t know who or where they are.” Then he opened the door, got out, and headed for the archdiocese.

  * * *

  One of the pontiff’s concerns was that Kimball Hayden might not be able to overcome whatever passions he had for Shari, should her lack of reciprocation become apparent over time. Kingdoms and empires had fallen to the graces of women throughout history, he considered, no matter how powerful a king might have been.

  So what makes me think that I’m any different?

  As he stood at the top of the stairway, he turned to watch Shari pull away from the curb and drive off. And as strong as Kimball was in every facet, he k
new there were some things he could never conquer in life as long as Shari Cohen remained close by, her presence too much of a sweet opiate to overcome. When her car disappeared around the corner, Kimball Hayden entered the archdiocese.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  When Kimball reached his chamber inside the archdiocese, he contacted the Vatican Intelligence and was placed on speakerphone with Fathers Auciello and Essex, the co-directors of the SIV.

  “The Nocturnal Saints are sanitizing their every effort,” he told them. “But I do have concerns regarding a pair of situations.”

  “And what’s that?” asked Father Essex, his British accent quite heavy, even with three words spoken.

  “When we arrived at the airport,” Kimball started, “there was a car there. Government Issue which turned out to be part of the Metropolitan fleet. My question is how these people knew when and where we were arriving, since the mission was prescribed by a handful of operators. Coming and going should have been a covert operation.”

  “Agreed,” said Father Auciello.

  “Someone within the pontiff’s circle had to know and relay the message. Because ever since we got off the plane, they’ve surveyed us until I put a stop to it. That’s when I found out that they were detectives from Metro.”

  “Why would they survey you?” asked Father Essex.

  “Good question. They claimed that the murders were still a part of their jurisdiction and not the FBI’s. But the reason why we were being surveyed went unanswered. One of the detectives became defensive, threatening arrest if I didn’t release him due to unlawful detainment.”

  “Could he have?” asked Essex.

  Kimball shrugged, though the priests couldn’t see this from their end. “I don’t know.”