Angler In Darkness

by Edward M. Erdelac

  They took a quiet corner booth and sat holding the coffees between their hands, feeling the warmth radiate. It was bright white in there, like a hospital.

  “You zooin’ on me about this, Fadder?”

  “God’s honest truth,” Father Mike replied, staring into his coffee but not drinking.

  “How you figure you know who the nutjob is doin’ this?”

  The old man’s eyes flitted up, the steam ascending from the bottom of his face, dissipating in his white hair, a wispy mask of fog.

  “The bastard told me as much in the confessional this past Saturday. He told me everything. How he follows them, stalks them, like an animal. What he....does to them.”

  He made a rapid sign of the cross, put the hot coffee to his lips. He winced, but kept drinking.

  Terry leaned back in his chair.

  “Ain’t it a sin for you to be tellin’ me this? I mean, ain’t you got some kinda confidentiality rule about the booth? Like a lawyer?”

  “Don’t you think it’s a sin to just let it to go on?” he said, putting the half empty cup down.

  “So don’t I,” Terry said, nodding, rubbing his eyes. “So don’t I.”

  “Terry,” whispered Father Mike, leaning across the table. “I was told....I asked around. And I was told that you....that you’re....”

  Terry gave him a stony look and held up his hand.

  Everybody knew Terry Dunne around the parish.

  They knew about the shootout in Mattapan back in the 90’s, where four trigger happy micks who’d robbed an armored car and killed the guards under the nose of the Winter Hill outfit had been left bleeding in the gutters and how Terry Dunne started driving a Lincoln after that. Everybody knew who put the body of the wiseguy in the shipping container at Conley’s yard; the one that rotted in there all summer, froze, and blew up in the spring, so the cops had to pour what was left through a colander to find the bullet.

  They knew how Pat Lonnigan, who’d stuck up a Cumbie’s just to get pinched so he wouldn’t have to pay all the horse money he owed Mickey O’Callahan, had somehow rolled out of the top bunk in the cell he shared with Terry at South Bay and busted his head wide open on the floor in the middle of the night. Everybody knew about the Jamaican nurse that had moved into Terry’s ma’s place that week and took care of her till they carried her out.

  “If you’re gonna preach to me now....”

  “I wouldn’t Terry,” Father Mike said. “Bless you, I wouldn’t. But somebody’s got to put a stop to this.”

  Terry shifted in his seat.

  “So call the cops.”

  “You know it’s not enough, Terry. If you’d....heard the things I heard in that confessional. He’s a miserable excuse for a human being.”

  “How come you didn’t give him three Hail Marys and tell him go jump in the Mystic?”

  “He won’t end it himself, Terry. Even after all he’s done....the bastard’s afraid of Hell.” Father Mike shook his head. He wheezed and had to cough it down. “He knows what he is. But he can’t stop himself. He won’t.”

  The priest clenched his fists and slammed one on the table, making the coffee splash on the white. The jerk at the counter looked over.

  “What do you do with scum like that?”

  “Alright, Fadder. So this guy’s a mad dog. He oughta be put down, I agree.

  But...”

  “I know where he’ll be,” the priest said excitedly. “Tomorrow night. You know Castle Island, the fort?”

  Terry scratched his neck. He needed a shave.

  “Yeah, sure,” he said.

  His ma had took him there every summer when he was a kid. The old fort had been there since forever, but the island had stopped being an island when the reclamation project had connected it to the mainland with a big concrete causeway. He used to ride his bike there, all the way around Pleasure Bay and back to Sullivan’s, where his ma would have a hot dog and crinkle fries waiting for him.

  “What is he, a park ranger?” Terry asked.

  “He’s a transient,” said Father Mike. “I’ve seen him around the parish. Heard him lots of times, panhandlin’ in the foyer. That was how I recognized his voice. He sneaks in and hides till the park closes, sleeps in the fort.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I followed him. He’s gone back there two nights in a row. He’ll be there tomorrow night. I can point him out.”

  But not to the cops, Terry thought bitterly. And you can’t do it yourself. Priests could tell you everything you ought to do till it came time to do a man’s actual work, be it killing or fucking. Then the hand washing started.

  Terry wanted to go back to O’Malley’s suddenly.

  “If it’s money you want....”

  “I wouldn’t do somethin’ like this for money,” Terry said sharply.

  Money had been on his mind though, until Father Mike had come out and said it. Had he really been thinking of a way to make money out of this? What a no good son of a bitch he had become.

  Father Mike nodded. A slight smile played across his face.

  “I didn’t think you would, Terry. You were always a good boy.”

  “I was a piece of shit. I still am.”

  Father Mike shrugged.

  “You live with wolves, you learn to howl. But there was always a good kid in there. Maybe God’s put this before you. Before us both.”

  Terry was shaking his head.

  “You ain’t pullin’ the trigger, Fadder.”

  “For a priest, breaking the vows of the confessional, it’s like pulling a trigger.”

  “Don’t say that,” Terry snapped. “It ain’t nothin’ like that. You ain’t never...you don’t know nothin’ about that, Fadder.”

  Why had this old bastard come and dropped this in his lap? His stomach was roiling. He’d thought he’d put all this behind him. Had he become the kind of guy people came to with shit like this now? Well, hadn’t he always been that guy? Maybe. But the last time had been for Ma.

  But what would Ma say if he knew about something like this and just let it go? What would Ma say if he turned on the TV in a couple days and some other kid had got chewed up and spat out on account of this crazy asshole?

  Why did this have to fall to him? He didn’t like murder. Back in the day he’d been a nut, drunk most of the time. Pulling a trigger on somebody had been like milking a teat that dripped money. Easier than working a real job, too

  But Pat Lonnigan, Jesus, that had been bad. The sound his head had made on that floor, like a pumpkin busting wide on Cabbage Night.

  And when they’d put the light on and come in, Christ. All that blood, and the sight of Pat just staring with the top of his head popped open like a can of stewed tomatoes, like something out of a horror movie. One minute snoring in the dark, the next bleeding in the white light, all the inner workings laid bare.

  He closed his eyes. The white of the Dunkie’s reminded him of the brightness of the cell. He got a flash of all kinds of bad things. Spilled brains. Little girls and boys with skinny legs and arms and all that red....

  “Awright, Fadder. Awright, I’ll handle it.”

  “You’re still a good boy, Terry. A good man.”

  “Awright.”

  “You want to meet me outside O’Malley’s tomorrow night?”

  Terry nodded quietly, standing.

  “You got a car?”

  Terry nodded again.

  The priest told him a time.

  Terry left him sitting there with his munchkins.

  * * * *

  He was numb the walk back to the T. He rode home with his head between his hands, listening to the clacking of the rails beneath the floor. The liquor worked its way up from his guts. He puked just before the doors slid open. He stumbled out onto the platform and up the stairs and home to his ma’s house.

  He passed out on the couch in the front room, and woke up before dawn shivering because he’d left the front door wide open.

  He
was nauseous. His head ached. He went to the toilet and jabbed his finger down his throat to get the rest of the sour taste from his mouth.

  He shuffled into the kitchen and put on a pot and some toast and went down into the cellar to get his piece out of its hiding place, an Adidas box taped up under the stair.

  It was a .45 SIG. The same type he’d carried in the 90’s, though not the same one. He’d dropped three or four pistols in the bay over the years, but he always went out and bought a replacement since they shot pretty clean right out of the box.

  The action was a little stiff. He’d got this one before he’d gone into South Bay. Never had a chance to break it in. He jacked seven rounds through the gun to test it. No jams.

  He picked up the shells and pushed them back into the clip.

  He took the pistol upstairs with him. He set it on the fridge and hung his jacket on Ma’s chair. He poured himself a cup of coffee and stood chewing the toast, listening to the empty house settle.

  It was paid for, but too big for him. He figured he ought to rent it out, but he didn’t want the headache of checking in on strangers. He also didn’t know a thing about selling a house, and he didn’t want some realtor ripping him off, so here he sat, watching the dust and trash collect, the pile of dishes growing in the sink.

  Ma would’ve boxed his ears to see her kitchen like this.

  He put his coffee down. He took his jacket off the back of his ma’s chair and draped it over his own.

  He walked around the house with the pistol, waiting for nightfall.

  It started raining again around noon and was still raining when he woke up from a nap to find the house dark.

  He had a crap and put on his coat and went out to the garage to start his car. It was bitter cold and the rain was pattering, but when he pulled out of the driveway it stopped like the world was passing through a long tunnel.

  He stopped for a six pack of roadies and pulled up to the curb in front of O’Malley’s, two cans rolling on the backseat.

  “You’re late, Terry,” Father Mike said when he got in.

  “You want a beer, Fadder?” Terry asked, as they started east.

  He could feel the priest looking at him across the car in the dark, even make out his blue face in the intermittent passing of light from the streetlamps.

  “How’s your head, Terry? Are you going to be able to do this?”

  “Clear as my conscience. How’s yours?”

  “Jesus, are you drunk?”

  “Relax, Fadder. I do my best work with a sixer in me.”

  They headed down Broadway toward Pleasure Bay, the dark sky above them fuming but restrained compared to the downpour of the previous night.

  Stopped at a light, Terry looked over and saw Father Mike’s hand on the dash, gripping it. The ring caught the red light. He was biting his knuckle, eyes closed.

  “You OK, Fadder?”

  The priest nodded quietly. When the light turned green whatever had affected him subsided.

  “You got your pills?”

  “I’m out.”

  “Want me to take you to the hospital?”

  “No no,” said Father Mike. “No hospital. I’ll be fine.”

  He wanted to see this through. Terry gave him props for that at least. He wasn’t going to finger a guy and send Terry in to whack him while he bailed. Still, the man was a priest. He felt like he ought to give him an out.

  “It’s awright, Fadder. If you can’t go through with this. Just...”

  “I’m fine!” Father Mike snapped, turning to look at him, his eyes glaring.

  “OK,” said Terry.

  They hit William J. Day Blvd, the big Farragut statue standing out in the rotary against the dark bay.

  Terry banged a left and the trees of Marine Park were a blur on the driver’s side, the waters of the bay churning, the narrow strip of land and the fort just visible across it on the right. Father Mike looked out across the bay, his hand splayed on the dashboard.

  “Somethin’ I always wanted to ask you, Fadder. From when I was a kid.”

  “What’s that, Terry?” Father Mike answered, not turning around, his voice calm, no trace of his earlier outburst.

  “What’s with that ring you wear?”

  Father Mike turned away from the window and held his hand and the ring out like a new bride.

  “It’s for an Order I belong to, Terry.”

  “Order?”

  “You know, like the hibos or the Knights of Columbus. That’s St. Philopater Mercurius.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He was a Roman soldier, in the time of the pagan Emperor Decius. He was Saint George’s cousin.”

  “No shit?”

  They were passing the Conley Containter Terminal on the left now. The lights of the forklifts and the cranes blinked at Terry, the trees finally giving away, affording a view of the great stacks of shipping containers, carriage-less boxcars packed with seafood and liquor and cars. That was where he’d stuffed that wop they’d sent down from New Jersey to kill Peachy Muldoon.

  His thoughts went to that night, running through the maze of containers, his heart thudding in his ears, expecting at every corner to kill or be killed.

  Father Mike kept talking.

  “When the Berbers invaded Rome, Decius led his troops against them. The Emperor was afraid, but Mercurius counseled him to hold fast. The hagiography says the archangel Michael appeared to Mercurius and gave him a sword with which he conquered the enemy. In reality, the ‘sword’ St. Michael presented to him was a unit of mercenaries, the Cynocephalae. The Dogs’ Heads. Greek mountain warriors. God sent them to reinforce Mercurius. They fought like devils, and killed so many Berbers, the enemy broke off their attack and fled.” He tapped the ring. “The inscription reads, ‘‘Deum memento, regressus victor.’ ‘Remember God when you return victorious.’”

  It was well past closing but the parking lot lights were on.

  “Pull over here,” Father Mike advised, “and cut your lamps.”

  Terry did as he was told.

  They got out of the car, the cold bay wind whipping their coats, the roar of an Iberia Airlines jet passing overhead, a great dark shape festooned with blinking lights, diving for Logan’s airport. Terry took his scally cap from his pocket and jammed it on his head.

  Father Mike gestured for him to follow and went off up the road. Terry paused. He saw the priest’s pill bottle on the ground. He picked it up and squinted at the torn label. The only word he could make out was ‘colloidal.’

  “How about security?” Terry asked when they had walked up the road a ways. The noise of the jet engine faded to a dull roar.

  “It’s the off season. Only one man on duty this time of night,” Father Mike said.

  There was only one car in the parking lot. They skirted the lot lamps. Terry saw a single light twinkling far down the bike trail to Head Island. The night watchman, probably in one of those ATV’s, making the rounds.

  “I went wade fishing under the pier here as a boy. It’s one of my earliest memories,” Father Mike remarked.

  They walked across the lawn through the swaying trees to the fort. Fort Independence had been built sometime in the 1800’s, if Terry remembered the signs he’d read in his boyhood. It was a pentagon, five high granite walls capped by five high bastions, surrounding a grassy parade ground, some of the ramparts still lined with deactivated old fifteen inch iron cannons aimed impotently out at the harbor. The double studded wood doors were ajar, probably for the night watchman.

  Their footsteps echoed through the stone corridor of the sallyport, which led to a second set of doors that opened onto the interior lawn.

  Terry stepped out onto the parade ground. The stone corridors ringing the lawn with their empty barracks and silent magazine chambers were dark, medieval. He had never been here at night. The nostalgic feeling was gone. They said a guy had gotten walled up in here and died. Supposedly Edgar Allen Poe, a soldier here at the time, had wri
tten a story about it. Terry could almost believe this place had ghosts.

  But he couldn’t believe a homeless guy could get away with sleeping here and not get rousted by the night watchman.

  “I don’t see nobody,” Terry said, turning about, peering at the shadowy alcoves. A guy could hide anywhere, sure, but he wouldn’t get a good night’s sleep.

  His eyes rested on Father Mike, reaching between the half open inner doors to click the padlock shut and quietly pull them closed.

  He looked at Terry, hands in his pockets, dim, wrinkled face pulled down in a tight frown, the breeze stirring his white hair.

  “What gives?” Terry asked.

  Father Mike walked slowly across the grass.

  “It’s me, Terry. I’m the job you’re here to do. I’m the one that killed that Vietnamese kid on Washington, and the two girls behind the church.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t control it anymore, Terry. I’m like an incontinent old fart, but I shit slaughter and bloodshed wherever I go. I did it in Cork and they transferred me to Dublin. After Dublin they sent me back to America. I was in Phoenix for a month before it happened again. So I ran. The Church just keeps moving me.”

  Terry took out his pistol and pointed it at the advancing priest.

  “That’s close enough, Fadder.”

  Father Mike stopped a few feet away. He looked up at the dark sky, at the shrouded moon high overhead.

  “It’s the Dog Heads. The church promised to always take care of them and their descendants. As reward.”

  “Reward for what?”

  “For loyalty. We swore an oath. Well, my ancestors did. They always came when the Church called. The bloodhounds of the Inquisition. They hunted down all the enemies of the Church. The Order of St. Mercurius, Terry.”

  “What’re you talkin’ about?”

  Father Mike shrugged.

  “I was just an orphan, a sailor’s bastard from Southie. But the Church knew what I was. They took me in, taught me ways to control it. Gave me medicine to suppress the symptoms.”

  “What symptoms?”

  “Lycanthropy, Terry. Conriachtna. Werewolves.”

  “Werewolves.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re outta your gourd. Aw, this is a goddamn shame,” Terry spat on the grass. “Just like the goddamn baby rapers. Fuckin’ church takin’ care of their own.”