In reality, he was lucky to be alive. When he had surfaced in England six months after he vanished from the veteran’s hospital in upstate New York, his inability to remember who he was or where he’d come from landed him in a hospital. A nurse discovered his Bible with his name in it and his cassock packed away in a sack in a corner. The hospital administration called Catholic Church officials and asked if they knew a Father Benito Gallo.
Malachi had been advised that his old friend was not dead and immediately had him brought to Rome where he underwent extensive therapy and counseling. He eventually replaced a newly deceased member of The Seven.
But even after Gallo had returned to Rome, he was unable to talk about what had happened to him for months. It was only later, after many therapy sessions and fortified with a number of glasses of wine, that he had revealed his story in confidence to Malachi. He covered it all from the initial kidnapping until, after six months captivity and mental torture, he awoke one evening to find his cell door standing open; at the foot of his mattress was his cassock wrapped around his Bible – both stuffed in a soft cloth sack. Was he to be freed?
Suspecting some cruel joke, he made his way down some stairs, along some passages and through a great room decorated in an old English style with clan banners, suits of armor, broadswords and pikes on the walls. He noted a huge stain-glass window at the end of the room boasting some hellish scene. He skirted isles of couches and chairs in the great room, and finally found a foyer and two heavy 12-foot high front doors made of thick walnut planks reinforced with decorative iron stays. They were locked. When he heard a noise, he retreated to a stairway which descended to another lower level. There he found a corridor which eventually turned into a rough stone tunnel; he followed it to an opening in a cliff overlooking an ocean. It was dark, but he found ledges and paths leading him across the cliff face to a dry creek bed that led upward from the cliff face. He surfaced about a mile from a towering castle looming out of the mist – his place of torment.
After wandering for two days, exhaustion drove him to sleep fitfully beside large rocks for shelter from the moor winds at night. Finally he came across a road. Later that day, he was picked up by a Scottish motorist with a brogue so thick he could barely understand him. When asked where he was headed, Gallo, confused, simply answered: “Home.”
“Then you’ll be going to the ferry, I suppose,” the Scot said, noting the remnants of his Italian accent. He drove him to a seaside town where a ferry was in port. Gallo had walked on board behind a family; no-one challenged him for a ticket.
He hitch-hiked his way to London on a lorry but by the time they reached the city, the driver, seeing him sweating and trembling uncontrollably, brought him directly to a hospital. There he was admitted and treated for exposure and extreme dehydration. Identification in his pocket resulted in a call to Rome. When the call came, Malachi sent Father Murphy and a plane to bring him to Rome.
For the next few months, the Crusaders had been charged with finding the castle where Gallo had been held. The search had gone nowhere. It was as though it had vanished off the face of the earth. They couldn’t even find the lorry driver who had given him a lift.
As Father Gallo went through therapy, he remembered more and more details of his captivity. What he didn’t understand was why he had been freed? Again, though there were many hypotheses put forward, nothing seemed to make sense. In the end, they went back to simply trying to find the demon. Amen, thought Gallo. Good luck to us all if we find it.
The cardinal surveyed the others in the room. Despite the disparity of their ecclesiastical rank, they were all dressed in simple black robes for these occasions. It was a sign that as members of The Seven they were equal in hierarchy and voice. Only Malachi had the final word on decisions.
The rules, set many years ago, were wise and complete: no attempts at brinkmanship, no petty vendettas and no attempts at self-glorification. Instead, they searched for commonality to prove that they shared more together than they owned individually. And, they recognized that, collectively, the sum of their group was stronger than its parts.
The only truly democratic choice they made was in regards to language. Since four of the seven men spoke perfect Italian, but the other three had only a passing knowledge of the language, (and yet all spoke reasonable English), they decided to use English as their common tongue.
Finally, they resolved to dedicate their lives to the fulfillment of their singular purpose. Under the Supreme Pontiff, and within the doctrine of theological or canon law, and in the name of the Holy Roman Catholic Church, these learned men and servants of God were united in their desire to kill or, at least, banish Adramelech back to whence he came.
Under the Supreme Pontiff indeed, Malachi mused to himself. The flaw in that rationale was that the Supreme Pontiff changed. And, with each new pope the degree of commitment from the Holy See changed.
It was fine that years ago, Pope John Paul II had, on his appointment, again endorsed their mission, and even increased their funding through the miscellaneous item in the Vatican’s annual Financial Operating Plan. And that he encouraged them to continue their important work. In fact, everything worked even after Paul’s death with newly appointed prelates benignly sanctioning their mission without fully understanding it. Malachi’s budget had been faithfully renewed each year. But when the Curia accountants implemented their new software programs, his budget disappeared. And, because their mandate was so secret, Malachi needed papal approval for reinstatement of the monies. One-by-one they had to shut down various operations around the world. While some line items such as the lease on the aircraft, the pilot’s salaries and the Watchmen had been covered in advance, they had had to recall their official “hit” squad from New York. And, with His Holiness an innocent prisoner of his bureaucratic Prefecture, getting the budget renewed was taking longer than he had expected.
Well, Malachi hoped he’d taken care of that problem and that Bortnowaska would get him the time needed to convince His Holiness of the urgency of their mission. He relit his cigar and looked at his companions who were now getting as restless as he. A heavy pall of smoke hung in the air despite the fact that Malachi was the only one smoking. He puffed furiously on his thick Havana as he faced Gallo. “They landed on time,” he said shortly, deliberately eyeing the man’s wine glass. “But I can’t raise Aquila on his cell. Nor any of the others.”
“Perhaps they’re caught in traffic,” Monsignor Rautenberg interrupted, his deep voice, and thick German accent seeming to lend an air of wisdom and finality to whatever he said. “Captain Bowden told us he dropped them at the limo and they were preparing to depart when he last saw them.”
The man could order a ham sandwich and make it sound like a reading from the gospel, Malachi thought. He shrugged at the latest excuse and resumed his pacing. Rautenberg was being unusually optimistic since he usually saw doom and gloom around every corner. Now, well past eighty, the Monsignor had come to the priesthood as a much-decorated German Luftwaffe pilot from WW II. He was known in the group for his resourcefulness, his kindness and his courage. The man had been shot out of the skies three times, had two Iron Crosses packed away in his room, and limped from having taken a British Spitfire’s .303 caliber machine gun bullet through his right thigh. How, even with rehabilitative therapy, he managed to get up and walk after doctors had pieced his splintered bones together in a ten-hour operation had astounded his medical team. Still, when it came to hard decisions regarding his Crusaders, he never hesitated to call the shots. Nor would he ask them to do anything that he wasn’t prepared to do himself.
When Malachi thought about another member of his team, Father Gant, he also had faith in his ability to do whatever needed to be done. A brilliant man, he seemed almost comical when he walked since he was bent forward at a 35-degree angle. It was as though the top half of his body was anxious to arrive at his destination before the lower half caught up. In reality Malachi knew scoliosis had set in and was tak
ing its toll.
A wiry, tough 65-year-old, still sporting a crop of red hair and without an ounce of fat on his body, Gant brought endurance, strength of purpose and pragmatism to their little group. As Keeper of the Relic, Gant was a critical component of Malachi’s team since it was he who would determine if circumstances warranted risking the Church’s treasurers which he guarded like a jealous uncle. It had been tough enough to persuade him to lend the Relic for the test with Maria. So it was critical that he be fully informed, and fully cognizant of why they had to risk damaging, and possibly losing the Relic in this venture.
The others were also all good men, Malachi thought.
“Aquila would call if there was trouble,” Father Austin ventured, seated at the end of the table.
The cardinal looked over at him and smiled. “If he could...” he said, thinking the man looked exactly like what he had been – an arctic missionary. His heavy beard, thick eyebrows and lumberjack hands seemed to suit him more for the far north rather than duties in the Vatican. Yet Malachi knew that the man had strength of character and an iron faith that was enviable. And he had given up much to minister to Inuit within Canada’s Arctic Circle.
During his time in the north, he survived a violent polar bear attack, as evidenced by horrible scarring on his face, and twice been trapped on Arctic ice flows with his young Inuit charges and almost froze to death.
Most people felt uneasy in Austin’s presence because of his size and somewhat grizzled appearance; he used his beard to hide a now deformed chin and lips. His muscular frame, and wild hair promised a ferocity of personality, totally at odds with the man’s eyes that betrayed his true nature; he was the personification of a gentle giant, a loving, sensitive man who felt genuine pain at the hurt or sorrow of others.
Finally, Bishop Jean Castilloux, their Public Relations man had a seemingly simple responsibility – deal with any potential press coverage of any of their groups. In fact, his job was quite complex. If word got out that the Catholic Church was actively hunting a true demon, they would experience a major credibility problem, or even panic in the Christian world. To avoid discovery, Castilloux had developed a host of linked cover stories and proactive strategic actions to mitigate any PR disasters.
Malachi thought of the other members of their team: members of the Watchmen group tracking and guarding Lieutenant Clay Montague, as well as the Crusaders, a grim squad of trained killers. These men had all been put through the British Army’s Special Air Services (SAS) assault and counter-terrorism training, reputed to be the toughest and most demanding combat training in the world. Varying in strength (depending on circumstances) from three to four men, they were ready for anything as they were armed with Smith & Wesson Model 500 .50 caliber revolvers, Brugger & Thomet MP9 submachine guns, grenades, holy water, incense, blessed hosts, silver bullets, blessed stakes and heavy mallets. Indeed, formidable weaponry. Practical as well as spiritually focused men, this current “squad” was merely a modern representation of dozens of other church hunter/killer groups that had once existed.
From the Chamber, Malachi’s group would periodically send out designates to gather facts on suspicious murder sprees and report. There was little doubt when the Hellspawn had been involved – exsanguinations, mutilations, motiveless and random killings were his mark. Twice during the past few years, they had been close behind him.
In fact, they had actually dispatched the Crusaders to locations in France and Spain. Sadly, they were unsuccessful in their apprehension attempts. In France he had escaped minutes before they arrived with their tools of death. And in Toledo, Spain, another Crusader had been successfully separated from his team, lured to a back alley, and paid for his mistake with his life.
They regrouped and realized that one fact now seemed indisputable. According to their analysis, each time it managed to attack, rest and reappear, it had become stronger and less vulnerable to holy objects; each time, the power of Christ affected it less and the traditional weapons favored by the hunters from the church also had less effect.
One other bit of information also surfaced. As it grew stronger, it was able to shape-shift into human form at will. According to the last victim who died moments after being discovered, the only things that didn’t change were the demon’s eyes – lifeless, reflective and mesmerizing. Hit them with a flashlight and they glowed with a wolf-like fire that seemed able to laser a smoking hole in one’s soul.
Now it was on the move again. This time they had to find it and kill it. If they didn’t, the world would soon know the dark dominion of satanic rule.
Malachi’s cell phone suddenly let forth a chime of the William Tell Overture and he snatched it up. It was Father Murphy telling him they were on their way and needed medical help. Bishop Aquila needed an eye doctor. He would call back when they were closer.
~ 4 ~
Whatever happened to them back at the airport was beyond his understanding Clay decided as the limo bounced and swayed. In fact, the entire situation was like something out of a Cohen Brothers’ movie. After being shot in his New York office with tranquilizing darts by a couple of men who turned out to be catholic priests, and flown God knows where in an aircraft outfitted like a medical center, he now found himself on the equivalent of Disney’s “Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.” They were roaring through the back streets of an unknown city with a body in the trunk, a bishop desperately needing medical attention, and a nun who, so far, seemed like the least crazed of the bunch.
After the explosion, Bishop Aquila had decreed they skip Customs, and the limo had bumped over grass with its lights off as huge jets took off and landed around them. At one point they waited until a lumbering 747 the size of a small building landed a mere 30 feet ahead of them on the strip making their vehicle lift and shudder. Then, without hesitation, and with lights off, Murphy floored it and crossed behind the jet where they were buffeted and almost overturned by vortices twirling off its wingtips. They could hear the sudden roar of its jets reversing as they made the grass on the other side. The priest then steered around some bushes, braked, and unlocked a padlocked gate in the security fence. Within a minute they were bouncing over a small hill and onto a highway.
Since they talked about Customs, they must have left the United States, Clay reasoned. They’d been on the road for almost 20 minutes now and he’d given up trying to spot landmarks through the darkened back window and the drawn window curtains. Instead he was trying to elicit any bit of information he could from his companions. As of yet, he hadn’t decided if they were truly his saviors or were his jailors; he only knew that he was still with them and no-one was poking a gun in his ribs to keep him there.
Clay tried once again. “Where are we?”
“You are safe,” Aquila said.
“Thanks, but that’s not what I asked?” He was feeling more awake now.
“But that’s what I answered, my son,” the bishop returned dryly, but not unkindly. Aquila sat on an upholstered bench with his back to the driver while Clay and Maria faced him from the back seat of the limo. His glasses were gone, the skin around his eyes was extremely red, and a milky, cloud-like substance covered his eyes. Though he couldn’t see at all, he claimed not to be in pain. Finally he sighed once more and whispered, “You are in Rome.”
Clay took this in without a word. He was in Rome? He watched the others in the car.
The old man held a tumbler of brandy in hand given to him by Maria from a small bar in the limo. He awkwardly slopped the liquid into his mouth every few seconds, scarcely paying heed to the amounts dribbling down his chin and onto his dark suit.
“Father Murphy said we’ll get you a doctor when we arrive, Your Grace,” Maria said, reaching out to clasp his free hand which lay curled in his lap. It felt cold and clammy to the nun.
The bishop didn’t reply but just stared unseeingly ahead with the same flat, facial expression he’d maintained since his momentary lapse of control on the tarmac.
“We’re on our
way to a hospital, I hope?” Clay ventured. No one answered him. Deducing that Maria was his best hope of an answer, he pressed again. “Sister, what happened back there?”
Before Maria could speak, Aquila whispered again: “Adramelech.”
Clay looked at the man. “Adramelech?”
The bishop sighed and took another slug of brandy. “In Panama you were touched by evil...by the supernatural, Lieutenant, so please learn to accept it. Denial only leaves you vulnerable. If you can suspend your worldly beliefs for a time, and realize that there is a spiritual world that occasionally crosses over into ours, you might survive this. Now, please...let us all rest. We have no idea what trials await us.”
Clay felt goose bumps rise as the vague image of a giant shadow turning towards him in the stifling heat of a jungle night flashed into his mind. He shivered and shook his head at the memory. Get a grip, he told himself harshly. That memory was false, the remnant of a nightmare.
Aloud he said, “I don’t exactly believe in the supernatural, sir. The only thing I met in Panama that was evil...was the enemy and they carried Chinese T65 Assault rifles...among other armaments.”
“Not true, Lieutenant,” the old man said. “Or your wife and your deputy would still be alive. Now if you don’t mind...?” He settled back against the cushions to rest but didn’t close his eyes.
Clay stared at him. Jody and Hitch would still be alive? They weren’t kidding. Obviously they had been following him for years.
The rest of the journey was conducted in awkward silence over the next 25 odd minutes. The limo accelerated, slowed and sped up again until it finally slowed and stopped. There was a hurried conversation with some form of guards and Clay heard the groaning and squealing of a huge iron gate being opened in front of them. Beside him, he felt the warmth of Maria’s thigh pressed against his. She didn’t seem to notice and the vehicle smoothly accelerated through the gates. It pulled to the curb a few minutes later.
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