Sons of Darkness

by Gail Z. Martin

  Repeaters weren’t sentient. These ghosts still knew who they were, and how they died. The temperature in the car plummeted, and frost formed on the windows although the night was mild for October. Some of the spirits had died in accidents; others by violence along this lonely stretch, or at their own hand. But they flocked to Travis’s power like moths to a flame, anxious to gain his help.

  “I will hear all of you,” he promised. “And help you pass over. But please, before I do, tell me what you know of evil in a black truck.”

  Travis felt a shudder and realized that his question had managed to frighten the dead. Not mortal, then , he thought, confirming his worst fears about the driver of the mysterious vehicle. He reached out with his gift, trying to bridge the gap between himself and the lost souls who milled about in the fog.

  “He’s kidnapping people, women and children. He’ll kill them,” Travis said, something he couldn’t prove yet but felt certain of, bone-deep. “I want to stop him. But I need help.”

  Ghosts seldom spoke words, and even less often sentences. Images seemed to transcend the Veil more easily than language. Travis saw a barrage of fleeting images that flickered almost too quickly for him to process. The black truck, with dark tinted windows. A child with black hair done up with a pretty bow, crying. A blond woman, screaming and fighting, trying to open the door to escape. But of the driver, nothing but a dark, featureless form and an awful sense of wrongness.

  “Where did he take them?” Travis asked the dead. But one by one, they shook their heads. Tragedy bound them to this stretch of road, and when the truck left their boundaries, they could not follow it. Yet if the entity behind the abductions killed his victims, their bodies hadn’t been dumped near here, or their spirits would have heeded Travis’s call.

  “Can you tell me anything?” he begged.

  Cooper City. The distant voice echoed as if it carried down a long corridor. The words were clearly spoken, but not repeated, and although Travis strained for more, the spirits fell silent.

  “All right,” he said. “Thank you. Come closer, and I will help you pass over.”

  Travis felt certain that not all of the ghosts had been Catholic in their lifetimes, but the core of Last Rites—confession, absolution, and blessing—was universal. He supposed that the trappings of faith mattered little to the dead, and that intent alone sufficed.

  He withdrew the thin stole he kept in the glove compartment for emergencies and draped it over his shoulders. Guilt stabbed at him, that he had no business saying the words since he had renounced the priesthood when he renounced the Sinistram. But Travis knew clergy of many faiths, and each of them had a litany for the dead, so if he and the ghosts found comfort in familiar words, he refused to beg forgiveness because of a technicality. If this was sin, he had done far worse.

  Travis didn’t know who took more comfort in the rites—the ghosts or himself. His psychic gift communicated with the souls of the dead even as his physical voice lifted up the words of the benediction, and the ability to sense their passage felt equally as sacred as the mystery of the Eucharist.

  When the ghosts were gone, and the litany complete, Travis opened his eyes. Both the fog and the frost had vanished. He paused for a few minutes to regain his composure, then pulled out of the rest area, drove to the next exit, and reversed course, heading back to Pittsburgh, deep in thought.

  Something inhuman was behind the abductions, an entity able to frighten the dead. Travis didn’t know why “Cooper City” was important enough to be shared from beyond the grave, but tomorrow, after he’d managed to catch a few hours of sleep, he had every intention of finding out.

  The next day, one minor crisis after another kept Travis’s mind on St. Dismas, instead of fretting about a troublesome hunter-wannabe, or the next moves of what he had mentally dubbed the “Silverado Killer” after the make and model of a very popular black truck.

  “Okay, we got the shipment of ground beef, tomato soup, cabbage, and rice the soup kitchen needs to do stuffed cabbage tonight,” Travis said to Jon, “and the overdue medical supplies Matthew ordered finally came in. Any news on the water heater?”

  Travis and Jon had spent much of their time directing the halfway house’s small staff through a day that seemed to go from bad to worse. The aforementioned water heater stopped working, the office printer was failing, and one of the ovens in the commercial kitchen was finicky enough that the cook not-so-jokingly asked if an exorcism was a possibility.

  “Got a repair scheduled. Had to pay emergency rates because we can’t do without,” Jon reported, then took a big swallow of strong, black coffee. Travis had a cup of his own and felt certain the caffeine was the only thing keeping him on his feet after a late night.

  “Good. And the van?” Travis asked. St. Dismas had a decrepit shuttle to take its temporary residents to any medical or social service appointments that couldn’t happen on site.

  “The repairs were more expensive than we expected, but at least we’ll get a little longer out of the junker,” Jon replied.

  St. Dismas operated on the patched-together support of grants, donations, and nominal help from the Diocese. Travis, Jon, and Matthew, as three of the most visible faces of the organization, wrangled every connection and contact they had with local businesses to stretch their tight finances. Travis had spent half of the morning in an inter-agency meeting to coordinate resources, working closely with food banks, clothing drives, and volunteer organizations for medical, educational, and social services. Jon would cover for him at another event that night, while Travis went back to hunting.

  “Can we cover the stipend for the Night Vigil?” Travis asked.

  “As long as you don’t add too many more people,” Jon said, nodding. “That antique store owner in Charleston sent another large check earmarked for ‘special purpose resource development.’ It’s almost as if he knows what the Night Vigil actually does.”

  For Travis, the Night Vigil was the intersection of St. Dismas’s mission and his own obsession to fight supernatural evil. Jon had once called them “halfway house heroes,” and he wasn’t far wrong. Most, like Angie, had some level of psychic gift, or like Travis, they’d had their own run-in with the occult. All of them carried a heavy load of guilt over misusing their gifts or failing to protect someone they loved. Many worked the night shift because they didn’t want to sleep when it was dark and because as sentries in the battle against evil, they needed to be alert in the hour of the wolf. They kept their eyes open for paranormal problems and fed that information to Travis. In return, they earned a small stipend, and Travis did his best to watch out for them. There was safety in numbers.

  We’re the misfits and fuck-ups, unwanted by Heaven or Hell, Travis thought, looking for one last chance to atone for mistakes and missed chances, the pain we’ve caused others, the good things we were afraid to do, and the bad things we embraced with open arms. Might as well get the unfinished business dealt with before we cross over, so we don’t become someone else’s problem.

  “Given that particular shop, I’d bet on it, although I don’t know how he gets his information,” Travis said. “They handle any cursed or haunted items we come across and neutralize them.”

  “Nice,” Jon replied. “You think you got a lead?”

  “A slim one,” Travis admitted. “Not sure what to make of it.”

  His phone buzzed, and Travis frowned as he saw the number, then put the call on speaker. “Father Ryan. It’s been a while.”

  “It has indeed,” the other man replied. “And I wish I were calling under better circumstances. Is there any chance you could meet me for dinner tonight? I’ve got a problem that I think is up your alley.”

  Travis checked his watch. “It’s gonna take me about two and a half hours, assuming I don’t hit construction.” The fact that Father Ryan lived in Cooper City, the same place the highway ghosts had mentioned, had not escaped Travis’s notice.

  “It’s important,” Father Ryan replied.
“I wouldn’t ask you to drive out if it weren’t…unusual. I’ve got a widow who is refusing to bury her husband’s body—and she’s the third family member this week who won’t part with a corpse.”

  Jon and Travis exchanged a look. “You’re sure it’s not just extreme grief?” Travis asked.

  “I’ve been in this business for a while,” Father Ryan replied. He had been one of the younger priests when Travis was in seminary, maybe less than ten years older. Travis remembered the last time he’d seen Ryan. Being a small-town parish priest seemed to have aged him another decade, reminding Travis that if the big city didn’t kill you, it kept you young. “I’ve buried a lot of people, seen a lot of bereavement. But this…it’s like that Faulkner story.”

  Travis shuddered. A Rose for Emily was probably the only story he remembered from his college literature class, and it never failed to creep him out just thinking about it. “Okay. I get it. I’ll be there.”

  “Plan to stay over. You can have the guest room at the rectory. I think you need to see what I’m dealing with.”

  He ended the call and turned to Jon. “Are you okay if—”

  Jon waved him off. “Go. Sounds like the good father needs some help. I’ll get one of the volunteers to help me pick up the coat donations from the radio station.”

  “I’m planning to be back tonight, but if that changes, you’ll be the first to know,” Travis assured him. He grabbed the duffel he kept packed for this kind of thing, and his laptop, just in case, and headed for his car, trying to remember where Cooper City was. The app on his phone gave him directions, and he saw that at least part of the route was on I-80, farther east than he had driven the night before. Interesting. I wonder if there are any new ghosts who know something about the truck?

  October turned the forest bright red and orange, and the afternoon sun made the mountains ablaze with color. Travis tried to focus on the natural beauty to de-stress but found his thoughts cycling back to the disappearances, the black truck, and Father Ryan’s problematic widow.

  Could they be related? he wondered. Cooper City was almost in the middle of the state, while the missing people had vanished from farther west. Travis couldn’t quite envision a common thread between the disappearances and the grief-fueled irrationality of Father Ryan’s mourners. And yet the incident in the small town right on the heels of the message Travis had received from the I-80 ghosts about the same city seemed like too much of a coincidence.

  Travis tried to remember who among his Night Vigil contacts were located mid-state. He couldn’t recall off-hand but vowed to check his phone when he stopped. Even if the two situations were unrelated, it wouldn’t hurt to have his network keep an ear to the ground, or use their abilities to uncover connections.

  Just as Travis finally shook off his bleak mood, the phone buzzed. He recognized the number, seriously considered just letting it go to voicemail, then resigned himself to dealing with the caller.

  “Travis. This is Father Liam.”

  “The answer is still ‘no.’”

  Liam’s cold chuckle irritated Travis. “You can’t run from your vows, my son.”

  “I’m no son of yours.” Travis fought to keep his voice even, but his hands clutched the steering wheel white-knuckled.

  “You are all my spiritual children,” Liam said, with the cocksure confidence that had always set Travis’s teeth on edge. His old Sinistram mentor was a man Travis knew could have easily done just fine for himself at the CIA—or the KGB—if he hadn’t sworn his oath first to the Church.

  “Get to the point.”

  “The point is, you need to return to the fold. There’s work to be done.” A hint of irritation added an edge beneath Liam’s words.

  “I’m out,” Travis replied. “Out of the priesthood, and out of your little viper pit.”

  “Really, Travis. You’re never really out. Or have you forgotten? ‘Thou art a priest forever,’” Liam quoted, with the sanctimonious tone Travis had always resented.

  “Tell me why you really called, or I’m hanging up.”

  Silence stretched long enough Travis thought the call might have dropped. “We’ve lost three more operatives,” Liam said finally. “One to a vetala, another in a car accident, and the third to a gunshot wound.”

  “As usual, there’s something you’re not saying,” Travis snapped. “Was the wreck a DUI and the bullet self-inflicted?”

  The Sinistram was an ancient cadre of warrior-monks fighting dark magic and demonic forces, with a tradition of rigor and asceticism that drove men to an early grave. If the Knights Templar were the Marines of the Vatican, the Sinistram was its Black Ops. Between the horrors faced on the job, a pitiless culture that made a fetish of suffering, and the loneliness of the work, most Sinistram operatives never made it to their forties. Those who did were usually broken in mind and body. Alcohol blurred the memories, and when that failed, suicide ended the pain.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” Travis said when Liam didn’t deign to reply. “You know, maybe you should ask yourself why so many of your men would rather commit a mortal sin than keep doing the work.”

  “The flesh is weak,” Liam answered smoothly. “And in a moment of weakness, the Father of Lies prevails.”

  “Yeah, keep telling yourself that. Couldn’t possibly be your ‘real men don’t show fear’ bullshit.”

  “Language, Travis.”

  “You want language, Liam? How about this? Lose my fucking number. I’m done with you, and I’m sure as hell done with the Sinistram.”

  “Hell is closer than you think, Travis. Don’t be too quick to burn bridges. You might need a fire escape.” The call ended abruptly.

  Travis swerved to take the ramp to the next rest area and pulled into a spot far removed from the other cars. He closed his eyes, taking deep breaths, trying to regain his composure and let his thudding heart return to normal.

  Damn Liam, damn the Sinistram, and damn the rot that lets snakes like him make a mockery out of everything the Church says it believes. His faith had been as much a casualty as his mind and body, and while part of him longed for the comfort of certitude, he knew from bitter experience that not only was the devil in the details but within the shades of gray.

  He leaned forward, resting his forehead on the steering wheel, wishing that just the sound of Liam’s voice didn’t trigger him. His stomach knotted hard enough that he thought he might throw up, and he knew if he lifted his hands from the wheel they would shake.

  It’s been four years. He doesn’t control me. I’m out. He can’t make me do anything, not anymore. But deep in his heart, Travis knew that wasn’t completely true. Like the CIA and the Mob, the Sinistram knew how to work people like puppets, and neither extortion nor threats were off the table.

  “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in,” Travis quoted to himself, and the irony of the appropriateness of a line from a Mafia movie was not lost on him. “Not this time. Never again.”

  It took the rest of the drive to Cooper City for Travis to calm down after the phone call. He tried to keep from going over Father Liam’s smug remarks, but just thinking about the Sinistram made his blood boil. He’d already paid too high a price in blood and nightmares and seen too many good men pushed to the breaking point. Now, Travis intended to wage the fight on his own terms.

  He parked in the lot beside Our Lady of Sorrows church and walked up the steps to the rectory. Father Ryan swung the door open and greeted him with a hug and a smile. “Travis. It’s been too long.” The priest stood aside so that Travis could enter.

  “Homey,” Travis said, glancing around the snug living room. He set his backpack down inside the door. The old brick house was across the parking lot from the church and had housed innumerable priests in the century and a half that the parish had served Cooper City.

  “It’s more than I need,” Ryan said with a shrug. “You know us priests. We travel light.” The sturdy-but-comfortable furnishings were actually the prope
rty of the parish.

  “Hey, if you’ve got a coffee maker and a TV that can stream movies, what more do you want?” Travis couldn’t resist teasing his old friend.

  “That, I have, as well as a couch to watch them on, and a cat for company,” Ryan replied. On cue, a gray tabby appeared from beneath an armchair and wove in and out around his ankles. “Come into the kitchen. Dinner’s in the oven. I figured this way we could speak privately.”

  Travis followed him into the dated but functional kitchen. It had obviously been remodeled over the years, but this incarnation appeared to be from the 1980s. No avocado and gold appliances, but the room’s cabinets and tile looked well-worn. “Whatever you’re cooking, it smells good.”

  Ryan smiled as he reached for an oven mitt. “You can thank Mrs. Kowalczyk, the housekeeper. Her motto should be ‘feeding priests since 1976.’” He pulled out a tray of stuffed peppers, and a baking dish full of mashed potatoes, perfectly browned on the top. “Although I’ll take credit for warming up the canned green beans, and I picked up the cherry pie from the grocery store myself.”

  Travis helped to get drinks and set the table. The rectory had the comfortable feel of a well-loved home, in stark contrast to his own apartment at St. Dismas. Although he was no longer a priest, he’d gotten out of the habit of needing a lot of stuff. Still, he thought, looking around, it might not hurt to make his place a bit more welcoming.

  “So how goes the halfway house business?” Ryan asked as they sat down to eat.

  Despite the call on the drive up, and the unsettling reason Ryan had requested his visit, Travis felt himself relax. He had only a handful of people whom he considered true friends, unencumbered by conflicting loyalties or by being his coworkers. Even fewer had known him as long as Ryan or remembered him before he had joined and then given up the priesthood.