The old man convulsed suddenly, arching his back away from the fire and clutching with one feeble hand. He still was not awake. His arms quivered and bunched to his chest. More blood came with each shake of his body.
Samael pulled the drenched red cotton away and clutched a new bundle. He tamped it into the wound, placed a few folds of gauze atop the cotton, and taped it all in place. Then, rolling the priest to his back, Samael began the same process with the wound in front.
This time, he poured a bit of rum down the hole to sterilize whatever raw edges the bullet had left within. A few cotton balls followed after. He packed the puncture and fed the rest of the gauze roll around the man’s torso, taping the whole assembly in place. The cotton and gauze had stopped the blood, and Samael drew up the covers around the old priest.
He was done. He stood and went to the bathroom to wash the blood from his hands. The water smelled like eggs. He spit in the sink, took another swallow of rum, and then thought to clean off the blood-streaked mouth of the bottle.
Finished, he stripped his own clothes. In underwear, he sat down on his bed. Propping the pillows in a wedge, Samael leaned against the headboard and took a moment to breathe. The air felt stinging and good in his lungs. He took another drink.
How like the other killings? Nothing like them. Keith had done most of the others, and Samael had felt nothing but a detached interest and a concern that things be handled properly. Yes, Samael had killed the two officers, the paramedic, and the EMT in the ambulance, but he had not done so for the fun of it. He’d done so to escape. The tanker truck driver was probably dead, too, but that was only a helpful accident, shaking the cops.
But what about this priest?
He wasn’t dead, for one thing. Even if he were, it was all done in self-defense. After hearing his confession, after swearing he would tell no one, the priest turned Judas. His current state was his own doing. Samael remembered the candle flames, searing in his head, and the admonition to forevermore feel the evil he had done. The priest was only the next bright torch added to a funeral pyre.
But he had tried to make it right. He’d taken this Judas and cleaned and dressed his wounds and given him a bed to lie in and bought for him shelter. If he awoke, there would be food and cigarettes and rum, too.
For I was hungered, and you gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and you took me in: Naked, and you clothed me: I was sick, and you visited me: in prison, and you came unto me.
But the priest did not need Wonder Bread and Mr Boston Rum. He needed an emergency room. Even leaving him in a phone booth after calling an ambulance – that would have been better. But Samael could not. This priest was the only creature in the world who knew his secret, knew it fully. To part with such a creature was beyond Samael now. This priest was a surrogate for Donna – was his anchor to humanity. To give him up would be to become utterly alone. The priest and he lived and died together. Only if the priest survived would Samael survive. He took out the pack of cigarettes, opened the cellophane, flipped back the lid, and coaxed one small white cylinder from among the rest. He realized he had no way to light it. He set the cigarette and the open pack on the lamp stand, stood and stretched, and then went to the priest’s bed. There, he lay down behind the man, held him in his arms, and fell softly asleep. Then the soldiers of the governor took Jesus into the common hall, and gathered unto him the whole band of soldiers.
And they stripped him, and put on him a scarlet robe. And when they had plaited a crown of thorns, they put it upon his head, and a reed in his right hand: and they bowed the knee before him, and mocked him, saying, Hail, King of the Jews!
And they spit upon him, and took the reed, and smote him on the head.
And after they had mocked him, they took the robe off from him, and put his own raiment on him, and led him away to crucify him.
And as they came out, they found a man of Cyrene, Simon by name: him they compelled to bear his cross. And when they were come unto a place called Golgotha, that is to say, a place of a skull, they gave him vinegar to drink mingled with gall: and when he had tasted thereof, he would not drink.
And they crucified him, and parted his garments, casting lots: that it might be fulfilled which was spoken by the prophet, They parted my garments among them, and upon my vesture did they cast lots. And sitting down they watched him there; And set up over his head his accusation written, THIS
IS JESUS THE KING OF THE JEWS.
Then there were two thieves crucified with him, one on the right hand, and another on the left. And they that passed by reviled him, wagging their heads, and saying, Thou that destroyest the temple, and buildest it in three days, save thyself. If thou be the Son of God, come down from the cross.
Likewise also the chief priests mocking him, with the scribes and elders, said, He saved others; himself he cannot save. If he be the King of Israel, let him now come down from the cross, and we will believe him. He trusted in God; let him deliver him now, if he will have him: for he said, I am the Son of God. The thieves also, which were crucified with him, cast the same in his teeth.
He could only be dead. When morning came, there was no breath left in the priest, no pulse. He was cold. Samael sat up beside him, blinked in sleepy recognition, yawned, and pulled back one of the priest’s eyelids. The organ beneath was motionless and dry. It did not respond to the odd light of morning. Samael let out a long, deep sigh.
“You were my only hope,” he told the old man. “You were the only one who knew. I thought if maybe I could save you…”
The words died away. Samael slumped down beside the man, put his arm around the knobby shoulders and held him. The priest’s skin felt cool and gelatinous like uncooked chicken.
I’ve done it again, killed again, even after all the candles and cotton balls and prayers. Oh, Donna. The accident that killed you killed me and this priest, all three. Death comes in threes.
Worse yet, Samael realized he was already sorting through ways to dispose of the body. He could go buy a set of knives and feed the priest, bit by bit, down the toilet. That still left bones, though, and would have been better done in a room with a bathtub. He could take the body along, but the minivan didn’t have a secure trunk away from prying eyes. He could push the body up into the attic crawl space and let the smell eventually alert the owner. None of those options seemed charitable, though.
Instead, Samael decided to leave the priest in bed, with a “Do not disturb” sign on the door. He’d paid for the second day in advance, so he would likely have a day’s running before the manager realized the man in the bed was dead, not asleep. When he did discover the body, he would also find a note.
Samael pulled a sheet of Silent Night stationery from the lamp stand and wrote a quick note: To whom it may concern:
Here is the father kidnapped from St Charles Church. He was shot in the process of reporting the Son of Samael to the police. I tried to dress his wounds, but he died anyway. He has given me away in death as he could not in life.
Son of Samael
He folded the note and placed it gently in the priest’s hand. Bending, Samael kissed the man’s cold lips.
“I used to be an angel, Father – one of those beautiful statues – white wings and stone eyes. I’d still be one except I couldn’t kill this one woman. I had mercy, see?
Angels aren’t supposed to have mercy; that’s for humans. My stone skin got soft. Everything hurt – sunlight and midnight, heat and cold. Everything hurts when you’re human.” Samael snatched the priest’s keys from the side table. “Lucky me, I’m not anymore.” He picked up the bag of groceries and headed out the door. “What I am now, even I don’t know.” The door closed. Now from the sixth hour there was darkness over all the land unto the ninth hour.
And about the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, saying, Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? that is to say, My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?
Some of them that stood there, when they heard th
at, said, This man calleth for Elias. And straightway one of them ran, and took a sponge, and filled it with vinegar, and put it on a reed, and gave him to drink.
The rest said, Let be, let us see whether Elias will come to save him.
Jesus, when he had cried again with a loud voice, yielded up the ghost.
And, behold, the veil of the temple was rent in twain from the top to the bottom; and the earth did quake, and the rocks rent; and the graves were opened; and many bodies of the saints which slept arose, and came out of the graves after his resurrection, and went into the holy city, and appeared unto many. Now when the centurion, and they that were with him, watching Jesus, saw the earthquake, and those things that were done, they feared greatly, saying, Truly this was the Son of God.
“Back again, officer?” asked the checkout woman. It was the same too-slim, lank-haired cashier from the night before, though her shoulders were slumped and her eyes ringed in darkness. There was a sharp, bloodshot craziness in her gaze, but she smiled all the same. Samael walked toward the soft drink refrigerators.
“What did I have last night, Diet Dr Pepper?”
“Yes,” she answered, a little too quickly. As Samael pulled open the case door, he glanced toward the woman. Her face was haunted. “Did you pull a double shift?”
“Yeah. Time-and-a-half pay. Will that be everything?”
“How about another Sun Times?” asked Samael as he approached the counter.
“Out of papers,” she said. “Tell you what? How about a free Hustler, on the house?”
“Aren’t those Sun Times?” he pointed to a stack of six or seven papers.
“Yesterday’s. Here. Here’s that magazine, and take the soda, no charge.”
Samael looked down at the cover – a woman with enormous breasts that emerged from beneath a sailor shirt. “I don’t want the magazine, but let me see a paper.”
She bit her lip but turned around, stooped, and pulled the top paper from the stack. Folding it, cover inward, she handed it over. “Free. Gratis. Have a nice day.”
He unfolded the paper and saw his own police photo, and a caption explaining that he would be dressed as a policeman.
“They already were here,” she said, beginning to cry.
“All I said was that you were here about eight last night and that you were friendly and paid for everything. I swear, that’s all. And, I swear I won’t call them to say you were here again. I won’t tell a soul.”
Refolding the paper, Samael said, “How much do I owe you?”
She laughed through her tears. “Really, mister, it’s free.”
“How much?”
Closing her eyes to add the figures, she blurted, “A dollar eighty-nine.”
“Here’s two.” He said, “When they come back, tell them again how I was polite and paid for everything.”
“I won’t tell them anything, honest.”
“Just tell them the truth. Tell them what I was like. Tell them what I was.”
TWENTY-TWO
The cover story was, of course, about him. It told that a Father Destry of St Charles Church had sent parishioners running from the sanctuary, telling them, “Get out quickly and quietly. Call 911. The Son of Samael is here.” The priest and his minivan had then disappeared. One of the women who fled saw someone carry Father Destry, put him in the minivan, and cover him with plastic. The man’s description matched that of the Son of Samael.
Chicago’s chief of police urged strict caution until the serial killer was apprehended – keeping doors and windows locked, asking proper identification of any workers who come to the door, not admitting anyone unfamiliar. Even these precautions were not certain to make a person safe.
“This killer strikes at any time, day or night, public or private, high-risk or low-risk,” the chief warned.
“He’s charming. A genius – psycho. Unpredictable. Don’t think you’re safe just because you’re not a streetwalker. Watch yourself. Watch your families, your neighbors. We’re gonna get this son of a bitch.”
Samael blinked – a genius psycho. The chief was waxing poetic: Studs Terkel with a badge. The reporter called him on it: When asked whether the Son of Samael was the toughest killer that Chicago cops had faced, the chief replied, “You kidding? This guy’s no Gacy. He’s just a lowlife. He’s used to picking on Cheeseheads. He’s in Chicago, now. He’s got Chicago cops to deal with – well-trained, wellequipped, an army of cops now. We’ll catch him.”
Samael shook his head. “Your well-trained army isn’t worth one Donna Leland. She got me. You never will.”
There was a sidebar article embedded in one corner of the main story. Its headline drew his attention.
“I BOUGHT THAT BASTARD A PAST”
AP International
Story and Photo by Blake Gaines
“I bought that bastard a past,” confessed Marge Billings early yesterday morning. Her husband, Derek Billings, was slain by his cell mate, the Son of Samael.
One week prior to the murder, according to Mrs Billings, she had contacted “forgers and hackers” to create a false history for the Son of Samael.
“Derek made it all up, and [told me] who to call and what to pay,” said Mrs Billings. “I should have just given [the Son of Samael] the ten thousand. Then maybe Derek would be alive.”
Asked why her husband would do this, she said, “He thought they were friends. He liked to be the knight on the white horse. He was an ***hole.”
When asked about the now-famous photo album that showed William B. Dance and his brother, Billings commented, “That was Derek’s album. He thought it a nice touch.”
“If this is true,” commented Judge Sandra Devlin, who had remanded the Son of Samael to a mental institution instead of a prison, “I was wrong.”
True or not, Mrs Billings named names. Four arrests have already been made, including the heroin addict hired to play the Son of Samael’s older brother, James.
FBI computer criminologists have discovered two files in William B. Dance’s record that contain “the classic flags of tampering.”
Further indictments are expected in the coming weeks.
Because Mrs Billings volunteered her testimony to police, she is free on one hundred dollars bond.
“I just want Derek’s killer to pay.”
Samael folded the paper. It trembled in his hand. He set it down on the passenger seat, started the minivan, and placed both hands on the wheel.
Sunlight slanted through the windshield and onto his chest. It soaked into his police shirt, but there was still an envelope of cool air around his body. He breathed slowly, not wanting to disturb the moment. So, it had all been a lie. He wasn’t William B. Dance. The memories of his life, of Abu Ghraib, of eating the scorched crow on the streets of Mexico City, of standing beside the rusted slide – those were mere suggestions planted by hypnosis, by the need to be human. It all was a lie.
Then, what am I? he wondered. Not an angel. Not a human. What? If Donna were still alive, he knew exactly what he would have been. He would have lived in Hell to be with her. He would even have become human. Whatever I am, I’m trapped in this body, in a dead man’s uniform, in a dead priest’s van, and being hunted by an army of cops.
He drove to the edge of the parking lot, waited for a moment between rushing cars, and pulled out into traffic. There would be a place up here. Just up here. Ah, a Laundromat.
The man was tall and lean, with unclean brown hair, intense eyes, a cigarette clenched between two thin fingers, and a newspaper in his hands. He also happened to have a gun sitting on the plastic seat beside him.
A young Latina ran past him, after her brother. Their mother was at the end of the aisle, tumbling a load of clothes out of a green-enamel dryer.
The Son of Samael, still wearing his cop uniform, approached the man.
“Sir?” he said, stepping in front of him. There was a small, apologetic smile on his teeth, but it didn’t extend to his eyes. “I imagine you have a permit for
that handgun?”
The man took a last long drag from his cigarette and let the smoky breath billow out over the top of his newspaper. “Yeah. In the car.”
The officer nodded, pursing his lips. “Which car?”
“The blue Impala.”
Samael stared through the plate glass window at the car pulled up almost fully beneath the overhang. It would be sheltered on three sides from watching eyes.
“You got clothes in the dryers?”
An edge of belligerence came into the man’s face.
“I’m not sitting here for my health.”
“Which dryers?”
“Those two orange ones. What’s this all about?”
Samael bent, snatching up the gun. “Let’s go have a look at that permit.” He looked to one side, seeing the Latina woman and her two children, staring in amazement at the confrontation. The man stood. “Look, it’s not in my car. I lied. But it’s at home.”
“Kneel down, sir,” Samael said. “Hands behind your back.”
“Oh, son-of-a-bitch! You’re not running me in. If you pigs did your work, we wouldn’t have to carry guns–”
“Ma’am,” said the Son of Samael to the Latina as he fit handcuffs to the kneeling man, “you’re going to want to get your children out of here. This man is the Son of Samael killer. Get at least two blocks away as quickly as you can.”
“What are you talking about?” shrieked the man.
“I’m not the Son of–”
The officer kicked him down, onto his face on the green and gray linoleum.
The Laundromat owner came in, a young, fat man, glaring. “What the hell?”
“Sir, this is the Son of Samael killer. Run. Get at least two blocks away, as quickly as you can.”
Nodding, wide-eyed, the man retreated, flinging the front door wide and not looking back. The Latina and her children were out as well.
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