The Judas Line

by Mark Everett Stone

  I grunted. “Toadflax and Wintergreen, Burke, worked into a paste and smeared on my chest.”

  Burked cursed and spat. Knowing that further conversation was probably futile, I released his bad arm to run the molecular knife across his throat … twice. Arterial spray spewed across my face and clothes, coating me with warm, coppery saltiness.

  Wasting no time, I reached under the couch for one of the many hold-out weapons. The cool feeling of the Kimber.45 ACP I’d stashed there met my fingers and I drew it out, ready in case Burke had backup. From the direction of my cousin I heard a gurgle and rapidly weakening thrashing sounds, but I ignored them. Blind and throat-cut, he no longer posed a threat.

  No one burst through a window or door, no magic spells, no hail of bullets. Everything was … quiet. Slowly I let my breath out, lowering the ACP. When a cell suddenly rang, startling me, I nearly shot myself in the damn foot.

  The tinny ringtone came from the front pocket of Burke’s shiny pants. I fished inside and pulled out a sleek Windows phone. The tune was Murder by Numbers by the Police. It seems Burke had a macabre sense of humor. I was glad I’d killed him.

  “Yeah,” I answered in what I hoped was a good imitation of my cousin’s deep, gruff voice.

  “Is he dead yet, my dear boy?”

  Oh lord. My stomach bounced off the low-rent worn beige shag carpet about seventeen times while my heart froze in my chest. It was Him. The Voice.

  “I asked you if he was dead yet, Burke,” the Voice intoned with a hint of exasperation. Deep, cultured, smooth and slick as motor oil-a sound that inspired trust, veneration and love. The second you start to really listen, fall under its spell, you’re done. Put out the cat and call in the dog, it’s over.

  A faked cough bought me a few seconds as I considered my next play. “On the floor, unconscious,” I said roughly.

  The Voice became wintry. “Why haven’t you killed him?”

  “Need to find out where he hid the Silver.”

  “Good to see you aren’t a waste of space, Burke. Wake him up and put him on, he’ll talk to me.”

  Oh well, it had been worth a shot. “The part of Burke will now be played by a much more handsome and virile man.” A note of sarcastic amusement wended its way through my voice, guaranteed to anger.

  “Olivier.” Low, solemn and loaded with spite, he turned my name into a curse. Yeah, he was angry all right.

  “What’s the matter, Voice, you sound unhappy. Were you really counting on Burke to take me out? Has it been so long that you forgot who you’re dealing with?”

  The Voice regained its smooth, cloying composure and his words came out sweet, mellifluous and warm, but with a foul, hateful undercurrent. Like honey-coated shit. “My dear boy, you had the potential to be the best killer alive, pure swift murder, but fifteen years is a long time to be out of the game and you never really had the heart for the hard work. Burke has had his nose deep in it since you left. We both thought, once you were found, you would come out worse for the experience.”

  “The more fool you.”

  “Careful boy.” The Voice was now filled with such wrath that it literally blistered the skin of my ear. I threw the cell across the room just before it exploded into a million burning fragments, one of which cut a shallow groove across my neck as it whizzed by.

  “Damn it!” I swore, clapping a hand to the cut. My fingers came away sticky. The Voice’s pride kept him from being anything like a good sport and I had poked the old bear hard with a sharp stick.

  Burke could lie like a politician and the Voice practically invented it, so it was conceivable that backup could be moments away. Snarling, I voiced a Word that hung the smell of peanuts in the air. I had ten minutes, more or less, to make preparations because my cover was blown big time and Hell was coming for me.

  Tacky, covered in rust-red drying blood, looking like a tourist in Baghdad, I’d stand out wherever I went. My mind started working in overdrive as old habits, old reflexes started to come back online. The familiar rush I’d get when on a job, the adrenaline high, fizzled through my flesh like the hit of a really good designer drug. God in Heaven, I’d missed that feeling. For just a split second, barely the tick of a clock, I felt the seductive tug of temptation.

  No. None of that. I’d done enough harm in my life, maybe more than I could make up for. Maybe enough to stain my soul black for all eternity, but I’d been given a second chance and I realized that I’d been pissing that chance away for fifteen years, hiding like a child afraid of the boogeyman.

  Perhaps Burke’s arrival had been fortuitous, kick-starting me out of my comfort zone, planting a metaphorical boot to my lazy backside.

  Running into the kitchen, I opened the cupboard under the sink and carefully removed a large cardboard cylinder, the kind used for dishwashing tabs. I removed the plastic lid, revealing little blue and white plastic soap packets, a blind in case someone looked. Removing the concealed tray, I pulled out the tabs to reveal the compartment within. Ten inches deep, eight in diameter, just large enough to hold a plastic one-quart fishbowl, the cheap kind you see holding the feeder goldfish at the pet store. The bowl was filled with water and floating in the center-held there by a silver chain glued to a clear plastic lid-was a blackened leather pouch the size of a large egg.

  Lifting the bowl, I noticed about an inch of heavy black liquid resting on the bottom, moving turgidly. As I watched, a drop of black liquid oozed from the leather bag and hung suspended for a moment before descending to mix with the sluggishly swirling fluid.

  Squinting, I calculated it would be another twelve hours before the holy water in the bowl would become denatured enough for what lay in the bag to be detected by the Voice.

  Time to go.

  A quick wash, a change of clothes, two handguns (the Kimber.45 ACP and a Beretta PX4 Storm), a six-inch hunting knife and one twenty-six-inch collapsible solid-steel baton later, I was good to go. Over my shoulder I carried a large duffel with fifty grand in hundreds, the fish bowl (wrapped carefully and sealed tight), and five disposable cell phones.

  On a side table next to an old red corduroy recliner sat a fat yellow candle with three wicks. They had never been lit and shone a dull waxy white. After moving the candle to the living room floor, I rolled cypress leaves in my palms-the crushing released a bold, earthy scent-and scattered them all about. Next I lightly dusted the wicks with powdered sulphur and lit them using an antique Zippo with a cross etched on its metal. As the wicks caught and sputtered, I said a phrase in a language that sounded like the pop of pitch in a flame and had the tang of hot metal.

  Nothing.

  I repeated the words, throat spasming, and was rewarded with an answering hiss. The flames dancing on the three wicks bent toward the center, elongating and meeting some three inches above the candle’s center. More hissing and popping greeted my ears.

  In the language of Fire, I gave instructions to the tiny fire elemental and it replied with crackling laughter.

  Gravely I bowed to the sprite and it jigged in pleasure. I took one last look at the place I had called home for so long-a comfortable, nondescript haven that had suited me down to my toes. I really thought I had more time.

  “Magus,” the sprite cackled. “What do you want me to do with the bodies?”

  I had to smile at its simple, honest greed. “Burn them down. Down to dust,” I answered gravely and walked away.

  Chapter Three

  Mike

  What to do, what to do? I mused, staring at the manila envelope Jude had given me, my butt cheeks cold against the wooden pew. Christ stared with great sadness and pain from the large cross behind the altar, offering comfort, but not enough to sooth my turbulent thoughts.

  Part of me wanted to read what was inside, but the other part was afraid of what I might learn about my friend. Jude was the most mysterious man I knew, and it seemed best to keep it that way.

  After I’d returned from Germany, my time in the Army all said and done, the Call t
o the Church had pulled me into the Seminary and presto, change-o, a priest I became. Much to the dismay of my parents, who were lapsed Catholics to the point of being Protestant.

  Then, fifteen years ago, on a clear summer’s noon, after I-a young priest-had finished my second service ever, I had met a young man in black and tan, standing on the steps staring at the church with something like superstitious dread.

  People in their Sunday best had avoided him as if by instinct, streaming around him as if he were a large, jagged rock. After I waved goodbye to my flock, I closed the door and approached the nervous young man.

  He watched me warily, as if I carried a weapon under my robes and was prepared to attack. Up close I noted how young he looked-twenty or twenty-one-with long curly hair that fell to his shoulders, so black it seemed to drink the light. Olive skin, perhaps of Mediterranean descent, maybe Greek, with a short hawk nose and delicate features, almost feminine. His eyes were fawn-brown and he had the longest lashes I’d ever seen on a man. Black biker boots. The slacks and tan polo shirt were incongruous-a punk rocker trying to look respectable.

  I pasted on my most sincere smile and held out a hand, which he eyed dubiously. “Hello, young man. Welcome to St. Stephen the Martyr Catholic Church, I’m Michael and you are …?”

  He took the bait. “Jude. Jude Oliver.” Hard calluses met mine. By the feel he was no stranger to hand-to-hand; his grip had some serious spice to it. “Who was St. Stephen and why is he a martyr?”

  Taken aback, I blinked a couple of times before answering. “Ah, St. Stephen was a follower of Jesus, a prophet and miracle worker who was stoned to death after being tried for blasphemy against Moses and God.”

  “He blasphemed? Then why is he a saint?” Jude’s intense stare was definitely disconcerting.

  “It’s believed that the charges against him were false, brought by the jealous and venal. Even though he knew he would die if judged harshly, he kept his faith and begged God not to punish his enemies for killing him.”

  Those powerful dark eyes moved past me to the church. “That is an unusual steeple,” he noted quietly.

  Okay, the attention span of a hummingbird. Got it. “Yeah, kind of weird new age. Not quite the traditional gothic, but I like it.” The steeple was a hollow square tube that ended in a chisel-shaped skylight, a definite part from the norm.

  “Does God love everyone?”

  All right then; conversational whiplash was the order of the day. “Yes, my son, God loves everyone.” Something about the way he spoke bothered me … his accent was flat, almost atonal, as if he’d learned English as a second language at an expensive European prep school. I’d met a few rich German and Swedish kids who sounded like that.

  Those eyes once again fixed themselves on mine. “I am not your ‘son,’ you know.”

  “Figure of speech. It’s a priest thing.” Who was this kid?

  “Even the evil ones, sir? He loves the evil?”

  I stroked my moustache. “I’m not sure there are any truly evil people-”

  “There are.”

  “What?”

  Those eyes became even more forceful. “There are. Trust me.”

  Hmm. Maybe a bit daft. “Even them, Jude. Think of all people as God’s children. You love your children, even the bad ones, you want them to wise up and come to their senses, rejoin the fold, so to speak.”

  Jude pursed his lips in distaste, as if he’d bitten something sour. “Not sure I can understand that, accepting the irredeemable, inviting them back into … the fold.”

  I took a step forward and his body tensed, as if preparing for flight or fight. My years in the Army had made me tough and I worked out regularly, a regimen that kept me hard, but somehow I knew this kid could kick my butt up one side and down the other if he chose. “Young man, no one is irredeemable.”

  For the first time something besides wariness flitted across his face. It looked like hope. “Can that be true?” he whispered.

  “Of course, Jude. God does love us all.”

  “What about the Anti-Christ?” he asked suddenly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Anti-Christ, does God love him?”

  Wow. I sure didn’t see that one coming. “You go straight for the jugular, dontcha, kid?”

  That earned a small twitch of the lips. So a sense of humor was hidden down there. Deep. “Well?”

  Where was a rewind button when you needed one? I scrubbed my face with my palms and gave my answer some serious thought. “You know, the Anti-Christ is Satan’s expression on this world, the portal he uses to work his will. A finger puppet, so to speak. Satan is a fallen angel, created by God, and if God loves all his creations, which he does, then logic follows that he must love Satan, perhaps like a wayward son, and thus, by extension, the Anti-Christ.”

  “The Anti-Christ is a puppet?”

  “According to scripture, he will be killed and his death allows Satan to enter him, to use his body like you would a pair of shoes.”

  Jude squinched his eyes almost shut as he considered my words. “I never heard that,” he said slowly, carefully.

  “Revelations.”

  “What?”

  “The Book of Revelations.”

  “Where is this book?”

  Now I was starting to get a little freaked out. “It’s in the Bible. You’ve heard of the Bible, yes?”

  A nod.

  “Well, there you go, then.”

  Once more that squinchy look. “Where can I buy one of these Bibles? Is there a special store?”

  Was he kidding me? Briefly I wondered if he had been living in a Buddhist monastery since birth. Holding up a hand, I said, “I’ll be back.” In my best Schwarzenegger voice. He just stared with a blank expression. “Never mind, classical reference. Wait here.”

  It took moments for me to snag a copy for the young man. He needed the Book more than anyone else I’d ever met.

  Fortunately he still stood on the steps, staring at our squarish steeple. “Here you go,” I said, handing him a black, leather-bound Bible. “It might be a difficult read, but it will answer many of your questions and raise some more.”

  He accepted the book, albeit with some hesitance, and flipped through the pages. “Thank you, sir.”

  My reply was automatic. “Please, call me Mike, everyone does.”

  That brought a genuine smile and transformed his face into something extraordinary. It was if no one had ever extended him a simple courtesy before. “Well, one last question, if I may?”

  “Of course. Go ahead.”

  “How can God love someone who was born evil?”

  Obviously the kid had some major issues, but I felt that if I tried to dig, to stick my big nose in, he’d shut up tighter than a clam. Instead, I gave him the best answer I had, one supplied by John Steinbeck in East of Eden. “Thou mayest.”

  He staggered, gripping the iron railing for support.

  “You okay, Jude?” I asked, alarmed.

  Through clenched teeth he hissed, “Where did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “ ‘Thou mayest.’ ”

  “A book called East of Eden, written by a man named Steinbeck. It’s a retelling of Cain and Abel-“

  “Who?”

  “For goodness sakes, Jude, where have you been hiding?”

  “Geneva.”

  “Really?” That would explain the prep school accent.

  “Really.”

  I raised my hands in mock surrender. “Okay, I won’t ask. Safe to say that John Steinbeck posited in his novel that when God spoke to Cain after he had slain his brother ‘thou mayest chose between good and evil,’ thereby conferring free will upon mankind. Now realize, this is what I remember from reading the book ten years ago and watching the mini-series.”

  “What’s a mini-series?”

  “Oh, Jude, you really have to go and read the Bible. Buy East of Eden and rent the mini-series. Take a couple of weekends to absorb them,
then come back and we’ll discuss.”

  “Really? You’d want to discuss literature with me?” he inquired in a slightly hopeful voice.

  My heart went out to the lad because anyone with eyeballs could tell he was lonely. Possibly the loneliest man I’d ever met. I gestured to my robes. “And religion, always have to talk about religion as well. Part of the job.”

  He threw me a downward kind of smile and held out his hand, which I shook. “Ok, Mr.-”

  “Engel, but call me Mike, please.”

  Once again he reeled. “That’s … that’s Danish … for … for-”

  “Angel, yes. Trust me, I see the irony,” I laughed, keeping it light, not wanting to do anything to scare the young man. God must have led this poor soul to me, and I felt it was my job, my calling, to render him whatever aid I could.

  We made our farewells and I watched the strange boy walk away, thoughtfully turning the Bible over and over in his hands, a lost sheep in desperate need of a vigilant shepherd.

  A thunderous slam! brought me back to the present with a start, nearly launching me out of the pew.

  “Mike, there you are!” Jude cried, running down the aisle, dark eyes wide. “Tried your place first. I need your help.”

  Whatever words were about to pass my lips took a U-turn back down my throat as I drank in his appearance: hair matted and disheveled, slacks torn, a deep cut on his neck bleeding freely. “Lord, Jude … what happened?”

  “Can’t really talk about it now, Mike …”

  I crossed my arms over my chest and glowered. “Make time,” I rumbled threateningly. “You come into the house of the Lord reeking of blood and looking like that? You better start making time right now.”

  He could tell I wouldn’t be moved on the matter and carefully laid a grimy brown backpack on the carpet. “My Family found me-at least one of them-and now they all know where I am.”

  “And the blood on your hands?” I pointed to the smeared rust-red stains, evidence of a poor attempt at cleaning up.

  “Belonged to my cousin Burke. He doesn’t need it anymore.”