Crucified

by Michael Slade

  A blind eye has always been the Devil's best weapon.

  The Evil One fell out of fashion with the Enlightenment.

  The possessed were no longer possessed. They were now mentally ill. That was the explanation given in 1972, when a man leapt from the crowd viewing Michelangelo's Pieta in St. Peter's Basilica and—while shouting, "I'm Jesus Christ!"—took a hammer to the statue, smashing the Virgin Mary's face and one arm.

  For two hundred years, exorcism languished in the shade, away from the light of God.

  But no longer!

  At Via degli Aldobrandeschi 190, on the outskirts of Rome, you'll find a new Vatican-affiliated university run by the Legionaries of Christ: the Athenaeum Pontificium Regina Apostolorum. In 2005, during the trial of the Beasts of Satan, a hundred clean-cut, fresh-faced priests in black cassocks filed through the iron gates and made their way to the lecture hall for the inaugural session of a course unlike any other. Over the next two months, they were taught how to determine satanic possession and drive out demons. Since then, the campus has turned out several hundred exorcists to confront the rising obsession with witchcraft and the occult.

  The Evil One, however, had bigger fish to fry. He wasn't after the Harry Potterites and Da Vinci conspirators. He was after God, Jesus, the popes, and the one true Church. To that end, he now had complete possession of the Legionary, and he was tracking the Judas relics that could pull the Bible down.

  Only one obstacle stood in his way.

  The Secret Cardinal.

  The exorcist summoned by the last vestige of goodness in the damned priest.

  Knock, knock ...

  The Legionary knocked on heaven's door.

  + + +

  Numerous candles flickered inside the hollow cross, for the church was a cruciform. Wind howled around its central stone tower, which had been designed as refuge from Viking raids.

  Rain hammered the window at the end of the chancel reserved for the main altar. The alignment dated from the days of pagan worship, when the altar had to be lit by the morning sun. Forsaken now by the light of God, the window was black. The Doom was painted above the chancel arch, so the perils of the Last Judgment confronted the worshippers in their pews. Glow from the candles picked out details. In the upper center, Christ raised his hands in judgment. To the left, St. Peter held the keys to the gates of heaven, while angels welcomed the saved to eternal happiness with God. The mouth of hell yawned to the right, with the damned whipped in by demons to endless torture and pain.

  Except for the Secret Cardinal, the church was empty.

  The exorcist was governed by the Roman Ritual. One rule held that the rite should be performed in a church. Another called for images of the crucifixion and the Virgin Mary, Satan's sacred nemesis, to be displayed. Life-size statues of both flanked the altar. The exorcist wore the proper vestments: a black cassock and a white surplice, with a purple stole.

  Around his neck hung a silver cross on a chain, signifying the defeat of Satan, the architect of original sin, through the crucifixion of Christ at Jerusalem.

  The Secret Cardinal looked commanding with his salt-and-pepper hair.

  As the wind whined, the rain rattled, and the storm grew ugly, the exorcist opened the case he'd stored at his feet on the plane. One by one, he withdrew his tools for the rite. A silver crucifix, big enough to hold by hand. A silver aspergillum, to sprinkle holy water from Lourdes. A small canister of holy oil.

  And a thin red book of prayers approved for exorcism. Had he had the Judas relics in hand, there could have been no better test of their divine power.

  Knock, knock ...

  The Devil was at the door.

  Clutching the bigger crucifix in his right hand, the Secret Cardinal crossed himself three times.

  On the forehead.

  On the lips.

  On the left side of his chest.

  The exorcist strode to the door and yanked it open.

  Unprepared for what he faced, he gasped from shock. His beautiful boy had transformed into a monster. His hair plastered to his forehead by the pouring rain, his sunken eyes encircled by dark rings, this demon on the doorstep was hell incarnate. As the exorcist froze on the threshold, the shell of the Legionary vomited forth a guttural wail from his gangrenous soul.

  "Dio onnipotente!"

  God almighty!

  "Immondissime spiritus," the exorcist said, "in nomine dei patris, etfilii, et spiritus Sanctis On instinct, he had launched into the discernment, for the first step in exorcism is to recognize the Devil. What distinguishes possession from worldly mental illness is visceral aversion to Christian symbols. As the exorcist raised the crucifix in one hand and signed the cross over the possessed priest with his other, the Evil One let out a blasphemous snarl that curdled the cardinal's blood.

  There would be no sprinkling of holy water or anointing with holy oil. No time. The fight was on.

  The exorcist draped the tips of his satin stole across the Legionary's shoulders, tying Satan and his demons to him with a purple chain. When he placed his hand on the drenched head, the Devil reacted violently. The skull rocked back and forth, and convulsions wracked the bones. As the face twisted into a mask of fury and the sunken eyes rolled in disgust, the raspy throat spewed gibberish in a growl as deep as a werewolf's.

  "N'gai, n'gha'ghaa, bugg-shoggog, y'hah: Yog-Sothoth . . '.'

  Was he speaking in tongues, the sure sign of possession? Or was he echoing blasphemies he'd read in the files of the Inquisition?

  "State your name!" the Secret Cardinal commanded.

  Interrogation was crucial for this ritual, as banishment came from hurling the Evil One out in the name of a greater power.

  The name wasn't sound and smoke.

  The name was word and fire.

  With the name, he would know the demon he was facing.

  "My name is Legion!' snarled the Legionary.

  "Do you believe in God?"

  "Fuck God!"

  "Do you believe in Jesus Christ?"

  "Fuck him too!"

  Incensed by such sacrilege, the exorcist pressed the cross against the demon's forehead.

  "I command you, Satan! Leave this servant of God!"

  The demoniac brushed the cross aside with a backhand swipe.

  The exorcist faced icy eyes.

  "Fuck you, asshole," the Devil within cursed. "You're busting my balls!"

  The Secret Cardinal yelped when an underhand scoop seized hold of his testicles and twisted them around like the head of the girl in that film.

  "Use them or lose them, secret sodomite!"

  The exorcist squealed as the grip tightened and the silver cross fell from his hand.

  "Turn a blind eye on me, will you? Here! Turn two"

  With his other hand, the Legionary clawed the exorcist's face. Sinking crooked fingers into both eye sockets as if they were the holes in a bowling ball, he dragged the Secret Cardinal out of the church, then swung him around like the hammer thrown in those Highland games.

  Beseeching God, the exorcist was hurled into the darkness. Doomed to hell on his hands and knees, the blind man groped among the headstones, dragging the stole behind him.

  Suddenly, the crucifix around his neck struck him under the chin. It cut off his scream as the links of the chain bit tightly into the flesh of his throat.

  The last thing he heard before lack of oxygen shut down his brain was the snarl of Satan behind his ear.

  "Die, Priest!

  "Die, Priest!

  "Die . . . "

  SNEAKY

  THE NEXT DAY

  On a clear day, you could see the towers of York Minster miles away, but this morning, through the teeming rain, you could barely see to the edge of the churchyard. The church—Holy Cross—was grubby gray from the soot of centuries.

  Yorkshire was church country, with a history of Christianity dating back to the Lindisfarne Gospels and the Venerable Bede's Ecclesiastical History of the English People. That was the
time before clocks, so a Dark Ages sundial—useless today—sat over the door as mourners in black exited Mick Balsdon's funeral.

  "Ms. Hannah?"

  "Yes?"

  The broken-nosed man who stopped Liz outside the church looked like a battered boxer knocked over the ropes of the ring.

  "Detective Inspector Ramsey."

  The Yorkshire CID cop flashed his identification as Liz popped her umbrella against the rain.

  "We're blocking the door," she said. "Let's move across to the headstones."

  The rural church was besieged on all sides by graves. This section was so old that a thousand years of rain had erased whatever had once been carved in the stone.

  "I'll get to the point, Ms. Hannah. We're looking for Wyatt Rook. When did you last see him?"

  "Days ago. In Germany."

  "Have you talked to him since?"

  "No. I've not been home. My grandmother is sick. I borrowed her car to drive here."

  "Cellphone?"

  "I don't carry one, except for work. And I'm on leave."

  "When will you next see Rook?"

  "We were to meet at this funeral. But neither he nor Sergeant Earl Swetman attended."

  "You might be in danger."

  "Why?"

  "Someone is after crewmen and relatives of those who flew in the final mission of the Ace of Clubs. That person's after any information they might have."

  "And you think Rook's the killer?"

  "He's our prime suspect."

  "Then I'm the last person in danger from him. Rook already knows everything I do. That's why I hired him. So I could know more."

  The cop's eyes narrowed.

  "Look, Sergeant Balsdon raised questions about the Ace of Clubs. The plane was missing, and so was my granddad. Then the plane was found, and I wanted answers. I hired the person I thought was the best digger for the job. Rook located my grandfather's grave, so I flew back to Britain. I had what I wanted. End of story."

  Ramsey passed her his card.

  "If Rook contacts you, you'll call me, right? We don't want to see someone else get killed, and you involved. Life is too short to waste it in prison."

  "I'll call."

  "Promise?" His was a cold smile.

  "Cross my heart."

  + + +

  Liz watched the detective wend his way to his car through the dispersing mourners. Many were elderly veterans from the Second World War, and some had wounds they'd carried most of their lives. After Ramsey drove away, Liz returned to the walkway that led from the church to its parking lot. She sloshed to her grandmother's Rover. A taxi was idling in the space next to her driver's door, and as she inserted her key in the lock, a voice called out.

  "Pardon, lassie."

  Liz turned.

  "Is the funeral over?"

  The vet in the rear of the cab had facial scars so horrific that Liz almost glanced away. Not only had he lost one eye, but the skin on that side of his head was a patchwork of grafts made to repair third-degree burns. Liz wondered if he had bailed out of a blazing bomber.

  "Yes," she said. "It's over. Did you know Sergeant Balsdon in the war?"

  "No. I know Sweaty."

  Liz approached the rolled-down window. "Sergeant Swetman said he'd be here."

  "It's me," Wyatt whispered from the mouth of the scarred veteran. "There's a pub a mile to the north. Make sure you're not followed. Meet me round back."

  + + +

  The empty taxi passed her on the rural road a minute before Liz pulled into the carriage loop behind the Black Bess Pub, named for highwayman Dick Turpin's horse.

  Wyatt and his bags were waiting by the door. The sign beside him read, "We do bed-and-breakfast." His bags went into the back seat, then he strapped into the front.

  "The police want you," Liz said.

  "I know. Let's park somewhere and talk."

  They found a lovers' lane and got lost among the dripping trees. They looked like a couple having a quickie instead of lunch. Soon, the windows fogged as if they were.

  Wyatt filled her in on the double murder in Sussex.

  "Lenny tried to kill you?"

  "The fellow we knew as Lenny in Germany wasn't the real Lenny. He killed the real Lenny before we arrived and dumped his corpse in the river. The German police fished him out after you left. The guy we knew as Lenny—the gunman who took a shot at me—was an imposter. He must have learned from the real Lenny that none of us had met him."

  "And infiltrated our group to learn what we know?"

  "Has to be."

  "And your disguise?"

  "I found Balsdon's body. The Yorkshire cops suspect me. I was in Germany when the real Lenny was found. The German cops suspect me. Then I found two more bodies, conveniently leaving my calling card at the door. The Sussex cops will suspect me. I'm a lawyer. That circumstantial evidence is so strong that I'd consider prosecuting me. I went to Sussex to get your number, to warn you that the killer might be stalking you and Sweaty. That failed, so I had to slip through a tightening dragnet to get here. That's when I remembered a sign I saw in a shop near where we first met."

  "At the bookstore?"

  "A costume shop down the street had makeup artists in to do monsters for Halloween. I got my bags from the Sussex station, changed into dry clothes, and hopped a train to London before the police could react. The makeup artist who worked on me was reading a graphic novel. I asked if he knew Two-Face—"

  "The Batman villain?"

  "Uh-huh. And he asked if I knew the Dick Tracy villain who was inspired by Two-Face."

  "Did you?"

  "Sure. Haf-and-Haf. That got us yakking about the Phantom of the Opera and Jekyll-and-Hydes who show both personalities on their faces. I asked him to make me up like a geriatric half and half so I could baffle everyone at my Halloween party."

  "Sneaky."

  "When you first saw me, how did you almost react?"

  "I wanted to avert my eyes."

  "We all do. It's gauche to stare. I trained it from London to York, with everyone trying not to stare at me. Ramsey walked by and didn't twig."

  "You do a good old man."

  "I used to act in school." Wyatt spread his arms for the footlights, as far as the confines of the car would allow. "It's great to be back on Broadway!" he said in his best Barrymore.

  "A man of many talents. King Lear at age fifteen?"

  "I was the Fourth Wise Man in the Christmas pageant."

  "Never heard of him."

  "That's because on his way to that manger in Bethlehem, he came across Roman soldiers about to kill a mother and child.

  So he offered his gift of the magi to buy their freedom, and never got to give it to the baby under the star."

  "Is that what you artistes call 'dramatic irony'?"

  "My wise man shuffled, and when I first stepped onstage, I managed to kick the fire, knocking off the red cellophane.

  The audience had to watch a biblical play with a bare light bulb onstage. When it ended, no one clapped. I thought I'd bombed.

  Only later did I read the notice in the program: 'Due to the content of this production, we ask you refrain from applause.'"

  "Some people take their religion way too seriously."

  "As we're finding out."

  "When did you get to the funeral?" asked Liz.

  "After it started."

  "How did you know my car?"

  "The bag in the back seat is the one you had in Germany."

  "Any idea who our Lenny is?"

  "Someone hyper-religious. Did you notice the Christ-like scars on his hands?"

  "Stigmata?"

  "More like nail holes."

  "He was crucified?"

  "Wouldn't that fit? An ultraconservative Christian wants the Judas package."

  "For what?"

  "The package will tell us. Before I turn myself in to the cops, there's one more clue to follow. I need a photograph of Ack-Ack DuBoulay. He was the secret agent aboard the Ace of Club
s"

  "That's easy," said Liz. "My grandfather's photo album was at my grandmother's house. So, in case it might be of use when we met up here—"

  "You brought it with you?"

  TIN CAN

  "Eureka!" Wyatt exclaimed. "I've seen this face."

  He touched the picture of the crewmen of the Ace of Clubs standing under the bomb bay doors of an RAF Halifax and zeroed in on the warrior next to a young Sweaty.

  "Where?" Liz asked, excited.

  "In one of the U-boat files I got from Rutger."

  The rain was drumming down so hard they had to yell to be heard in the tin can that was Liz's car, and the weak light forced Wyatt to pull off his eyepatch to see. On the train ride down to Sussex before his dip in the Channel, he'd moved the group photo of each U-boat crew to the front of its file. With the photo of Ack-Ack resting on the console between their seats, Wyatt and Liz compared his face with each submariner's.

  "Found him," said Wyatt, waving a photo. "The Judas agent flown in by the Ace shipped out to Scotland in a U-boat called the Black Devil."

  Papers passed back and forth as they analyzed the file.

  Booting up his laptop, Wyatt researched the Elektro boat, then read and reread the British military report—a copy of which was in Rutger's file—on a submarine captured in the Firth of Forth in July 1944.

  The deeper the historian delved, the deeper the frown that creased his brow.

  "What are the odds?" he muttered.

  "Of what?" Liz asked.

  "Us having to solve another locked-room puzzle. First, a bomber in the air. Now, a sub under the sea. Am I being haunted by the ghost of John Dickson Carr?"

  "Lay it out," said Liz.

  "Look at the back of the photo. It lists the crew in order.

  Ack-Ack was the first watch officer. The 1WO. That means he was second-in-command, and he would have been in the conning tower. Just him and the skipper. The rest of the crew was stationed down below.

  "The Type XXIII Elektro boat didn't enter service until late in the war. The Black Devil was sent on a secret run to the Firth of Forth to test its revolutionary, silent-running, electric-propulsion system. It was to make the trip entirely underwater.