Modern Rituals

by J. S. Leonard

  He held the letter in his hands, staring, reminiscing, wondering, intrigued by the act of fate set to return him from whence he came. The orphanage stood as a paragon of good, a holy place the sole purpose of which had been to divert Tomas from a path of evil. Though it had failed, the impression remained. The note gripped his attention until his eyes glossed over.

  Departure time.

  Tomas went about his preparations: he favored a silenced FN Five-seveN pistol—its concealable size was handy and its unconventional caliber packed a flesh-rending wallop. This he placed into a snug sidearm holster. He burned the assignment note—an obvious precautionary measure to remove any link between himself and the hit, but it also served as a ritual that readied his mind for the services to come. Before the last ember flitted into the air atop a strand of smoke, he stored a set of public records from a quick Internet search in his smartphone and dashed out into the night.

  He arrived at an unmarked garage a mile from his home and pressed a remote key in his pocket. A garage door rumbled in the empty alley. Inside, a car—black like death—crouched in the shadows. He opened its door and sunk into the driver’s seat, running his hands over the Aston Martin’s fine leather steering wheel, then threw the transmission into first gear whilst revving the engine. He relished the delectable moment.

  Smoke choked the garage as he tore the throttle, popped the clutch and let the tires burn into the foggy eve. A hundred kilometers stretched between him and his childhood home, and he intended to use the distance to steady himself—to consider contingencies.

  Fortune birthed each kill with a litter of possibilities: some good, most terrible. Tomas breathed easy. He knew every nook and cranny in which to find cover and launch an attack. Yet, he scratched the back of his neck, as he often did when confronted with dread. His intuition screamed that the night withheld dirty secrets. He pushed the anxiety aside.

  Manuel Velasquez.

  The victim’s name coalesced in his thoughts. It nagged him from the recesses of his memory—a hidden ghost taunted. This vapid apparition would no doubt reveal itself by the evening’s end.

  His Rolex flashed a quarter past midnight as the GPS warned of naught more than twenty kilometers to his destination—he'd arrived sooner than he liked. Ahead in the black folds of the road, his headlights severed the darkness and highway reflectors whipped past, hypnotizing Tomas and deepening his resolve—his purpose: to kill without question. Malvado grinned.

  Arrival.

  A rusty, dilapidated gate lay open at the base of the long road leading to the orphanage, just as Tomas remembered. A quaint sign read Orfanato de Ramirez beside the gate. There little Tomas had played, and when he grew older, vandalized—he’d loved the sign’s tiny “t,” which had found its way under his mattress more than once. Now he spat at it and cut the headlights.

  He pulled his car around the gate and parked in a well-hidden wooded area next to a path that led into the orphanage’s rear grounds. The moonlight favored him: bright enough to light his way but dim enough to obscure. Leaves crunched beneath his feet, and he paused and listened to be sure his approach remained unannounced.

  The orphanage resembled a small Victorian mansion and had been owned by a member of the royal family. It sprawled three acres enclosed by wooded play areas and trimmed hedges. His memory replayed a picturesque scene of children frolicking in the daylight—little Tomas among them. He shook his head and pressed on.

  The rear courtyard contained two entrances into the orphanage: a back door, perfectly visible and charming, enclosed by a large porch overlooking the grounds, and another hidden entrance in an abandoned gamekeeper house some distance away. Running beneath the ramshackle abode, an underground emergency tunnel pierced the orphanage’s basement.

  Tomas circled the courtyard’s perimeter, keeping to the shadows until he arrived at the shack. He threw open a splintered door and entered. A latch, locked by a hunk of metal bearing a crusted dial, prevented him from entering the tunnel hatch in the floorboards. To this lock he placed his ear, alternating the dial three turns until it clicked and disengaged. Dust swished as he gently laid the hatch onto the ground.

  A hole three feet in diameter descended before him, inset with a few unsound stairs that cracked with each footstep. Earth enclosed the tunnel, which was lined with hundreds of canister lamps on thick, wiry filaments. Tomas fumbled for a switch at the base of the stairs and dirtied his finger before connecting with it. It clicked. The lights nearest Tomas lit and flickered and, like a contagion, spread in succession down the tunnel.

  He bent to avoid scraping his head against the ceiling, tweaking his gait into an awkward, bouncy crawl. He paused halfway down the tunnel when a sound cocked his ears, then he continued, arriving at a door much like the one through which he’d entered. He nudged it—resistance confirmed that it was locked from the opposite side.

  Even for some adept intruders, this might portend an insurmountable task, but Tomas smirked. He retrieved a hair-thin metal wire from his pocket, slid it through the gap in the door’s frame and wrapped it around the U-shaped hook of the lock’s base, then attached the wire’s ends to a remote key fob. He pressed a button and watched as the wire transformed from an invisible strand into a string of orange fire—Tomas kept it free of the door’s frame as it melted the lock’s stem. He released the button and waited for it to cool, then moved it higher and looped it under the freshly cut stem to lift it from the latch.

  Done. He hesitated.

  His fox ears twitched.

  Silence.

  He nudged open the door and slid in.

  Inside, a monstrous furnace welcomed him. An amber glow emanated from its jack-o’-lantern grill where it sat amongst pipes, washing machines and dryers. The basement evoked vivid memories—it had been a long time since he’d hidden in its dark corners. Some nights little Tomas had slept here, either to affirm his freedom or just to cause trouble. Now he sought neither.

  Tomas examined his phone: the public records confirmed the house’s layout identical to his recollection. The front foyer connected to dual grand staircases and the great hall, and from the entrance, a northern and southern auxiliary hallway ran to the kitchen, several living rooms, three guest bedrooms, servants’ quarters, nursery, infirmary, library, and the basement, where Tomas stood now.

  His Rolex read 1:43 a.m. as he headed up the stairs. Though the house’s occupants most likely slept, he kept an eye on the stairways for mischievous kitchen thieves—little Tomases—as he passed through. He traversed the northern hallway, keeping to the rugs whenever possible to dampen his footsteps, aiming for his hit point: the library in the estate’s southwest wing.

  He peeked around the corner at the end of the hall, finding an empty nursery, the servants’ quarters and the southern hallway. Over the southwest entrance’s archway hung a convincing reproduction of Diego Velázquez’s Old Woman Frying Eggs, which depicted an old woman preparing a meal for a young man—a reminder of the hospitality provided in the orphanage. Tomas drew his gun.

  A pair of ornate, wooden doors—now closed—led to the library. He placed his ear to one and heard nothing. He turned the handle slowly, deliberately, until a click signaled release. He peered through a tiny crack—tall shelves, packed tight with books, lined the walls and encircled a lit fireplace. The room, with its tall wainscoting, recessed ceiling and ostentatious moulding, exuded Victorian elegance.

  Its quiet vacancy unnerved Tomas.

  1:47 a.m.—roughly thirteen minutes until he needed to be in position.

  He stepped inside, causing no more noise than a pin drop. Two lavish armchairs, upholstered in emerald green velvet and built of rich, brown oak, faced each other across the room. Beside them sat a wide coffee table, upon which a child, bound by rope, lay unconscious.

  Tomas froze.

  “Hello Tomas,” said a stranger, who stepped from a shadowed corner of the room.

  Tomas raised his gun, sight set on the stranger’s forehead.


  “There’s no need for that. My name is Manuel. You were sent here to kill me.”

  Thoughts stormed in Tomas’ mind, quelled by a single question: “Did you hire me?”

  “I did indeed,” the man said. “You see, I’ve been watching your work with great interest for many years.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am a man before whom your bosses tremble. And I am here to make you an offer.”

  “What kind of offer?”

  “Oh, Tomas—such a thorn in my side you’ve been!” Manuel said, grabbing a tuft of his peppered, curly hair. “Such a thorn!”

  He clicked his tongue and smoothed the front of his grey suit, then straightened a red pocket square on his left breast. Tomas measured his every move.

  “It is my intention to convince you to work for me. What’s the saying? ‘If you can’t beat them, join them?’ I believe that’s it, yes. Well, you’ve beaten me and countless men under my guard. It cost me a great deal of time and energy to discover your identity, but here we are, together in the same room,” Manuel said, smiling with white, abalone teeth.

  The fireplace cracked and flickered, producing a glaring, orange light that reflected in Manuel’s glasses, shading the rest of his face like an underexposed photo. Tomas found it difficult to judge his facial expressions, relying on Manuel’s inflection and body language for signs of danger.

  “I work for the Sinaloa alone. Who’s the child?”

  “Ah, but that’s just it Tomas. You choose to work for such a,” he paused. “…paltry cartel. Those are not men—they are animals. You, however, have an integrity I find most appealing. I am here to help you sever those ties, and I’ve brought an incentive along—just in case, of course.”

  Tomas looked again—the child’s visage sparked no memory.

  “All in due time, my friend. All in due time. First, I would like to tell you a story. Where to begin… Ah, yes.” He considered the child. “Perhaps ten years ago, a man met a woman. This woman was beautiful beyond compare, with a heart of gold—a rare combination. But the man—oh, the man—he had an ice-cold heart. One evening, however, she was able to soften the man’s cool demeanor and they made love. The next day he left, leaving her with his seed well planted. The child came into the world without a father, and has never had a father since. I am, of course, summarizing. How do you like the story so far?” The man’s eyebrows arched high on his brow and he dug his right ring finger into his thumb.

  “I’ll take silence as assurance I have your rapt attention! This woman’s name was Lolita,” Manuel said.

  Tomas faltered as he stepped back.

  “Oh? Does that name ring a bell?” Manuel said. “Good—maybe the gravity of the situation is setting in. Anyway, she raised the child—a boy named Hector—with tremendous love.”

  Tomas unscrewed the silencer from his pistol and pointed the gun at the window.

  “I’m not sure what game you are playing, but this all ends if I fire and wake everyone.”

  Manuel barked a loud, elated laugh. “Tomas, you’re beginning to make me doubt my faith in you. This house is empty. I made sure every last soul was gone. Let’s just say I felt it was a fitting location.”

  Blood rushed from Tomas’ face, replaced with what felt like chilled saline. How? Why didn’t I listen to my intuición—to my gut?

  Manuel continued, “Where was I? Ah yes, as fortune has it, this brings us to present day. You see, as soon as I discovered this secret, I had her and the boy captured. Can you guess why?”

  “No.” Tomas knew why.

  “Surely you can put all these bits and pieces together. This boy is your child, Tomas. And I must say, he’s a rather striking young gentleman.”

  “You have no proof.”

  “No? Oh, who am I kidding—you’ll never take my word for it,” Manuel said. “Let’s just bring her in and ask her ourselves.”

  Manuel snapped his fingers and a ruckus erupted from outside the doors. A woman fell into the room followed by two men dressed in black. She writhed on the ground, dazed and whimpering, her face bruised, her wet eyes red and dull.

  Lolita’s gaze fell upon Tomas. Her apathetic expression contorted into one of wild fury and she cried aloud, “No, no, no…anyone but him.”

  “Hello, Lolita,” Manuel said, going to her. “I hope my men haven’t been too rough with you.”

  He stroked her hair, then knelt down and gripped her chin, pressing his thumbs deep into her cheeks.

  “My, you are beautiful, aren’t you? Now please tell us: is this the father of your child?”

  She wrenched her jaw from Manuel’s hand, snapping at his fingers as he attempted to regain his grip.

  “Oh, a feisty one! This makes it fun.”

  Manuel raised a hand, bringing it down upon her in a backhand with ferocious force. A string of blood followed the arc of his hand as it left her face, knocking her unconscious.

  Manuel pursed his lips and clicked his tongue.

  “Pity. I tried to hold back. Oh well—you wouldn’t have taken her word anyway. I obtained a blood sample from you, which I ran against the boy’s DNA. A paternal match. Is this enough proof for you?”

  The bullet wrung a clean channel between Manuel’s two cerebral hemispheres. His pupils dilated as they goggled into unfocused angles. The glaze of death swelled over his eyes, not without a touch of fear. Tomas loved watching men die. He placed two more bullets into the armed guards before they reached for their weapons.

  He waited, listening for others. None came.

  Lolita stirred, slowly regaining consciousness. Tomas stood over her, looking down.

  Her eyes slid open, focused on the floor. Then she looked up, granting Tomas a sweet smile.

  His bullet seared through her skull.

  He closed his eyes and stole a doleful breath. His nerves settled and he walked toward the bound child on the table.

  He looked down on the child’s face, seeing his own reflection, though innocent and pure. The boy was asleep.

  Better this way.

  Tomas placed the tip of his FN on the boy’s forehead and tugged the trigger.

  Silent, black night filled his vision.

  2

  Tomas and Anthony followed the group up the stairs.

  “So, Tomas, where are you from? What do you do for a living?” Anthony said.

  “Here and there. Plumbing.”

  “A plumber? I would have pegged you for something else—just a gut feeling. That’s a compliment, mind you.”

  Tomas nodded.

  3

  James walked first in line to the door leading into the underground altar room. He leaned against it, breath held as he inched it open. He strained his gaze through the crack—no zombie girl. He pushed it wide.

  The creature had left the classroom in utter disarray. Once-tidy desks lay trampled and flung about. Lights swayed clumsily, half disconnected from the ceiling, some on, some off. Chunks of splintered wood littered the floor, and the chalkboard lay on the ground. Dim moonlight shone through the room’s large windows, providing hints as to where they could safely move.

  James stepped on the remains of a bookshelf and caught himself as it snapped under his feet.

  “Damn,” James said.

  “Damn is right,” Olivia said as she emerged from the passage.

  James and Olivia scouted the room before signaling the all clear. The six of them collected near the classroom’s exit.

  “Tomas and I will take the skybridge to the gym. We’ll meet you here. Good luck,” Anthony said.

  James patted Anthony on the back as he and Tomas departed the room. They all watched as the two walked to the end of the hallway and exited the double doors to the bridge.

  “Everyone ready?” James said.

  Colette, Keto and Olivia all nodded.

  “Let’s keep low and quiet.”

  Olivia took off her heeled loafers. Colette followed suit. James and Keto kept their rubber-soled
penny loafers.

  The group made their way to the stairs opposite the skybridge doors. The darkness overwhelmed them, making for difficult navigation—each kept a hand on the lockers as they moved. They continued to the stairs, stepped down them in darkness and arrived at the doors leading outside.

  Olivia opened the left-hand door, looked around, then waved to the others to gather outside. They huddled in the entrance alcove.

  James stepped on Colette’s foot and apologized. She whimpered at this and fell toward James, reached out to catch herself but instead grabbed Keto’s chest. She cleared her throat and made a slight peep.

  “Oh dear! Sorry, it’s really dark out here,” she said in a whisper.

  “The garden is just over there, across the path that runs through the center of the school,” James said. “Stay close to each other and keep an eye out for the girl. If you see her, run as fast as you can back to the altar room.”

  “Um…James,” Colette said. “I can barely see anything. Do you think we should hold hands? You know—so we don’t separate?”

  Speechless, James’ jaw hung limp.

  What is this? Junior high?

  Any other day James would have welcomed the flirting—Colette was an attractive woman—but dammit if he wasn’t wholly focused on surviving the night. “Uh, sure,” he said.

  When their hands met, he felt submerged in the warmth of her skin. A waterfall of changes coursed over him: his head swam, his stomach knotted, a rush of blood surged to his groin, his toes curled and he bit into his lower lip. His muscles ached as he struggled to calm himself.

  He shook his head—while he loved women, this level of attraction caught him off-guard. An awkward silence followed as Olivia and Keto soundlessly considered the same hand-holding arrangement.

  “Why not? It is rather dark,” Olivia said, taking Keto by the hand. He didn’t object.

  Fear, adrenaline and undesired, wanton passion fueled James’ furious pace as he led the quartet. Shadows played tricks on his eyes—movements danced in the distance—no, all over—everywhere. He tightened his grip on Colette, struggling to push paranoia from his mind. The shadows dissipated—they arrived at the garden unharmed.