They all disembarked by a five-story, stone building with yellow lights glowing from rows of windows above. It looked somewhat like an older, traditional New York apartment building except for the fine stone work surrounding its balustrade and doorway. It was a relatively bright night and in the light of the moon, he could make out eerie gargoyle-like carvings staring down at them as they gathered on the sidewalk.
A hurried conference was conducted in the warm night air by his companions as pairs of nuns in billowing black habits periodically swept by on the sidewalk. The occasional priest or brother also strode by, their demeanors conveying an urgent errand as they suddenly materialized out of the darkness and were quickly swallowed up by the shadows again.
Clay could barely make out what Murphy and the bishop were saying other than they were arguing over something. He strained to catch what he could.
“...see the doctor now,” Murphy argued.
“I’ll see him when I’m ready,” returned Aquila. “Take me to the Chamber.”
They argued for a few more moments in low, guarded tones and finally Murphy threw up his hands. “We’ll ask the doctor to attend him there.” He and Maria helped Aquila back into the automobile.
“Good bye,” Maria said to Clay, slipping back into the limo after the bishop and leaving Clay and Father Langevin on the sidewalk.
Clay felt his stomach sink. Why he felt that way, he wasn’t exactly sure. After all, the huge losses in his life had paid one dividend; there wasn’t a lot more in this world that could hurt him any longer. And, with his emotional and caring side numbed by his tragedies, he had been content to accept the penalty of loneliness, a fact born out by few friendships and zero love affairs since Jody’s death. Self-preservation had rigidly kept his emotions in balance, a simple equation that said that the less he had – the less he had to lose. Clay just couldn’t risk losing any more.
So why the sudden concern, he wondered. Why did he feel a knee-weakening sense of loss at her departure?
He stared at Maria arranging herself in the back of the limo beside the bishop. She looked up at him out the open back door and caught his eye. They stared at each other for a moment, her eyes plainly mirroring a sudden confusion. He felt a stirring within himself that he couldn’t understand. She said nothing. He kept mute. The only sign she gave him was a barely perceptible raising of her eyebrows and an enigmatic smile.
As Clay looked at her a moment longer, his heart beat faster and his palms began to sweat. He swallowed and realized with a certainty reserved for sinners and saints that he was deathly afraid that he might never see this girl again. But, at the same time, he acknowledged to himself that he was being ridiculous. She was, after all, a nun.
Spotting worry in his eyes, Maria raised a hand in good-bye. “Father Langevin will see to your needs,” she called softly through the open door. “Don’t worry, Mr. Montague. God has watched over you so far. All will be well.”
Before Clay could answer, Father Murphy slammed the back door, resumed his driver’s seat and the automobile pulled smoothly away into the night leaving him and Langevin alone on the sidewalk under the night sky.
Inside the building, Clay was led up a winding set of creaking wooden stairs, along musty corridors featuring yellowed drawings and painting of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. They moved past graphic renditions of recognizable biblical parables, and through stone archways into which the likeness of various saints had been carved. The scowled down at him. As they moved they encountered no-one in the hallways and finally reached a door in the corridor that was carefully unlocked by the priest.
“It’s rather sparse but at least you can get some sleep here,” Langevin explained, opening the door. Hinges that could have used a good oiling, squeaked loudly.
Clay entered and saw at once that the priest had not exaggerated. The room contained a simple wooden bunk, a desk with a small lamp, a wooden chair, a foot locker and a large armoire. Other than a wooden cross on one wall, and a naked bulb hanging from an electric wire from the 20-odd-foot high ceiling, the only other feature was a twisted stream of fly-paper with several dead guests clinging to it. And, over the bed, on a plaster wall yellowed by time and exposure another ancient-looking painting of the Sacred Heart of Jesus was displayed.
The naked bulb cast a weak, yellow light on the plastered walls which he guessed had been painted white at one time. Another door led to a washroom, and a single small window set high in the wall, completed his new surroundings.
“I really didn’t deserve the Royal Suite,” Clay said. A tired sigh escaped him.
Langevin chuckled. “The opulence of the Vatican – of which you hear so much – starts when you rise above the rank of monk.”
Vatican, thought Clay. So that’s where we are. Why wasn’t he surprised? Outwardly he merely shrugged at Langevin and went over and sat on the bunk, grateful to be off his feet again. The springs came through the thin mattress and dug into his hips and posterior. He was feeling less groggy now and inpatient to be back in charge of his own destiny. “I’d like some answers,” he said finally, sitting up straight.
Langevin shook his head. “I’m not authorized to tell you anything.” The priest crossed to the walnut-stained door in the far wall, opened it and entered. “Bathroom with shower here, razor, tooth brush...all the comforts of home.” His voice echoed hollowly in the tiled room.
“Then what’s to prevent me from leaving here and going to the police?” Clay called.
“Curiosity?” Langevin ventured, smiling as he came back into the room.
“Not good enough.”
“How about self-preservation?” Langevin had stopped smiling. “After all, if you weren’t with us here in body tonight, Mr. Montague, I can assure you that you would most certainly be dead. Or worse.”
Clay felt his temper rising. “Enough of this nonsense,” he said. “I can take care of myself. You can’t just walk up, drug a man and take him out of the country. There are laws, even in Italy!”
Langevin nodded toward the footlocker by the bed and continued: “You’ll find pajamas, and an assortment of clothes in there and in the armoire. Size forty, 15 inch neck, 33 inch sleeve...32 inch inseam if I’m not mistaken.”
Clay tried again: “Can you tell me just one thing?”
Langevin sighed, obviously felt sorry for him and shrugged. “Depends.”
“I saw that driver tonight. Why was he killed? And what kind of murderer rips the heart out of his victim?”
The answer hit Clay like a bucket of ice water.
“The same kind of killer who skins his victim from the neck up and crucifies them upside down,” the priest said with a look that sent shivers up Clay’s spine. “Now I’ll bid you good night and see you...sometime.”
His tone said he was through answering questions and without another word, he turned on his heel and left the room. The door closed softly.
Clay waited two minutes and then tip-toed to the door and tried the knob. It wouldn’t budge. It was locked from the outside.
At least now he had a clearer idea of who they really were. They were his jailors.
~ 5 ~
The next day morning came earlier than usual for Sister Maria Lapierre.
A gentle tap on her door at 5:50 a.m. cut through her nightmare like a careless scalpel slicing into a doctor’s fingertip. Instantly awake, she bolted up, heart racing and realized there was no faceless entity from hell chasing her on a lonely, rain-swept street. Maria gazed at her surroundings in confusion; within seconds, however, the memories flooded back and she re-oriented herself.
She looked down to see she was clothed only in her bikini brief panties as she sat up on the narrow brass bed. Vaguely she remembered having taken a moment to remove her sweater, bra and skirt the night before, and then, surrendering to a mind-numbing weariness, she had collapsed back on the coarse wool of the bed’s hand-woven quilt. Judging from her position on the bed, she’s scarcely moved all night. Her cloak had been hastily
thrown over a chair. She squinted at her Seiko still strapped to her wrist.
“Five A.M....!” she groaned and was interrupted by another, more urgent rap on the door. Instinctively she covered her bare breasts with her hands and then dropped them as she realized she was alone; no one could see her nakedness. And for sure no-one would be allowed to see her bikini briefs. Though a novice, Maria embraced a single weakness – a love of provocative underwear and sleepwear. Perhaps she would give them up as a sacrifice when she took her final vows, she though. But not just yet.
“Just a minute!” Maria called out.
Taking in the Spartan decor of the room, Maria swung her legs over the edge of the bed. A heavy wooden bureau, unframed wall mirror, table and a single ladder-backed chair completed the furniture of her assigned domicile at Our Lady of Mount Carmel convent. Even the cracked, plaster walls, a rosy pink muted by time and moisture, failed to offer any form of creature comfort such as a painting or wall hanging. Predictably, a tarnished brass cross hung over her bed with withered Easter palm fronds tucked securely between the splayed figure of Christ and the cross. Her packed suitcase sat near the bureau. Actually she thought, she would have preferred the Holiday Inn again; it had a Jacuzzi in the bathroom.
Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Maria stood, yawned and stretched, hoping to banish the aching weariness that seemed to have penetrated every muscle of her small frame. As she did so, she caught sight of herself in the mirror.
The golden rays of the morning sun, streaming through an open window across the room, painted the ripe firmness of her half-naked body a golden yellow. She felt a momentary pride in the fullness of her small but firm breasts, dark nipples standing proud and erect. For a brief second she found herself thinking of Clay Montague and wondering what it would be like to be with him.
She pushed the thought away even as she felt the vague, deliciously warm sensation of her libido stirring in her loins, and the familiar flush reddening her neck and cheeks. Embarrassed at her shamelessness, she pushed the thoughts aside. Would she never be free of her sexuality she wondered with annoyance? After all, she would soon take her final vows and become a Bride of Christ. And, He knew her every thought.
Quickly she pulled the blanket off the bed to wrap around her body and went to answer the door. Passing the open window, Maria looked out and spotted a lineup of birds singing with wild abandon outside. Two ancient olive trees, set on a carefully manicured lawn just beyond the window opening, provided ready-made bleachers for the feathered chorus; no doubt successive generations of these birds had used them down through the ages, she thought. She was thrilled to be in Rome again. For a young Quebecois who had never been farther than Montreal prior to her Rome visits, she was certainly making up for lost time.
It was a beautiful fall day, warm and full of promise. Though she felt tired, she also felt an underlying current of happiness throughout her whole being. Her thoughts returned to the detective again, and she angrily forced them away and recited a quick Hail Mary; it was madness to have any feelings other than Christian charity for this poor man. Besides, if everything went according to Cardinal Malachi’s plan, she would be spending more time with him than even he realized. She had better get her feelings under control as they certainly didn’t need any post-adolescence nonsense to compromise or complicate their work. Also, the cardinal had made it clear that what they would ask of her and the detective was highly dangerous.
The rap sounded again, even more impatient this time. As she crossed to the door, Maria could hear traffic outside the bedroom window as early commuters made their way to work.
“Yes?” she said softly, without opening the door.
“Morning devotions in-a-forty minutes, Sister,” a gentle voice said, the lyrical Italian accent giving the English words a sing-song quality.
“I’ll wash and be down directly,” she replied.
“Please no late, Sister Maria,” the voice pleaded, the tone, apologetic yet insistent. “Mother Superior doesn’t like anyone to be late for morning devotions...even guests.”
“I’ll be quick like a bunny.”
“There was a puzzled silence from outside and finally: “You have a rabbit in there, Sister?”
Maria laughed aloud. “No, no...I’ll be very fast.”
“Thank you, Sister.”
Maria heard nothing further so she crossed to the washroom to perform a scaled down version of her usual morning routine. She put toothpaste on her brush and took it into the small shower with her. The pipes creaked and groaned as she cranked up the hot tap. Despite selecting the maximum setting on the tap, the water never got above tepid. She shivered as she brushed her teeth and thought about the previous evening.
The detective had looked so distressed when she’d said goodnight. For a moment she thought he was going to protest her leaving. In turn, as she’d met his worried gaze, she’d been shocked to feel her heart do a strange flip-flop, the kind she’d felt as a school-girl when she was getting a crush on a boy.
This was silly, she told herself again. She certainly wasn’t any school girl, and as a nun, affairs of the heart no longer existed for her. She had promised undying devotion to the Father. Still, there was something about the detective that attracted her. Perhaps it was the quiet strength mirrored in his sensitive, grey eyes. Or, the set of his jaw and the underlying determination and confidence in the way he moved as the drugs had worn off. Despite only a passing knowledge of his history, she could sense that Clay was a man of integrity, someone bruised and battered by life, but who still clung to a fierce pride in himself and his actions.
Then she also remembered the feel of his muscular body covering hers as he pushed her to the tarmac the night before. Though his position in the overall scheme of things had rendered him somewhat vulnerable, he still came across as a take-charge individual, a man who would carefully weigh his options and make his move when the time was right.
Cardinal Malachi had told her he was also man who had been terribly hurt, his life thrown into a shambles by accusations of conspiracy in the death of a friend and fellow police officer. This had been quickly followed by the loss of his much-loved wife.
For another brief instant she again allowed herself to be catapulted back to the evening before at the airport as Clay reacted instinctively to the nightmare exploding out of the back of the limo. Again, she felt his strong arms dragging her down out of harm’s way. And, as they hit the pavement, she remembered the feel of his body on top of her putting himself in danger to protect her from whatever was happening; it was a bittersweet memory considering the loss of sight for the bishop.
The smile, that had played over her lips moments before, vanished as reality set in. A man was dead and she was facing an unknown future, one that the cardinal indicated might be both frightening and perilous. She sighed; the day seemed to hold less promise.
Maria ran fingers through her wet, tousled hair and opened the plastic shower curtain to reach for the shampoo on a ledge nearby. She caught sight of herself in the mirror through the steam from the shower and winched at the raccoon-like circles under her eyes. The hours these people kept were not exactly routine.
Last night, after they had dropped off Clay and Father Langevin, they’d driven to a lengthy meeting in the Chamber where she had first met The Seven. Cardinal Malachi and five other grim-faced clerics had insisted on grilling her and Fathers Murphy and Langevin while Bishop Aquila received medical attention from Doctor Carlo Casaroli, the Pope’s personal physician. He examined Bishop Aquila’s eyes in a corner of the Chamber as Father Murphy delivered his report.
Father Murphy’s narration held everyone spellbound. The Beast’s familiar had heralded his coming after Montague again. Their plane trouble also seemed too coincidental. And, finally, it had been waiting for them at the airport where it had killed their driver. On occasion, Murphy required prompting by Malachi when he stumbled over the more unbelievable portions of his tale, yet, with encouragement he gamely pre
ssed on. At his conclusion, he had stood silent.
The clerics had nodded, almost as one, seeming lost in thought. All except Cardinal Malachi. “So these were supernatural happenings...you saw evidence of the extraordinary with your own eyes, Father Murphy?”
“I suppose so, Your Eminence. Something blasted out of the limo...and that child should have been killed outright when she was hit by the car. There may be perfectly rational explanations...?” His voice had trailed off.
“A die hard skeptic still, Father? Despite what the Relic did for you?”
Murphy’s face had reddened and he looked down, almost in shame. “You didn’t let me finish. While there may be other explanations, I couldn’t come up with any.”
“Thank you, Dermottt,” Malachi said, kindly. “Hang on to that pragmatism, I’m sure we’ll need it.” He turned to the others. “It’s working; it’s trying desperately to find our man.” All nodded.
In the corner, the doctor was peering through an instrument and shining light into the bishop’s eyes. He murmured questions and the Bishop Aquila nodded or shook his head. Malachi switched off a small tape recorder he held in his hand. Maria noticed it for the first time when he clicked it off. He attempted to change tapes, put one in backwards, grumbled and finally slid it in properly, snapped it closed and hit the record button.
Next, she was asked to relate what had happened to her from the time she went on watch with Murphy and Langevin up until they arrived at the Vatican that evening. She was cautioned to include every detail of what she saw, heard or felt, no matter how trivial.
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