The Nocturnal Saints

by Rick Jones

  “Nothing at all, huh?”

  “We’re walking into a stone wall everywhere we turn.”

  “And what about these so-called emissaries from the Vatican?” he asked her.

  She knew he was talking about the Vatican Knights. “What about them?”

  “I’m told they’re more than just priests.”

  “They are. And they’re not priests at all.”

  He gave her a puzzled look. “Then what are they?”

  “Friends,” she told him.

  “I’ve also been told that their dress is rather odd, almost military.”

  “They’re friends, Darce.”

  “If they’re not priests, then what are they doing here?”

  “They’re representatives of the church.”

  “I know that. You already told me that. But that doesn’t answer my question.

  What are they doing here? Do they know something we don’t?”

  “Does it matter?” she told him. “The jurisdiction of the investigation is now in the Bureau’s hands. These people are aiding us. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “And here I am pouring my heart out to you.”

  “By what, giving me the names of six kids believed to be behind the highly sophisticated killings of three priests?”

  “That’s something, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah. It is. But something that’s highly unlikely. Don’t you agree?”

  “I wouldn’t turn a blind eye to anything in this investigation,” he told her.

  “Sometimes the answer is right in front of your face. Sometimes it’s hidden under a stone that hasn’t been unturned. And sometimes the answer is the most unlikely.

  Yet it’s there—somewhere.”

  Just then the waiter arrived with two glasses of wine, one red and one white, and placed them before the patrons, with Shari receiving the white.

  When the waiter walked away, Darce said, “We’ve also discovered the reason behind Father Modesto’s murder,” he told her. “Also not on the reports because we haven’t concluded our investigation. But it appears that the priest was taking money and cooking the books to appear otherwise.”

  “He stole from the church?”

  Darce nodded. “Right now we’ve verified false receipts totaling more than fifty thousand dollars, with the numbers possibly rising to well above a hundred K.”

  “That would be the reason for Ephesians 4:28 that was carved into his chest.

  ‘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 leaned forward to keep her words within Darce’s earshot. “And the money that was discovered in his hands inside the mite box?”

  “Winnings from an underground gambling hall, right down to the last bill. Two thousand five hundred and twelve dollars.”

  Now it made sense to Shari, the odd amount. The Nocturnal Saints, in macabre display, were trying to replenish the box, though the numbers were small in comparison to what Father Modesto actually took over time. And the severed hands, doing honest work to share with anyone in need a symbolic implication, as Sister Godwin had stated.

  “The theft of money from the mite box is still the jurisdictional investigation of Metro,” he told her. “But once we get all the information, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No problem.” He took his glass of wine and sipped from it. It tasted good as he looked at the glass with admiration, then set it down on the fine linen. “Now,” he said. “How about a little conversation outside of shop. I mean, dinner’s not even here yet.”

  Shari smiled. “Why not.”

  Then from Darce: “Hey, you want to see your future?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your future. You want to see it? It might tell you if you’re going to crack the case or not.”

  “And how are you going to do that?”

  Darce smiled as he tried to pour on the charm. Then he moved the candle vase and the flower arrangement to one side of the table. “Give me your hand,” he told her, extending his hand across the table to receive it. Then he flexed his fingers as if beckoning her to comply. “Come on,” he said. “Give me your hand.”

  Shari giggled at this as she proffered her hand.

  Then Darce, taking her hand into his, began to trace the fingertip of his other hand along the lines of her palm. “Well looky here,” he said. “Your life line is strong, deep.” Then he cocked his head. “But there’s a scar that cuts right through it.”

  She continued to smile. “And what does that mean?”

  “If I’m reading this correctly,” he said, “it means that your life will be shortened.”

  The smile on Shari’s face disappeared.

  * * *

  Kimball Hayden was standing in the shadows as the rain poured from the heavens, a constant baptism to clean away the sins he was sure could never be washed away no matter how hard it rained. Watching Shari Cohen through the window along with her suitor, he saw them conversing and drinking wine, with the dialogue between them going back and forth until he saw the male set aside the flower arrangement and the candle vase. Then he saw Shari smile as she offered her hand to this man. Though the flower arrangement and the candle vase blocked Kimball’s view, he knew that they were holding hands. And in that moment Kimball’s heart had never felt so heavy or leaden. She was smiling. They were holding hands. And Kimball remembered an adage he heard but never understood: if you love something, let it go. Now it made perfect sense to him.

  As he stood in the rain, he wanted to be happy for her because she was able to find love again. And then in a whisper so soft that he appeared to be mouthing his words, he said, “Good for you, Shari. I hope you find what you’re looking for…I hope you find love that’s always been denied me.” Then Kimball turned and walked away, thinking that Shari would always be safe with whomever she chose to be with. Because Kimball would always be there to protect her like a guardian angel…

  …No matter what.

  * * *

  “All right,” said Shari, pulling her hand away. “That’s a little too creepy for me.”

  Darce feigned hurt astonishment. “I’m just telling you what your lines reveal.”

  “It’s not an exact science,” she told him. “In fact, it’s not a science at all.”

  “Tell that to the palm readers.”

  “I take it you’re moonlighting as one.”

  “I’d starve if I did. I suck at it.”

  As they shared a laugh, the waiter brought their dinners which were hidden under domed covers. Once the plates had been set on the table and the domes lifted to reveal the meal, Shari and Darce were pleased with what they saw, which were fancy dishes with hard-to-pronounce names.

  After a few bites in, Shari did ask Darce a series of questions regarding the surveillance of the archdiocese by the two detectives. “Danny Parcells and Cecil Cooper,” she said. “Why were they surveying the archdiocese? You had to have sent them since they were under your command. Is that how you wanted to know more about the emissaries?”

  He put down his fork. “Shari, we were sharing dual jurisdictional duties at the time. The feds and Metro, neither one wants to work with the other. That has always been the culture; not to share but take the glory. But progress can only be had by cooperation.”

  “So you thought it prudent to spy on the archdiocese hoping to get answers?”

  Darce put his hands up as if surrendering. “What do you want me to say?”

  “I want you to explain to me why they weren’t carrying ID while on duty.”

  “That would be something you would have to ask them.”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “They deflected.”

  “Can’t help you there. It’s not for me to know what they were thinking at the time. That would call for the operation of one’s mind and I don’t read minds, just palms.”
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  “Well, I hope you got what you were looking for,” she stated curtly.

  “All I got back was a couple of guys with bruises and abrasions.” Then he picked up his fork. “That’s why I asked you about these so-called emissaries.” And then he gave her a hard look. “I wish you’d be honest with me as to who they are. You said they were not priests, yet they dress as such. And I understand that they fight like no other. They took my guys out in three seconds, Shari. Especially Cooper, who’s as big as a gorilla.”

  “Look, Darce, like I said, they’re emissaries from the Vatican who are here to help. That’s all.”

  “Nothing more to tell me about them?”

  “No.”

  Then an awkward hush fell between them for the remainder of the meal.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  It was after eight in the evening when Kimball Hayden arrived at the archdiocese. His clothes were soaking wet and clung to him like a second skin. When he stepped inside the grand foyer with his clothes dripping along the marble floor, he was greeted by Isaiah. “Did you forget to take off your clothes while showering?” Kimball waved this off with a half-hearted gesture. “Where’s the cardinal?” he asked Isaiah.

  “In his chambers. Why?”

  “Did any of the priests he reached out to show up?”

  “Not a single one.”

  The cardinal was right, thought Kimball. Admitting guilt and shame would be a difficult battle to overcome. Apparently they were comfortable in letting their skeletons continue to lie inside their closets.

  Then from Isaiah: “Kimball…is everything all right?”

  “Where’s Jeremiah and Elijah?”

  “Making the rounds.”

  Kimball nodded.

  Then Isaiah pressed him: “Kimball…what’s wrong?”

  But Kimball continued to dodge his questions. “Tell Jeremiah to get some rest. I want you and Elijah to maintain watch. Keep alert. At o-three-hundred hours I want you to come get me. I’ll spell you so that you can get some rest.” Kimball raised his hand and clapped Isaiah softly on the shoulder. “I’ll see you at three.” Turning and walking down along the corridor, Kimball’s mind was racing with thoughts and images. He had stood in the rain and watched from afar the man across the table from Shari as she reached a hand out to him, smiling. And then he thought of the cardinal and how they mirrored each other in certain aspects, such as the reasons behind finding the Light. He thought of Sister Abigail, a nun who was going to leave the church to be with Kimball and start a family, only to fall prey to the very people Kimball was trying to neutralize. He thought of a small house surrounded by a picket fence with children playing in the yard. In his mind’s eye he saw a dog at play. A barbecue. And then one by one they began to disappear. The house. The fence. The children. The image of Sister Abigail. His dreams. His wants. Until nothing remained but darkness.

  Returning to his room, Kimball sat along the edge of his bed with the lights off. There was no noise, no sound. Nothing but absolute quiet. And then he eased back onto the mattress and shielded his eyes with his forearm. Within minutes Kimball Hayden was asleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Anacostia, Washington, D.C.

  The Following Day

  The woman with the gruff voice was sitting at the High-Seat of the Council along with many others around a large, oval-shaped table, nothing but shadows and shapes. In the center of the table a single bulb burned, though its glow was a cast of pale light.

  “Were you able to piece together a local team?” she asked the male sitting opposite her.

  “Nine men,” he answered. “Some are former special operatives who served in the Middle East and parts of Africa, and some are law enforcement who are highly qualified and ready to make a statement. They’re all good people. Pious people. People you already know and trust.”

  “Excellent,” she said. The woman’s hand reached into the cone of light, grabbed the flap of the manila envelope lying on top of three others, and peeled it back to show the photograph of Cardinal Bishop. Then she settled back into the shadows. “Cardinal Roy Bishop. Once a killer of innocent men, women and children, and a man who wears the cloth of pious men. He seeks forgiveness that can never be. And therefore his crime is being a man of deception within the House of God.”

  “Amen.”

  She leaned forward, swept the cardinal’s folder from the pile, and lifted the flap of the file underneath. It was a photo of Kimball Hayden when he was much younger. “Kimball Allen Hayden,” she said. “Once a killer of innocent men, women and children, who also wears the cloth of a pious man. He seeks forgiveness that can never be. And therefore his crime is being a man of deception who serves the House of God.”

  “Amen.”

  Then she placed the folder next to the cardinal’s so that their portraits were side by side; the smiling image of the cardinal against the stoic face of Kimball Hayden. “First, however, we err on the side of caution before we commit to any mission. A prepared mind is always key to a favorable outcome.” Her shape remained steady within the shadows. “Tell me,” she questioned the man sitting opposite her, also a shape within the shadows, “where do we stand in the eyes of the investigators. Are we clean?”

  “Very. The FBI, Metro—so far forensics have provided nothing.”

  “And Sister Maria Elefante?”

  “Dealt with.” This came from the shape of the large man with the prognathous jaw and protruding brow, his features distinct even in the dark. “The trail has been sanitized.”

  The woman nodded. “Sister Elefante had served us well. And for that God will truly embrace her.”

  Then the woman shifted in her seat. “Now I want to talk about our team since I’m concerned about these Vatican Knights.”

  “What’s to be concerned about,” said the male voice. “I know the people under my command. I know how good they are. And we are nine to their four.”

  “I’ve been told that numbers matter little when coming up against Vatican Knights. It’s been said that great fighters would prefer to go up against armies with their bare fists than to go up against the Vatican Knights with all the weapons they can carry.”

  “Embellishments,” said the male.

  “I’m sure,” she answered. “But only to a degree. Whenever I inquire about them the answer is always the same: they’re above and beyond everyone else. And if that’s true, then they’re above and beyond the fighting force of the Nocturnal Saints.”

  “Don’t give into unfounded stories,” said the male. “Don’t let these stories whittle down your confidence.”

  “I think you misunderstand what I’m saying,” she fired back. “I’m saying that we need to go in without being overconfident, which can be crippling should we underestimate the talents and skill sets of the Vatican Knights.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” he returned. “Our team goes in, they do their job, and they vacate before the Vatican Knights know what happened to them.

  They’re not expecting a strike.”

  “That you know of. But be assured,” she paused a moment before continuing. “Be assured that the Vatican Knights will not be complacent in their duties. They were sent here by the Vatican for a reason. And it wasn’t to aid in the investigation.

  They’re warriors. Not sleuths. I believe they’re here because they’re looking for us.”

  “And should they find us?” “Then they’ll neutralize us by trying to destroy the very core of the Nocturnal Saints.”

  “That’s impossible,” said the man with the prognathous jaw. “We’re too large with members all over the world.”

  “The word ‘impossible’ doesn’t mean that something can’t be done,” she told him. “It simply measures the degree of difficulty of completing the task at hand. Don’t forget that we’re dealing with the Vatican here, who also happens to be a global entity. The Vatican Knights are just the first wave in a war.”

  “You are concerned, aren’t you? If n
ot gravely so.”

  “Very. The more I look into them the more I don’t like the answers. They’re here to snuff out the flame of hope and decency that will bring back the church. We’re here to give that tiny flame breath until it turns into a bonfire that will spark the traditions of the church that ‘Man shall bend to the will of God, and God shall never bend to the will of Man.’”

  The male shape leaned forward and winged his elbows along the edge of the tabletop. His face, however, remained in the shadows. “There won’t be a problem,” he assured her. “Not with this group. So far everything has gone as planned. Our message to the pope has caused enough concern for him to send a detail to Washington, a unit we can dispatch, which is another message we can send to the pontiff. He can send whomever he wants. But the Nocturnal Saints will rise up as we have for centuries to right the wrongs of the church and our message will be clear: if the church refuses to right a wrong, then the people will right the church.”

  In the shadows the woman with the husky voice removed a cigarette from the package, pressed her lips around the filter and lit it, the brief flame giving light to her identity before she waved the match dead. After taking a hit and blowing the smoke ceilingward, she said, “Tonight the message from the cardinal will be the taking of his heart. The significance of a man who rules over a flock with false emotion.”

  “And the Vatican Knight?”

  “For Kimball Hayden,” she said, this time blowing smoke in the direction of the files sitting on the table. “His eyes. I want his eyes. For the man is blind because he cannot see the Light that stands before everyone. God has abandoned him.”

  “Understood.”

  “Ready the team. But approach the archdiocese with extreme caution.”

  “This time tomorrow when we sit in council,” the male sitting opposite her stated, “the measure will be done and the pope will know that the Vatican Knights cannot compete with the Nocturnal Saints.”

  She nodded. “The church will change,” she said to everyone as a general statement. “And those cancers that plague the old traditions will be devoured, and the will of God will once again be supreme as men bend to His will. So tonight, when our team enters the archdiocese, the Nocturnal Saints will send a strong message to the pontiff by showing him the true power and strength of God.” After she stamped her cigarette out in the ashtray, she held her hands out to her sides as a gesture for all to grab the hands of those beside them, and to form a human chain around the table, she said, “For I am Hydra…”