The Third Hour

by Richard Devin

  He scanned the room, began to take a step in, and then hesitated. A few seconds later, he had a plan. Make it to the phone. Call the police. Of course, he knew damn well that the Italian polizia were notoriously slow, unless, of course, there was a beautiful actress, a socialite, or the Pope on the other end of the line calling for help. He dismissed the plan as quickly as he had come up with it. I’d be long dead before they got here, he reasoned.

  Surveying the room, he noted that nothing looked out of place. His half-eaten dinner of a peanut butter, honey and banana sandwich, now stale, sat on a plate on the scratched end table. A pair of dress shoes—recently purchased—were tossed carelessly in a corner. Magazines—partially read—and newspapers—completely read—lie in assorted stacks. I gotta’ clean this place up. Then he frowned as he considered that to be an odd thought given the circumstances. But true nonetheless, he admitted.

  Convinced that the room was clear of...well, he wasn’t really sure of what. But it was clear, he noted, and stepped into the room.

  Off to one side was the kitchen, to the other side the bedroom and another bathroom. This one was really a bathroom. He decided to go for the kitchen. He was sweating more now, under his arms, in the crevice of his back and on his upper lip. He had gotten his breath under control, and outwardly, was quite composed.

  The light in the kitchen was off. Of course! He shook his head at the thought of his mother, yelling in Italian, “Chiuda la luce.” And his response to her in English,

  “Mom, we do not close lights in America—we turn them off!” The kitchen in his apartment was like most other kitchens in the apartments in this section of Rome—narrow with an old looking and acting stove and a refrigerator that matched the stove’s style and inability to operate. A farm-style sink—complete with a leaking faucet—was attached to the wall. One small window at the far end of the narrow room barely let any light in during the brightest hours of the day. Now, at something after three in the morning, it was almost invisible.

  Dominic took a step closer, peering into the darkness.

  Waiting.

  Watching for something to move.

  Nothing did.

  In the kitchen, there was only darkness upon more darkness. The faint light from old, dust-covered bulbs in the living room did not make a dent into the shadows that engulfed the small kitchen. The switch to the overhead kitchen light was on the wall about halfway into the room. If someone—or something—was in there, it would have him long before he made it to the switch and the comfort of light. He held his breath and strained to hear. He could differentiate between the sounds of the refrigerator motor whirling away, the drip of the faucet, and the wind still gusting outside. Then, there was something else. Something more. There. He heard it again. Some unexpected sound that was mixed in with the other sounds: the fan motor on the refrigerator, the wind seeping in through the cracked window seal, and a drip of water from the faucet falling into the still unwashed coffee cup. There again. The strange wheezing noise crept in as if it were trying to disguise itself among the other sounds, yet didn’t quite fit in. Dominic leaned into the kitchen slightly, cupping one ear with a hand.

  Then, again, but this time more prominent.

  And then the darkness moved.

  Dominic yelled.

  It fell upon him.

  Instinctively—instead of jumping back—Dominic grabbed at the form ready to protect himself against the unknown assailant as best that he could. He steadied himself for whatever was to come and was completely unprepared when the form slowly slid through his hands and down onto the floor.

  An old man lay there, gasping for breath. His black coat and the black shirt underneath were wet. Dominic quickly pulled his hands away from the body and brought them close to his face. The smell of the liquid was metallic and it ran thick through his fingers. Blood. “Imploratio Adiumentum. Ue Bonfjote.” The old man’s lips moved and a gurgling whisper escaped, “Tazor Li.” The old man’s speech was barely audible.

  The words the old man spoke were somehow familiar, yet Dominic could not immediately place them. His heart pounded as adrenaline coursed through him, pulling him in the two instinctual directions of fight or flight.

  The old man’s voice was so weak Dominic had to lean in closer, his ear just touching the old man’s lips. “Ancora. Dirlo ancora,” Dominic begged. And then thinking about it, added in, “Again. Say it again.”

  The old man’s breath grew weaker, short shallow breaths quickening. He reached out with his right hand, grasping weakly at Dominic’s arm. “Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do,” he said with a voice that was momentarily strong. Then his body fell limp, puddling on the floor where he had fallen.

  Dominic ran for the telephone and dialed.

  TWO

  “WHERE IS HE?” TONITA Clifford said as she pushed open the door to Dominic’s apart and hurried past him.

  “He’s in the kitchen.”

  She paused in the hallway. “What? Was it your cooking?

  “Don’t be a smart ass,” Dominic said, leading her to the old man still lying on the floor just at the kitchen doorway. “I think I stopped the bleeding.”

  Tonita put her fingers to the side of the old man’s neck.

  “I don’t think he’s dead?” Dominic said as more of a question than a statement.

  “He’s not. He’s got a pulse. Weak, but still there.”

  Dominic pulled back the old man’s coat and shirt slightly. “It looks like there’s a gash in his chest. I don’t know if there are any other injuries. I was afraid to move him until you got here.

  “Dom? Why didn’t you call the police, or an ambulance, or a doctor?” Tonita felt around the old man’s chest and stomach, sliding her hands as far as she could around the back of his rib cage.

  “I called you.” Dominic stood, moving to the other side of the old man.

  “I know. That’s why I asked. Why me? Why not some authority?”

  Dominic hesitated looking from the limp body of the old man to the expectant gaze of green eyes. Even now, having been shocked awake from a deep sleep, hurriedly dressing, and looking disheveled, Tonita Clifford was striking. “I knew you had medical training and that you’d be able to help him,” Dominic said, his voice only just above a whisper.

  “I was a candy striper! That does not make me a doctor.” Tonita stood, brushing loose strands of hair from her eyes. “We’ve got to get him to the hospital.” She picked up the telephone and began to dial.

  Dominic jumped up grabbing the phone from her. “We can’t.” He felt as though he was near panic and was sure Tonita could read him.

  “Dom?” Tonita paused, looking directly at Dominic, “You didn’t have anything to do with this?” She motioned toward the old man. “I mean...did you?” She did read him.

  He didn’t let her continue. “Are you nuts?”

  “No. Concerned.” She eyed him quizzically.

  “I couldn’t do anything like this.”

  Tonita’s eyes shot down to the telephone still in Dominic’s hand and then back to his eyes.

  Dominic glanced away from her and tightened his grip around the telephone handset.

  “Then why don’t you want me to call a doctor?”

  Dominic sensed the slightest hint of fear in her voice. It was the last thing that he wanted to do. Scare her? Hell, I’m petrified! He couldn’t lose her. He needed her too much. The instant they had met, some ten weeks ago—wait, he hesitated. Ten weeks? Is that all it’s been? It seemed longer.

  “Well?” She interrupted his thoughts, then held out her hand.

  For the longest moment he remained silent as he contemplated a barrage of questions that all demanded answers at once. Did he trust her? Did she trust him? He didn’t really know her. It had only been ten weeks. Their relationship had happened so quickly. He was in the middle of sorting out his own life crises and suddenly there she was. He wanted to believe it was divine intervention. But dismissed that idea
and just went with pure coincidence.

  Did she believe him? Why should she? His thoughts of self-doubt shouted internally. Why should she trust him? He hadn’t given her any reason to. He handed the telephone to her.

  She immediately began to dial.

  She doesn’t trust me. He placed his hand on hers. He was cautious, aware of the touch of his hand to her skin. “Hear me out. Then if you want to, call a doctor or the police, whatever. I won’t care.”

  Tonita cocked her head and looked at him, her fingers still poised to dial. Then, she replaced the telephone to its cradle “First, we take care of him.” She nodded in the direction of the old man. “Then you talk.” She moved back to the injured old man.

  Dominic remained, frozen.

  “You’re going to have to help me,” she said, removing one shoe from the old man’s foot.

  “Thank you for trusting me.” Dominic moved to help her with the old man’s clothing. “I don’t know why he’s here or what happened to him. He was just here.”

  “Dom?” She looked at him pulling the worn shoe from the old man’s other foot “I don’t have time for games. I don’t know if I trust you.” She noticed a sudden grimace on Dominic’s face, then added, “I don’t know what to believe, I don’t know what to think. I only know that this man is not going to live if we don’t help him. So shut up and help me.” She continued to undress the man, pulling off his socks and then his pants.

  Dominic had the old man’s overcoat nearly off when he noticed a glint of light from some shining object on the man’s chest. He continued to remove the coat as carefully as possible, peeling it away from the man’s body. Then he unbuttoned the remaining buttons of the old man’s shirt. “Oh my God!” He pulled the shirt, soaked with blood, back away from the object imbedded into the old man’s chest.

  “What the hell is that?” Tonita wiped some of the blood away with her hand. “Get me some wet cloths—clean ones if you’ve got any?”

  Dominic jumped up, retrieved the dishtowel from the sink and several others from a nearby drawer. He turned on the tap, soaking the towels in the hottest water that his own hands could take.

  “Here,” he said tossing, one to Tonita.

  She caught it without hesitation and brushed it gently over the wound. The fabric of the towel caught on the object and pulled it up partially away from the old man’s chest.

  “Oh shit.” Dominic’s voice rose. “Careful. Careful!”

  “Would you stop?” Tonita shook her head. “As if I’m trying to hurt him.” She pulled the twisted and frayed pieces of cloth slowly away from the object that was now protruding from the wound.

  “What the hell?” Dominic didn’t intend the irony.

  Tonita, raised her eyebrow, then carefully wiped the dried blood away from the object.

  A crucifix.

  “Why would anyone do that?” Dominic asked, not really hoping for her to answer.

  “I should be asking you that.” Tonita pulled up on the crucifix. It slid up easily.

  “Should you be doing that?” Dominic grimaced as he asked.

  “Probably not,” Tonita said as the long, ice pick like stake that had been attached to back side of the crucifix slid completely out of the old man’s chest.

  The old man heaved and choked.

  “Quick. Turn his head to the side, he’s choking,” Tonita spat the words out as she applied pressure to the chest wound.

  The old man choked again, his gag reflex taking over. He vomited. His body convulsed.

  “Hold him still,” she yelled.

  “I’m trying,” Dominic said, leaning into the man.

  The old man’s body convulsed again, his legs kicking widely, his arms flailing, twisting. A gasping sound emanated from his throat. He gagged, arched his neck up off the floor, and gagged again.

  Dominic held the man’s head to the side.

  The old man spat out blood and vomit, then fell silent.

  Dominic stared at the body, then quickly drew back his hands and sucked in a quick breath. The raw stench of blood and vomit mixed together and he could taste it in the air. He gagged. “Is he dead?”

  Tonita held up the small crucifix with the four-inch spike welded in place to the smooth metal on the back of it, looked to the old man and then to Dominic. “Now, can we call the police?”

  THREE

  TREPUZZI, LECCE, ITALY.

  The now seldom used church of Maria Assunta stood crumbling and decaying at the end of Via Assunta in the old village of Trepuzzi. The streets surrounding the small square church were now empty, broken streetlights and falling fencing hinted that the area had been abandoned years ago. The once bustling markets and stores were now silent, boarded up and in ruin.

  Brother Salvatore had parked his car on Via Leonardo Da Vinci, about a kilometer away from the Church of Maria Assunta. He walked down to Via Galileo Galilei and then to Via Assunta, where the streets came together to form the small plaza.

  The plaza was empty. Nearly forgotten. Silent.

  He crossed the square and stopped in front of the rotting structure of the church. The single working street lamp behind the church cast a faint halo-like glow around the building. Brother Salvatore made the sign of the cross and quickly headed to the side of the building.

  Just as the Jesuit had said it would be, the lock to the decomposing side door of the church, hung open on the hook of the lock plate. Brother Salvatore removed the lock, noting with some surprise at the relative newness of it, given that the door and the church itself had not been used in years. He carefully replaced the lock, hanging it on the lock plate and then pushed on the door. Remarkably, the door swung open without a sound, gliding as though the hinges had been oiled often. The interior of the small church was dark, despite the stained glass windows that were placed high up on each of the four walls that should have let in some light from the street lamp. Dust whirled up as the door completed the arc and swung fully open.

  The night air that hung about Trepuzzi was heavy with the salty smell of the nearby Adriatic Sea. It mixed in swirls with the dank, dusty air of the old church caught in momentary glimpses by the faint light. Brother Salvatore hadn’t brought a flashlight. He assumed the lights in the church would be on and working. If there were working lights, they weren’t on and he didn’t know where the switch was to rectify that. He slid his hand over the carved stone surround of the door and then off to the side, where he thought a light switch might be. Nothing.

  “Superior?” Brother Salvatore spoke softly, by way of habit. The years that he had spent in the church were evident in his demeanor and reverence, even for a church that had not seen a mass in decades. “Superior, are you here?” He waited. After a moment with no response Brother Salvatore stepped through the door and into the church, instinctively, his right hand reached out to the carved marble vessel that would have contained Holy Water when the church had been in use. He expected the vessel to be dry, filled only with dust and debris, instead, his fingers dipped into cool water. Startled he pulled his hand away, then, paused momentarily, before continuing with the tradition, of putting a finger of the right hand into the holy water, then raising them to his forehead. “In the name of the Father.” Brother Salvatore lowered his hand to his chest. “And the Son.” Then crossed his hand to his left shoulder. “And the Holy.” Then brought his hand to the right shoulder. “Sprit.” He ended the ritual by brushing his lips with his moist fingers and finished, “Amen.”

  A match burst into flame at the far end of the church. Brother Salvatore’s heartbeat quickened as he watched the flame move, briefly floating on air, before touching down, and bringing life to a single candle.

  “You may not proceed farther,” The Superior’s deep baritone voice echoed in the emptiness of the church.

  “I will stand where I am.”

  “The task is complete?”

  “Superior,” Brother Salvatore said. “It is not.”

  Brother Salvatore heard a long breath bein
g sucked in, followed by several long minutes of silence. He twice considered speaking out, asking if The Superior was all right, saying something, just to speak, but caught himself in time and remained silent.

  A movement passed quickly in front of the candle, hiding the flame briefly.

  The Superior finally spoke. “What has become of the Key?”

  “I’m afraid, Your Eminence, that it has been lost.”

  “Where?”

  Brother Salvatore felt the air around him move. He glanced around the darkness unable to pierce it. He began to sweat, wondering. Worried.

  Aside from the small circle of light surrounding the candle, the blackness filling the church grew darker. Had The Superior moved? Was The Superior close? Brother Salvatore quickly dismissed the thought as pure imagination and answered, “On the streets of Rome, Your Eminence.”

  “You will find it.”

  “We have tried, but it is gone...lost...Your Eminence, among the old streets and alleys.” Brother Salvatore’s voice trembled slightly and he fought to keep his composure.

  “For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.” The Superior’s hand grabbed Brother Salvatore’s arm.

  Brother Salvatore jumped back hitting the wall hard. He hit something hanging from the wall and it fell to the floor. “Your Eminence, I do not know where the Key has gone,” he said, all control of his voice lost.

  The Superior’s face moved from the darkness in close, nearly touching Brother Salvatore’s.

  Brother Salvatore tried to focus his eyes and make out the features of The Superior’s face.

  “You will find the Key or you will suffer.” The Superior tightened his grip around the Brother’s arm. “This is what the Sovereign Lord says: My anger and my wrath will be poured out on this place, on man and beast, on the trees of the field and on the fruit of the ground, and it will burn and not be quenched.”