The Plan

by J. Richard Wright

“So you could continue to use him as bait,” Maria said, her disquiet not as well hidden as she might have liked.

  Malachi shrugged. “Precisely. You must understand, Maria. Mr. Montague is of extreme importance to us. The entire world is the demon’s playground. We never know when or where he will strike. He may show up at the elbow of a major world tyrant, or simply murder single victims in some far-away local. This man, however, Clay Montague, gives us an unprecedented opportunity to make the demon come to us!”

  “Please forgive me, Your Eminence ...but isn’t that – ?”

  “Unethical?” the cardinal asked. “Perhaps. But look at it this way, Maria. Clay Montague may be devil’s bait, but the rest of the world is the devil’s prey.”

  * * * *

  PART THREE

  “IN HARM’S WAY”

  I love little pussy, her coat is so warm;

  And if I don’t hurt her, she’ll do me no

  Harm...

  Jane Taylor

  I LOVE LITTLE PUSSY

  ~ 1 ~

  NEW YORK CITY

  THE PRESENT

  Were they still there?

  Clay Montague stood back from his office window on a small side street just off West 42nd Street and carefully began edging aside one of the drapes to peer down at the damp pavement below. Both the street and the night seemed unnaturally quiet. Where were the people?

  The ingrained dust covering of the heavy curtain material felt gritty under his fingertips. The drapes, a garish red-velvet legacy from the previous tenant now serving time up the river in Ossining, had probably never been cleaned.

  Clay had sublet the office from Attorney Abraham Cohen for three years, the exact length of his prison sentence. When he had expressed surprise that Cohen expected to return to law practice afterwards, the lawyer just winked and asserted that you could do anything – if you knew the right people. Perhaps he wouldn’t practice officially, but he’d practice just the same.

  Directly across from his office window, the Duffy’s Bar & Grill street sign winked monotonously on and off, its red neon light periodically sending a warm glow flooding across the night and into the darkened office. Clay had deliberately refrained from turning on the office lights after arriving moments before so his silhouette couldn’t be seen from the street.

  He peered out. The street reflected the light of a single dull street lamp after the evening’s September rain. A low rumble of thunder sounded from afar, penetrating the building. It was followed within seconds by a distant flash of lightning that lit up the narrow, brick-faced urban street.

  They were out there again!

  As usual, the Driver sat in a black Saab parked in the same spot near the street corner just far enough back to be out of the pool of weak, yellow light cast by the street lamp.

  The other one, the Leader as Clay named him because he was larger and seemed in control, leaned back against the car’s fender, arms folded, hat pulled low. Occasionally he stared up towards Clay’s window.

  These men dressed in black, or “Watchers” as he labeled them in his daily journal, had been following him for close to six weeks now, since just after the Lassiter divorce case. At least that was when he first noticed them. Whether the case and the current surveillance were connected, he didn’t know. Still, the timing gave him a chronological reference point from which to work as he tried to find out whom they were and what they wanted.

  Keeping the curtain open a few inches, he stared at the men below while reaching over and picking up a flask of bourbon from his desk. Absentmindedly he played with the paper seal on the bottle. He didn’t dare break it; a single drink could spell disaster.

  Having it within reach, within easy access, gave him the comfort of knowing that he had control of the alcoholism; the bottle was tangible proof he had the strength not to take another drink. He refused to think that he kept it nearby...just in case.

  Clay peered out again through the office window with large gold letters stenciled on it advertising his service: Montague Detective Agency – Discreet Private Investigations. Below, the Watchers hadn’t stirred from their positions. Whoever they were and whatever they wanted, they were sure taking their own sweet time about bringing him into the picture.

  As he eyed them, the man outside the car shifted his weight on the fender, retrieved something from his pocket and settled back once again. A match flared orange in front of his face and then disappeared leaving a small spark at the end of his cigarette.

  A flicker of movement inside the automobile diverted Clay’s attention towards the dark interior. Certain that he caught a hint of movement on the passenger side, he looked closer. Was that another person in the front seat of the car beside the driver? More movement. Yes, the driver appeared to be talking to someone next to him. This was a new angle – three Watchers!

  Suddenly the man on the fender turned and looked over the hood of the Saab as the passenger door opened. A black-cloaked figure exited the automobile and came round and stood before him.

  Clay watched, fascinated. The cloak looked like something out of The French Lieutenant’s Woman, he mused. But there was something different about the third figure, something in it’s motion – something too fluid and easy in the way it walked. Maybe, glided would have been a more appropriate phrase.

  Clay was sure it was a woman. Though her features were hidden by the heavy hood, the easy, graceful sway of her movements and her petite size betrayed her gender.

  She reached the Leader and the two engaged in conversation. After a minute or so, the Driver got out and joined them. There was a sense of urgency in the gestures of the trio. They seemed upset over something. Abruptly the woman pushed back her hood to reveal a pixie like countenance.

  Clay continued to watch, fascinated by the silent drama being played out below. This was certainly out of the ordinary; they usually seemed so in control, in fact, arrogantly so. He found himself experiencing a vicarious pleasure in this break in routine; the argument was primarily between the Leader and the woman. The tall man shook his head vigorously. She nodded back, equally firm. She appeared to be standing her ground as the Leader threw up his hands, turned away for a few moments and stared down the street. The Driver shrugged.

  Tired of the silent charade, Clay let the curtain fall back into place. He had tried to confront the Watchers more than a dozen times since they began following him. He’d been unsuccessful on every occasion; they were just too good at their craft.

  For instance, if he headed for the elevator right now, he was sure they’d be in the car and pulling away by the time he reached them. If he leaned out the window and called to them, they’d ignore him as though he didn’t exist. But, if he jumped in his car and drove away, the black Saab would settle in behind him, a few car lengths back. And though he was pretty good at shaking tails, he had been unable to shake them. At last count he had more than 35 photographs of them now but not a single, identifiable facial image.

  Gently he shook the warm flask, listening to the wash of the liquor slide back and forth, while idly wondering how they’d react if he just leaned out the window and took a shot at them. Perhaps a single slug in a front tire would have them question the wisdom of continuing to annoy him? But then the NYPD would get all upset.

  He allowed himself the fantasy for a few more seconds but finally sighed and put the bottle back on the desk. His mouth was getting too dry.

  The worst case he could come up with was that he was again a suspect in Hitch’s murder – that, after all these years, the FBI was tailing him and hoping he’s inadvertently provide some further clue to Hitch’s death.

  Eventually he also discarded that notion; even the FBI was never quite as polished in their pursuits as these people seemed to be. Besides, when you tailed someone, the general idea was to do it surreptitiously, to covertly gather the evidence to hang them with later. These people obviously didn’t care whether he saw them or not, as long as he couldn’t make contact and determine who they were. />
  He also wondered if they were following the wrong guy. If so, the joke was on them. He went over everything he knew about the Watchers in his mind.

  They always worked as a team of two – at least until tonight – and drove a Saab. But not necessarily the same Saab. At least, the autos had different license plates.

  Though they could, at times be short, tall, fat or skinny, their dress never varied either: black suits, black broad-brimmed felt slouch hats that covered their faces, and long topcoats. And, there was another, somewhat ominous fact he’d been able to ferret out; the Watchers had some powerful government connections. He’d asked a friend at the Department of Motor Vehicle Registration to run their plates to determine ownership; she’d called back, highly excited. There was nothing in the registry on these plates. But they weren’t fake; they were just listed as un-issued!

  Who had access to un-issued plates?

  Obviously someone very influential had taken an interest in him. But why him?

  Curiously though, after all these weeks he never felt threatened in any way. So far they had proved benign. Not that he could bank on their behavior remaining benign, but for now they weren’t threatening anything other than his privacy.

  Clay looked back out at the three figures in the street. They were still engaged in deep conversation. He’d thought about calling the police several times, but was relatively certain they’d be gone by the time the cops arrived. Also, with his PI license up for its renewal, he didn’t need some over-worked, pissed-off member of New York’s finest turning in a report to the Department of State, Licensing Division, saying that he was seeing bogeymen.

  Clay stepped back from the window, lit a Pall Mall and blew the smoke into the middle of the room. Though he rarely smoked any more, the tenaciousness of his shadows was making him increasingly edgy. The red neon light sliced through the crack in the curtains, and captured the smoke for a brief instant. He allowed his thoughts to whirl and spin with the crimson smoke curls as they expanded and swept into the center of the room, formed brief alliances, broke apart into separate clouds and eventually dissipated. Though the years had passed, he missed his Jody just as much as ever. The result in the romance department was he’d been on a few blind dates set up by friends but they all soured. He couldn’t seem to maintain a relationship. The loss of Jody and Hitch and the suspicions and accusations had changed him forever. He likened himself to a living tree hollowed out by rot. Outside the tree looked perfectly normal while inside it was essentially a vacuum. Of course he could still be amused and annoyed but it seemed life had taken a rasp to all the sharp edges of his feelings and filed them away leaving him without passion. Or perhaps his emotions had been dulled as a form of protection. Whatever, it wasn’t fair to the ladies he dated so he stopped. And he stayed alone. A self-imposed exile insulated himself and others from being hurt.

  He drew on the cigarette again, absentmindedly watching the end flare bright red and then fade to a dull glow as he took it from his lips and inhaled deeply. The calming effect of the nicotine went to work soothing his frayed nerves and providing solace for his imagination.

  He peeked out the curtain again. What in the hell were they up to? Maybe he could see more if he used his binoculars. He butted out. That’s your last cigarette, he promised himself...again.

  ~ 2 ~

  The feeling of dread became too strong for Sister Maria Michelle Lapierre and she jumped out of the Saab and came round to the figure leaning against the fender.

  “We must act now,” Maria said to Father Dermott Murphy. “Cardinal Malachi said we can’t allow anything to happen to this man.” She dropped her hood.

  Murphy, a stocky man of about 45-years of age, had the build of a weight-lifter. A bullet-shaped head with close-cropped, black hair liberally salted with grey topped powerful shoulders and a barrel-like chest was visible even through his coat; there was no doubt that, physically, he was a man to be reckoned with. His twinkling blue eyes, however, offset his intimidating appearance, and when he smiled and spoke in his soft Irish lilt, he quickly charmed those he met. Tonight, however, he wasn’t being charming. Father Ronald Langevin watched Murphy and Maria argue.

  Murphy dropped his cigarette and it sizzled on the wet pavement as he coolly appraised the young Quebec woman. Mother Mary, he thought, she’s too pretty to be a nun. He ground the butt under his heel as he took in her flawless, slightly tanned complexion, her petite heart-shaped face, generous dark eyebrows and bobbed nose over full red lips that didn’t need any lipstick to make them attractive; she was blessed with a perfect countenance.

  Murphy grimaced and reached under the collar of his black topcoat. He squeezed a finger between his perspiring neck and the Roman collar that seemed to have a choke-hold on his Adam’s apple. He made a mental note to stop trying to squeeze into an adjustment that fit him when he was twenty. “Everything is fine,” he declared. “He’s in the office, quite safe.”

  Maria wasn’t listening. Again she was feeling the chill of something black and ominous approaching. They didn’t have much time. She stared at him. “Father, something is going to happen.”

  “We can’t jump the gun every time you have a bad feeling, Sister,” the tall priest said.

  Maria looked up towards the darkened window where Clay Montague kept his office. Though the streetlight was dim, she was certain she saw the curtain moving. She turned back and stared desperately up at Murphy.

  A boiling cloud of oppression and evil was growing exponentially in her mind; no images so far but still a frighteningly real dimension of the imminent arrival of some form of terror. She had never felt anything like this in her life before.

  The driver of the Saab, Father Langevin, got out of the automobile and came round to join them. He was shorter, stockier and friendlier than Murphy. He had been the one who settled her in St. Pat’s rectory in New York and done the briefing.

  The blackness was growing near.

  “It’s coming...I feel it!” Maria said to Langevin.

  Father Langevin reacted: “We must get him out of there!”

  “Father Murphy is SUPPOSED to be in charge?” Maria answered, throwing up her hands and daring him to act; perhaps she could shame him into action.

  Father Murphy looked at her. “How can you be sure this creature is near?” It was a direct challenge.

  “Father, I know you don’t believe that I have this ability, but you must realize that Cardinal Malachi would not have sent me here on a whim. Listen to me! Please!”

  Murphy shivered and wished for a hot toddy to warm the chill invading his bones. It had begun to drizzle again. If this kept up, he was bound to catch another cold and wind up hawking into a handkerchief for weeks on end. Couldn’t the Vatican come up with a healthier way to use the Jesuits than sending them after demons that might exist only in the minds of some senile old cardinals breathing the rarefied air of the Vatican? After all, they might be chasing some homicidal maniac as opposed to something supernatural, despite the horrific murders. “As you noted, Sister, I am in charge here,” he said, finally.

  Sister Maria sighed and said a quick Hail Mary to avoid making a retort. She looked over at Langevin who shrugged and turned the palms of his hands face up in a gesture of futility.

  “Dermott,” Langevin ventured, timidly. “Maybe we should listen.”

  “My God, man, not you too,” he replied.

  Maria’s eyes flashed and she stamped her foot in anger, realizing at the same time how little girlish was her gesture. “Listen to me, both of you! I’m not here because I asked to come. Now Father Murphy, if you’d just stop worrying about catching cold and realize that we have a job to do, maybe we could get on with it!?”

  Murphy stared at her. “What did you say, lass?”

  “I said we could get on with our job before it’s too late!”

  “No, the bit about me catching cold...why did you say that?”

  Maria shrugged angrily. “I don’t know...that’s what yo
u’re worried about, isn’t it...and we’re all about to catch a lot more than a cold unless we do something now!”

  With her comment, Murphy began to wonder if there was more to this nun than he had supposed. However, he was under orders not to move prematurely. They must keep the Beast engaged.

  He looked up at the detective’s window. What must the man think, he wondered? Did he know he was the worm on a hook? That the Church was spying on him? Or that the Church’s benevolence towards him wasn’t merely Christian charity? Murphy remembered the deputy’s funeral in Vermont. That particular debacle had cost two good men and Montague’s wife their lives.

  At the behest of Rome, Montague had been under a reduced form of surveillance by the local parish priest of Woodstrom as he had been for years. But when the deputy had been murdered in such a hideous fashion, Murphy felt the priest must have banged some holy gong since the Vatican sprung into action and ordered the Crusaders and him and Langevin on site immediately.

  The Crusaders, posing as skiers and antique hunters, all tough as nails and skilled in the most deadly martial arts, the ritual of exorcism and deadly weaponry, had descended on Woodstrom determined to put an end to Adramelech and his work. Shadowing Montague, they awaited the creature’s return with orders to find and kill it at any cost. Father’s Murphy and Langevin were there in Vermont for additional support.

  But then, other than a brief appearance by Adramelech’s familiar at the deputy’s funeral, nothing happened for almost six months. When Montague’s wife had been killed, they were sure Adramelech had caused her death in a fit of vengeance against the sheriff. The same evening, Father Lesage – one of the Crusaders – had also been found dead in his room.

  It hadn’t been an easy death; they spent four hours cleaning up the blood before they could secretly transport the priest’s remains back to their aircraft in Burlington. After that, the Beast vanished again.

  Scratch one priest, one deputy and an innocent woman.