“So, again, it’s authentic?”
“Experts claim it is, though others maintain that these, and all other relics, are a lingering cultural manifestation of an illiterate world.”
“All right...what about this?” He held up the third photo.
Murphy merely gestured towards it. “What do you think?” The third photo, creased and spoiled by time, showed what appeared to be a close-up of a blackened four-sided, squared nail about 12 centimeters long; there seemed to be a new head attached. It rested in red velvet lined open box. “Very nice,” he said. “Don’t tell me this is what I think it is?”
Murphy nodded. “A nail from the cross on which Christ died. Also retrieved by Empress Helena.”
“An original nail?”
“Yes, though they added a new head that had been broken off.”
“If you say so.” He picked up the last photo, a petrified-looking blackened object that seemed about eighteen inches long, three inches wide and gradually tapered to a point.
“And this?”
“The largest known piece of the Wood of the Cross in existence today. This has never been made public. It was found in a second box behind the Titulus, but never announced. How can we be sure this is real? It’s common knowledge, through the ages, that there has been a thriving traffic in fake relics. Some maintain that if all the reputed pieces of the True Cross were assembled in one spot, we’d have enough wood to build a national forest.”
“You’re not making much of a case for its authenticity.”
Murphy smiled. “Carbon dating and historical records showed it was from the right time period and we have a mostly unbroken evidence chain that tells us it was one of many pieces brought back by Helena. It’s walnut, the type of wood used by the Romans. But that proved nothing. It could have been from a number of crucifixions. Something else convinced us of its authenticity.”
“And that was...?”
“By merely laying the Relic on a medically-documented, end-stage cancer patient, the tumors vanished in 24 hours. And stayed away. For eight years...so far. Medically impossible.”
“Really?” Clay said, giving him a hard look. “You see, that’s one of my problems with the Church, falsely raising hope for a miracle through prayer and faith.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“Then how do you know the cure resulted from exposure to this piece of petrified wood? Was the diagnosis accurate? Did someone follow this person home? Watch them for eight years?” Father Murphy took a deep breath and, for the first time, Clay glimpsed a range of emotions momentarily swirl across the man’s face. He even felt embarrassed for the priest as the man briefly turned away to wipe his eyes with a Kleenex. This was hardly the Murphy he’d seen last night, the weapon carrying, hard-bitten, dogmatic soldier cleric on some nebulous mission for the all-powerful Roman Catholic Church. He waited as the man regained his composure and cleared his throat. Finally, he looked Clay straight in the eye and said: “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“You? You were the dying cancer patient?” Clay thought for a moment and slid the photo back. Gently he said: “You’ve heard of psychosomatic healing? Maybe through your belief in the power of this-this...?”
“...miracle,” Father Murphy finished for him. “Afraid that doesn’t work. You see I have what we call conditional faith. Can’t help it. Despite what I do...I’m a ‘show me’ type of guy. My guts were being eaten out by cancer, I was 90 pounds, MRIs showed tumors with tumors on the tumors, and I was all set to meet my Maker. When one of the world’s leading oncologists tells you that you’re dead meat, it’s prudent to book a plot somewhere. I had given up. I’d made my peace with God and was even looking forward to learning the truth of life’s greatest mystery – are we but a flicker of light in a moment in time, or do we go on in some other form? Get my drift, lad?”
Their breakfast arrived and they talked as they ate. Murphy told him of his battle with the invasive lymphoma, his radiation and chemo treatments, weight loss, terminal prognosis and, finally...at death’s door...his miraculous healing. He had been chosen as a guinea pig to see if the relic might have any positive effect on him. The results were far more than merely dramatic. They were miraculous. He went on to voluntarily deliver a brief synopsis of his life.
Murphy was an Irish schoolboy who had grown up in civil-war torn Belfast and abhorred the violence that he witnessed on a daily basis. He was an only child, born late in life to his parents who doted over him. But by the time he was in university, they had both passed away leaving him enough of an inheritance to fund his college education. He had chosen theology as an elective subject and was fascinated by the origin, growth and hypotheses of organized religions around the world. It was during his first year that he began to suspect that he might have a calling to the priesthood. After several months of discussions with his parish priest and the local bishop, he had changed his subjects to more closely reflect those of a theological major. By the second year he was sure. Now, Murphy confided, 25 years later he found himself chasing something that belonged in a Stephen King novel.
“And what, exactly, are you chasing?” Clay asked.
Murphy shook his head, slowly. “Something that we all wish would go away. But it won’t. So I and some other dedicated souls have a job to do.”
By the end of breakfast, Clay felt a new respect, a closeness and even a liking for the priest. He pushed his plate away and finished off his coffee. “So who is this guy...Adramelech? The Bishop mentioned him last night?”
“I’ll leave that to the cardinal.”
“What’s the point of all this?” Clay gestured at the photographs.
Murphy studied him closely as though trying to assess how he was doing so far in his unofficial presentation.
“Perhaps to soften you up? Perhaps to convince you that there may be more credence to what we’re about to tell you than you’d care to admit. Perhaps to convince you that there is a God in Heaven and a devil in hell. Finally, to ask you to suspend disbelief long enough to give us a better chance at saving your life.” He looked at Clay. “And maybe the souls of billions from eternal damnation.”
Clay raised his eyebrows, bemused. “Souls of billions? Pretty high stakes, partner.”
Murphy eyed him and regretfully shook his head. “All I know is that the game is not over. I’m sorry. I’ve said too much. And, His Excellency, Bishop Aquila, also spoke prematurely last night. Cardinal Malachi is supposed to fill you in.”
Clay sighed. “Was that child on the street the same one from Vermont? And if so, how come she didn’t age?”
“Later, lad. Later.”
“Then tell me this,” Clay said. “Last night I smelled propane. Is that limo powered by propane?”
“Yes, I believe it is,” Murphy answered, slowly.
“Then that’s what happened. A small leak and when the gun was fired into the back, it set off an explosion.” Clay settled back in his chair, a satisfied smile creeping across his features at having solved the puzzle.
“Works for me,” Murphy responded perfunctorily and drained his cup. “Now I have to get you back to the Vatican my boy before they set the hounds after us and I have to do a round of penance. That might entail an absence of grog for a week or two and that would not be a laughing matter.”
As they left the restaurant, Murphy tried to press a wad of Euros into the waiter’s hand but he was dismissively waved away. “I’ll rack you up for a new set of indulgences at the ecclesiastical bank,” he called to the man as they exited. The old friends both laughed.
~ 8 ~
Malachi’s secretary was out to lunch so Murphy used the brass shrunken head door knocker to softly tap on the heavy oak door of his office. Clay looked at it and raised his eyebrows at Sister Maria standing beside them. She tried to look serious but the ghost of a smile played across her lips. An impatient acknowledgement came from inside and Murphy opened the door, ushered them in and eased it closed silently behind them. He didn�
��t enter.
“Good afternoon, Your Eminence,” Maria said, a slight nervousness in her voice.
“Sister Maria...Mr. Montague...welcome to my humble abode,” Cardinal Malachi said, jovially. He’d given up trying to get Maria to call him by his Christian name. “Just move those papers and books to the floor and drag the chairs up here.” He seemed to be searching for something on his desk piled high with dossiers, unopened mail and file folders of every description. They did as he asked and sat down. Malachi finally selected a bubble-pack envelope from a pile of papers, extracted a brown manila folder and glanced briefly at the contents. “Undoubtedly, after everything you’ve been through, you must have a few questions, Mr. Montague.”
“A few,” Clay admitted, careful to keep sarcasm from his tone. He stared at the cardinal in his black suit and white collar desperately trying to remember where he had seen him before. After a moment it came to him. This was the man who had briefly appeared at the VA hospital in upstate New York just as he was being discharged. So he was a colleague of the old priest who vanished?
Clay glanced around the office at the various weapons on the walls. He knew weaponry and recognized ancient blunderbusses, a Lee Enfield .303, a 7.65 “sportized” Mauser, two crossed, silver .45 caliber frontier-style Peacemaker Colts, a Mossberg .22 and an assortment of rapiers, cutlasses, scimitars, and foils. The remaining walls featured glass display cases showing various archeological artifacts as well as heavy bookcases containing cracked, leather-jacketed books whose spines featured faded, gold lettering.
On the cardinal’s desk sat, for all extents and purposes, a real human skull with a half-melted candle sticking out through a hole bored in the top. Obviously an original from the Edgar Allan Poe School of Interior Design, Clay thought.
The Cardinal finally sat forward. “Do you believe in evil?”
“Evil as in evil deeds?” Clay asked, surprised by the question.
“Call it an intrinsic evil. A force without any desire or chance for redemption.”
Clay shrugged. “In my police work I’ve run across suspects who appeared to be motivated purely by evil. I guess, as a man of God, you are constantly surprised by the evil man perpetrates?”
Malachi laughed and sat back, his chair creaking. “Quite the contrary, Mr. Montague. I am never surprised by the evil men do. I am, however, often surprised by man’s inherent generosity and goodness of spirit.”
“Was that the spirit in which I was kidnapped?” Clay couldn’t help himself.
“Actually it was,” Malachi said with a genuine smile. “Essentially you’re here because of what you saw on your last night patrol as a soldier in Panama.” The cardinal rocked absentmindedly in his chair and fixed Clay with an unwavering stare. “Do you remember?”
Clay sighed. “So many years ago? The night I was wounded?”
Maria watched him intently.
“Correct,” Malachi said.
“Alright, I thought I saw something odd. But it might well have been just a dream I had in the VA hospital.”
“Do you remember what happened at the Baker estate in Vermont the night your deputy died?”
Clay felt the goose bumps hairs rise on his arms and neck. “Of course.” His tone now more cautious.
“Anything extraordinary happen there that evening? Anything of consequence?”
“A good man died.”
Malachi sighed, got up from his desk, turned and looked out his window. He clasped two strong-looking hands behind his back as he gazed at dozens of ancient Vatican rooftops, some emitting smoke through centuries-old chimneys. These rooftops had covered up so many secrets, he thought. Some good; some best forgotten. But some of the bad had to be brutally kept alive so that those in the present could learn from the past. And, his job today was to stir up some of the less desirable realities of the past.
Clay glanced at Maria again. She seemed to be deliberately avoiding his eyes as she stared at the cardinal’s back.
Finally, Malachi spoke without turning: “I have a copy of your final report to the American FBI regarding the murder of your deputy. The whole thing: the girl, her superhuman strength, you firing and hitting her multiple times, and her apparent resurrection...the works. Have I left anything out?” He turned and sat back down.
“They thought I was delusional,” Clay said, slowly.
“But we both know they were wrong, don’t we? It all happened, just as you described and what killed your partner was something unholy, something from beyond the boundaries of what the FBI or any other police force was willing to investigate or acknowledge as reality.”
“You believe the report?”
“Yes,” Malachi said, simply.
“Do you know who killed Hitch? That little girl?”
Malachi shook his head. “I doubt it. We believe it was something much worse. Her master...an arch demon known as Adramelech.”
“An arch demon?” Clay rolled his eyes slightly. “You’re not serious?”
“Deadly serious. The Catholic Church has been hunting it in one form or another since we first formally confirmed its earthly existence...about nine centuries ago. We believe, however, that it’s been around for eons. Records show we have occasionally ‘put it down’ but it always returns.”
“And who’s the kid...another...demon?” Clay could barely get the word out.
“Her name was Rosalita Hickox, a Mexican child run over in 1840 by a wagon transporting gold from a mine in Sonora, Mexico. From our research we’ve discovered she was from a fairly rich family that, as was the custom, had seen her laid out in their living room before burial. But the same night she vanished. She was later seen alive a number of times in the company of a large stranger who was reputed to only appear at night. The family, believing she had somehow made a miraculous recovery and been kidnapped, pulled out all stops to find her. They succeeded up in Monterey, California. The story goes that she was, in fact, a zombie of sorts. They found her alone one evening and her mother and father seized and transported her to their Monterey domicile. Then they called in the local parish priest. The next morning, the Marshall was called to their residence where he found the parents and the priest murdered. The child was gone.”
“And how did she get from the year 1840 to now?” Clay asked, disbelief riddling his tone.
“From what we can tell, he sometimes ‘stashes’ familiars after they have fulfilled his needs. Later, he returns to where he has interred them and they reawaken, ready to serve again. In effect, he makes them immortal until he is finished with them.”
“Sir, with all due respect...,” Clay said, shaking his head; he wasn’t about to buy into a story that he’d been attacked by a 170-year-plus child corpse that had been brought back from the dead by a demon. No matter what had happened to him in Vermont.
“The Marshall’s report noted one strange thing,” Malachi continued as though Clay hadn’t spoken. “Despite the horrific mutilations, there wasn’t a drop of blood where they lay. And, the local doctor said they had little left in their bodies. Clean as bled-out pork.” He grimaced.
Maria added her voice to the discussion. “I know this sounds absurd, but I saw her on the street outside your office in New York. What she did defied logic. She had unbelievable powers.”
“I know....” Clay’s voice, almost a whisper, broke slightly. He took a deep breath. “I know...because I’ve seen it. Who is she? How can she take three .45 caliber slugs and survive?”
“You’re not listening,” Malachi said, with annoyance. “She’s immortal! Just like her master, Adramelech. The only thing that can put her, or her demon boss down is a stake, blessed by a man of God, driven through her heart.”
“Like in some vampire movie?”
“According to Sister Raphael that’s where most of the bogeyman and vampire stories come from,” Maria interrupted. “The only things that affect him are what have come out of the legends: Crucifixes or crosses representing Christ’s sacrifice, holy water and other
blessed objects. On the other hand, consecrated ground and religious statues have little effect. A Crucifix seems to work against him but reports over time have noted that even holy objects are losing some of their effectiveness each time he returns to life. It seems the longer he lives, the stronger he becomes. And, as near as Sister Raphael can tell, Adramelech has been awake again since the invasion of Panama.”
“You’re asking me to believe that there’s some immortal demon thing running around in the 21st Century?”
“Sort of what you asked the FBI to believe,” Malachi responded, his eyebrows arching in challenge.
Touché, thought Clay. Still, he shook his head in disbelief even as he asked: “So what’s this thing been doing for twenty-plus years?”
Malachi raised his hands: “Guatemalan civil war, Darfur, Rwanda, Iraq, Bosnia...we see his handiwork everywhere. And we always find a shadowy figure whispering in the ears of despots, dictators or warlords – someone without any retrievable history who invariably vanishes after the disasters. His purpose? Destroy faith and hope. As Roman poet Ovid said: ‘Take hope from the heart of man and you make him a beast of prey.’ Adramelech’s specialty!”
“So why am I here?”
“Do you believe in God, Mr. Montague?”
“I believe there’s a difference between right and wrong.”
“Nothing more?” Malachi sat back. “Do you know that more and more scientists and scholars are looking at Big Bang cosmology that brought matter, time, and space into existence, and other amazing discoveries such as an expanding universe, and are concluding that the idea of a transcendent power is entirely possible...and reasonable? That someone or something – take your pick – is responsible for our creation. That it wasn’t an accident or mere happenstance.”
“I’m sorry but I haven’t kept up with theories on our origin. I’ve been a little busy trying to figure out why the Catholic Church has kidnapped me.” Clay was getting tired of the dance.
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