Angel of Death

by J. Robert King

  “Have you been following my case?”

  “No, but it has been thrust upon us. If you have ears and eyes, you can’t help knowing what has happened.”

  “In the last months, I have become convinced I never was an angel, that all along I was a human deluded by some psychosis. I had a woman who helped me, who convinced me I was human, that I had to live. I love her, Father, but she’s – she’s been–”

  “Donna Leland,” the voice said, comforting. “Yes, I heard about the accident.”

  “And now, without her, how can I…? Now, how can I be anything without her? How can I be human at all?”

  The priest’s voice became a thin, strong band. “You came to the right place, child. First, you must confess. It is guilt that made us mortal. Guilt drove us from the garden of paradise. You have lately fallen thus, too. Confess, and let the full weight of your guilt lie heavy on you.”

  “Yes, Father,” Samael responded. He felt the profound weight of his atrocities on his bowed neck. “I have murdered many people, Father. I do not know how many. At least ten. Perhaps more – twenty, forty, eighty – I do not know.”

  “Imagine how many, and for each one, light a candle in your mind. Let that candle remain there, burning, all the rest of your days, to remind you of the lives you snuffed out.”

  “Yes. Yes, I am lighting them even now. It will be a terrific blaze. But there is more. I am a homosexual –

  or was, before Donna. I was a homosexual.”

  “That, in itself, is not sinful, if you have not acted–”

  “I have acted upon it – I believe. My memory’s not so good, but I do think, at least once, in the East Village–”

  “That is sin, then, child. Light another candle.”

  “There’s more, though. Plenty more. Um, if the prosecution was right, well, it wasn’t just homosexual sex, but rape, and necrophilia, and who knows what worse things?”

  The priest’s voice was trembling. “For these acts, too

  – light a candle for each of these.”

  “Already my mind is a wildfire, Father. Already the light is blinding and the heat endless.”

  “Let the furnace of atrocity burn away all that is evil in you, child. Let the fires cleanse you of the will to do wrong.”

  “I have borne false witness. I have stolen. I cannot remember most of what I have done or been, but can imagine it, and am certain I have committed every sin that existed before me, and some new ones, too.”

  Gentle laughter came in answer. “There are no new sins, nothing new under the sun. But for each sin light another candle.”

  “They stretch on infinitely, these candles. They burn like the sun.”

  “Good. Forevermore see that fire in your eyes, feel it in your heart, meditate upon it in your mind, and let it cleanse your soul. Know that what fires you lave upon yourself now, you will be spared in Hell.”

  “I will bathe in fire. I will burn now and forever in hellfire. I will bathe in it.”

  “Do you know the Pater Noster, and the Hail Mary?”

  “Yes – Our Father, who art in Heaven–”

  “Good. Pray the Pater Noster three hundred times. Pray the Hail Mary seven hundred times. Let nothing distract you from your prayers. Let no sound beyond this booth disturb your communion with God. Remain here until I come back for you. Pray. I will return, and bring with me the instruments by which your humanity and salvation will be complete.”

  “Go, Father. I will remain and pray.”

  Samael began again his recitation, struggling not to hear the shift of the priest’s clothing against the velvet seat cushion or the furtive sound of his old hand upon the brass knob. There came a flash of profane light on the far side of the screen as the booth opened, and the priest’s fearful shadow flitted for a moment against the far wall.

  Samael prayed onward. “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven–”

  Tears were coming. This height of trembling joy matched the depths of terrified despair he had felt when he dragged the rose thorns through his veins. How strange that he remembered no such powerful passions – that his emotions had been so disguised even from himself. Now, not only had he known the aching end of life, but also the irresistible urging of flesh to go on living, no matter the cost.

  He heard the quick click of high heels retreating across stone, and the low drone of the door closing behind someone.

  – Give us this day our daily–”

  There came another profound boom as the door closed again, behind someone else.

  “–will return, and bring with me the instruments by which your humanity and salvation will be complete–”

  “–and forgive us our sins–” Azra continued, though he stood and peered out the slatted window at the top of the door.

  The priest, thin and wiry like some manic cartoon creature, glanced back toward the booth before rounding a marble pillar and disappearing into the transept.

  “–as we forgive those–” Samael’s hand clicked open the brass knob of the confessional and he strode out into the sanctuary, his face grave, “–who sin against us.”

  His metal-edged wingtips clicked on the smooth, cold floor. He unsnapped the gun at his belt, drew it forth, and cocked it

  A door ahead of him boomed closed, and a dead-bolt lock snicked into place.

  Samael broke into a run across the sanctuary. The soles of his feet slid on the stone. His eyes were wide and bright, his nostrils flared.

  “–lead us not into temptation–”

  One more stride, and he lifted his foot and kicked the door. Hardwood splintered, and a brass deadbolt ripped free as the door swung inward. Beyond lay a tight office, book-lined, with a desk at its center, two vinyl chairs in front of the desk, and a recoiling priest with a phone at his ear.

  The crack of the gun echoed through the sanctuary and sent up a puff of smoke like incense. The priest bounced backward against a bookshelf and tumbled, face-first, to the floor. On the belly of his black shirt, there was a darker spot of black. The phone dangled freely, someone shouting, small and inconsequential, from it.

  “–and deliver us from the Evil One–”

  Samael strode into the room, kicked one of the vinyl chairs aside, stooped over the priest, and drew the phone up by its cord. He listened.

  “Where are you? Sir? What’s happening now? Don’t hang up.”

  Samael blinked, his mouth grim. “For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and ever. Amen.”

  He lowered the receiver to the phone. He rolled the priest over. The man was alive.

  The priest cringed back, terror in his eyes. His hands were red as he lifted them from his belly wound and held them beseechingly before him. “No, Samael. Don’t do it. You must turn yourself in. You must get help.”

  Eyes hard beneath black brows, Samael reached down to the man’s shirt, grabbed hold of him, and hoisted him upward. “Where is your car?”

  “I don’t have a car.”

  He shook the man as if he were a doll. “Where?”

  “Outside – a blue minivan with paneled sides.”

  “The keys?”

  “In my pants pocket.”

  Samael reached in and grabbed the prickly mass of metal.

  The priest yammered, “You can’t miss it. It’s right in front.”

  “You’re coming along.”

  And Jesus stood before the governor: and the governor asked him, saying, Art thou the king of the Jews? And Jesus said unto him, Thou sayest.

  And when he was accused by the chief priests and elders, he answered nothing.

  Then said Pilate unto him, Hearest thou not how many things they witness against thee? And he answered him to never a word; insomuch that the governor marveled greatly.

  Now at that feast the governor was wont to release unto the people a prisoner, whom they would choose. And they had then a notable prisoner, called Barabbas. Therefore when they were gathered together,
Pilate said unto them, Whom will ye that I release unto you?

  Barabbas, or Jesus which is called Christ. For he knew that for envy they had delivered him. When he was set down on the judgment seat, his wife sent unto him, saying, Have thou nothing to do with that just man: for I have suffered many things this day in a dream because of him.

  But the chief priests and elders persuaded the multitude that they should ask for Barabbas, and destroy Jesus.

  The governor answered and said unto them, Whether of the twain will ye that I release unto you?

  They said Barabbas.

  Pilate saith unto them, What shall I do then with Jesus which is called Christ? They all say unto him, Let him be crucified.

  And the governor said, Why, what evil hath he done?

  But they cried out the more, saying, Let him be crucified. When Pilate saw that he could prevail nothing, but that rather a tumult was made, he took water, and washed his hands before the multitude, saying, I am innocent of the blood of this just person: see ye to it. Then answered all the people, and said, His blood be on us, and on our children.

  Then released he Barabbas unto them: and when he had scourged Jesus, he delivered him to be crucified.

  “Hello, Officer,” said the young woman behind the counter.

  Samael glanced at her in momentary confusion before remembering he wore a uniform. “Hello.”

  The woman smiled back thinly. She had long, lank hair and a silver tooth on the top left of her smile. She looked too thin, her skin too pale. “Haven’t seen you in here before. You new on the force?”

  Samael strolled among the aisles of bagged snacks and candy bars. “Yes. I’m new.”

  “Well, I don’t know if the guys told you, but coffee is free to patrolmen, and there’s ten percent off snacks.”

  Stopping beside a small metal rack that held jelly, peanut butter, mustard, crackers, and bread, Samael asked, “Is Wonder Bread considered a snack?”

  She laughed politely. “Oh, anything you can eat is. Just not the Heet or the oil or antifreeze, stuff like that.”

  He nodded and lifted the loaf of white bread, surprised at how light and limp it was. The fluorescent lights crazed across the package. He moved to the bank of refrigerators and gazed at the clean, orderly rows of juice and soft drinks. “What’s good?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The drinks. What’s good?”

  “I never had anyone ask. I like diet anything, but mostly Diet Dr Pepper.”

  He nodded and opened the case, pulling out four cans. They felt good against his bandaged arm, the cold seeping through. “What about meat?”

  “What about it?”

  “What’s good?”

  “I’ll give you a deal on these hot dogs,” she pointed to three wieners rolling greasily on sets of aluminum cylinders. “All three for a buck.”

  “All right.”

  She took a pair of tongs, fished some buns from a steamer, and began putting the hot dogs into them.

  “Mustard, ketchup, relish, onions?”

  “Everything,” Samael said distractedly. He pulled a few plastic-wrapped jerky sticks from a canister on the counter.

  The woman was wrapping the dogs in paper and sliding them into a white sack. “Any cigs? Any booze?”

  Samael had to think on that a bit. “Yes. Cigs and booze.”

  “What kind?”

  “What’s good?”

  She looked at him wonderingly. “You sure are new.”

  “Yes.”

  “Most of the guys smoke Marlboros. Ted smokes them without filters. You look more like a filtered Camel man. And how about a fifth of light rum. Everybody likes light rum.”

  “Yeah.”

  She retrieved the items and bagged them. “Anything else? A paper? There’s a whole story about that ‘Son of Sam’ wacko from Wisconsin. They say the Cheeseheads lost him and think he’s come down here.”

  “A paper sounds good.”

  “I’ll give you the Sun Times. It’s a little more interesting, if you know what I mean. Any gas?”

  “No gas.”

  She punched the items in and told him the total. He gave her the crumpled fifty he’d gotten from Blake Gaines – the first money he’d ever earned.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. Do you have any first aid stuff?

  Bandages? Tape? Alcohol?”

  “We’ve got Band-Aids and some medications and stuff. No alcohol, but you could use the rum.” She pointed toward an old wall rack. “Help yourself. I’ll rering this stuff. Are you hurt?”

  “No. A friend of mine. A prisoner, really.”

  “Right.” She laughed again politely. “Don’t let him get away.”

  He returned the laugh. “Oh, no. You’re right about that. He won’t get away.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  “Hello, Officer,” said the desk clerk. He was whitehaired and beer-bellied. His unbuttoned plaid shirt had been washed so many times it was translucent. Judging by the pencil jutting up behind one ear and the BandAids crossing two adjacent fingertips, he was both the owner and handyman of the Silent Night Motel. This time Samael was ready. “Hello. I need a room.”

  “A single?” the man asked. His eyes were shaped like inverted mushrooms behind his thick bifocals.

  “A double.”

  “Your wife?”

  “A prisoner – convict. I’m extraditing him.”

  A titanium sheen stole across the man’s gaze. “No handcuffs on the headboard. It’ll scar if it holds, and more likely just break loose.”

  “No. No handcuffs on the headboard.”

  His gaze withdrew as if he were deciding something. Samael blurted, “That no-handcuffs on the headboard rule – is that just for cops?”

  “Hm?” the man said, distracted. “No. For anybody.”

  He pulled out the motel register. “Sign here. How many nights?”

  “One, for now.”

  “Pay for two – security deposit.”

  Signing John Michaels, Samael nodded, “How much?”

  “Thirty-eight fifty.”

  Samael handed over two twenties from the priest’s wallet.

  The desk clerk clapped a key down on the counter, took the bills, and made change from a shallow wooden drawer that held a fat, dangling combination lock.

  “Around the corner, the room on the end. You’ll be away from the others. I’ll lock up at eleven. Don’t expect me to open for anything until eight tomorrow.”

  Nodding one last time, Samael walked from the small office into the dark night. He’d left the priest’s minivan running. His shoes crackled on the gravel. He looked within the van. The priest lay sleeping beneath a drycleaned vestment. Samael climbed in and pulled the van around to the room on the end.

  The motel was a long, single-story building, the width of a trailer home. Its clapboards were feathered with loose paint. Its windows hung with gold-beaded curtains that had been new when Kennedy was killed. On the corner, starlings nested inside a broken security light.

  Samael parked. He propped open the screen door, unlocked the wooden door, and nudged its moisture-swollen base with his foot. Cracked veneer made a chittering sound as the door scraped in. He flicked the light on. It shone on six-inch-by-six-inch avocado-colored tiles. The room had two single beds, side by side, a few landscape prints on the walls, and a bathroom with a plastic shower stall and matching avocado stool and lav. Samael nodded and returned to the minivan. To the rear of the building stood a scraggly line of elms, which seeped light from a superlit auto dealership behind them. To the front of the building was a wall of whitewashed decorative block, screening the place from the six-lane anonymity of the road.

  Samael opened the passenger door, stooped, and lifted the cold, quietly breathing form of the priest. He carried the man like a bride across the threshold, beneath the bald light bulb at the center of the ceiling, and to the far bed, the one near the bathroom. He retrieved his groceries and then closed and locked the van, the
screen, the wooden door, and the windows. He drew the drapes.

  The priest looked small and boyish in sleep. His bloodstained hands curled in his belly, and his legs were drawn up. Samael pulled the dry-cleaned frock from the man and hung it on a curtain rod. Then, ever so carefully, he began shucking the man’s blood-stiffened jacket from his arms and shoulders. The fabric resisted. Some of it was scabbed to the gunshot wound. Samael took out the priest’s keys and the small penknife that hung on the ring with them. He cautiously cut at the jacket, working his way from knuckles to shoulder, and from shoulder to lapel. He did the same on the other side, and then cut away the man’s shirt. There was much blood, and something else, a white bubbly discharge. As Samael pulled the last strips of cloth away, he saw how large the wound was – a hole the size of a nickel. The bullet had entered just below the rib cage on his left side and cut through skin, fat, and a thin muscular wall where most of the blood seemed to have come from. Beneath the muscle was a dark cavity in which was something that looked like wet mushrooms. A septic smell came up out of the seeping darkness.

  Samael stood back from the bed. The penknife quivered in his bloody hand. How like those other scenes this is, he thought, me and bare, dying flesh, a gun, and a knife.

  He turned to the grocery sack. Its thin white plastic glowed with the reds and greens and grays within it. His sanguine hands darted in, clasping rolls of gauze, a bag of cotton balls, and the fifth of Mr Boston rum. Samael set his provisions down on a small side table made of two-by-fours.

  There was red wicking into the sheet beneath the priest. Samael gently rolled the man to one side and looked at his back. The exit wound was wide, a funnel of flesh above the left hip. There. That would be the place to start.

  Tearing open the bag of cotton balls, Samael grabbed a bundle in one hand. He held the rum bottle between his knees and opened it. His fingers left streaks of brownish red on the cap. He wadded the cotton around the bottle’s mouth and up-ended it. Withdrawing the dripping mass, he took a stinging swallow, set the bottle down, braced the shoulder of the priest, and applied the alcohol to the red funnel of muscle.