“Of course. Let’s approach this from another angle. You were raised a Catholic. Do you believe in the Catholic Church? In its holy mission to bring the world to Christ?”
Clay pondered this for a moment. “I was raised a Catholic. And, as a boy I believed everything I was supposed to believe. But as a thinking adult, I see the church as just another powerful organization with a goal. I’m just not entirely sure what the goal is these days.”
Malachi sighed. “It’s true. We have become heavily bureaucratic, out of touch with modern reality and, sometimes we lose sight of our God-given charitable mandate. Sometimes we pursue earthly power and wealth rather than focus on the spiritual side of mankind. These are self-acknowledged failings which we strive each day to overcome. And we pay the price as people turn away from God and the church.”
Clay nodded, both surprised at this admission and grateful for the candor. It was hard not to like this man.
“However,” Malachi continued, “when the lure of prestige subsides, when the bright lights flicker and die, and we find ourselves adrift in this increasingly dark world, every true priest worth his salt will come down on the side of God and His teachings.”
“Really? Every priest?” Clay regretted his barb even as he said it but Malachi did not blink.
The cardinal caught his meaning and sighed. “You’ll notice I said ‘true’ priests. These men who invaded our ranks have done a very effective job of shaming our Mother the Church. They did not come to the priesthood as innocents and then were corrupted. They came as they were and brought their dirty little secrets with them. How could we know? Unfortunately, when we did know, too many decision-makers became terrified of the consequences of a few evil men and didn’t handle it properly. We have more than 400,000 priests around the globe serving the spiritual needs of 1 billion Catholics – 17 percent of the world’s population. Show me any organization this size and I’ll show you much more corruption than what we have. But don’t get me wrong, I am not defending a single one of them. Slowly we are working to rectify the wrongs where we can. Undoubtedly, Satan is laughing long and hard at our naivety.”
Malachi rose, crossed to a sideboard and poured himself a drink of water. He held up the jug to Clay and Maria but both shook their heads. He resumed his seat behind the desk, took a healthy drink, set it down and made a small steeple with his fingers. He sighed and settled back.
“Let us get back to the problem at hand. First I’ll tell you who Adramelech is according to ancient text. We first find him as an arch demon of hell. In fact, at one time he was the president of the Senate of the demons. In Judeo-Christianity he is also known as the Chancellor of Hell. In Poet Robert Silverberg’s short story Basileus, he is described as: ‘The enemy of God, greater in ambition, guile and mischief than Satan.’ That’s an apt description. Let us just say that we believe Satan saw Adramelech’s power and his ambition, and so decided that he didn’t need anyone around to compete for leadership after all the usurpers were banished from Paradise. He summoned Adramelech and gave him an earthly mission: to triumph over God’s creatures and turn them from the Trinity. It is only with God’s goodness that we have survived so far.”
“Meaning no disrespect, sir,” Clay said, “but I really find it hard to believe there is any defined power for good when I watched my poor mother pray to die because of her suffering. I saw my beautiful young wife, who never hurt anyone, smashed to pieces in a senseless accident. And, I saw a salt of the earth guy like my deputy, tortured and murdered for nothing. So when you ask me if I believe in God...quite frankly, I don’t. I’d be much more inclined to believe in the devil. If I believed in anything these days.”
“Quite understandable since you’ve seen his representative up close and personal,” Malachi shot back.
The image of the large cloaked figure looming over the young soldier came back to Clay again and he shuddered. “I don’t know what I saw that night...if anything. A doctor told me what I thought I saw was merely a personification of evil that I manufactured in my mind.”
“We all take comfort in rationalizations, Mr. Montague. Perhaps it was a personal nightmare. You just have to ask yourself that, if it was a personal nightmare, how come we all know about it?” Malachi leaned forward over the desk. “Let’s put aside our theories and get down to brass tacks. You’re a detective. I’d like to hire you to do some detective work for me.”
“This keeps getting more bizarre.”
“Hear him out,” Maria said, quickly.
“Mr. Montague...listen carefully. I run an organization of Everto Semita – Demon Trackers. We have met with varying degrees of success but we need help – professional detecting help. The Vatican will pay you a thousand dollars a day plus expenses to find Adramelech and tell us where he is.” Malachi sat back and waited.
“And how am I supposed to do that?”
“He has a nasty habit of calling attention to himself by murdering people. In quantity. For their blood. For instance, there have been a string of murders in London, England, recently. Streetwalkers have been dying at the rate of one or two a week. And Scotland Yard reports they are drained of blood – Adramelech’s MO. The police are looking for a modern day Jack the Ripper.”
“The Millennium Ripper,” Clay said, recalling a news report.
“We should be so lucky,” Malachi said. “This Ripper is not human.”
“Assuming there is any credence to this story of some sort of blood-sucking monster, I have to ask why?”
“Why what?”
“Why does it need blood?”
“We can only suppose that Satan has some perverted sense of humor. As the blood of Christ was to be shed for all mankind, he ensured that his creature needed the blood of mankind to help him continue his battle against Christ and all He stands for. If you saw Adramelech in his ‘natural’ embodiment, you’d know immediately that he’s a very different breed of cat – too monstrous to move within our society. But after he awakens each time, and ingests human blood, he attains the ability to become, at will, more human. In other words, he is a shape shifter.”
“And, if I believed any of this,” Clay asked, “what stage is he in now?”
“We’ve no idea. We do know this. He is knowing, but not all knowing. Powerful but not all powerful. He can be killed but only by a holy instrument blessed in the name of God. And after a time, he returns from the dead. Or a temporary incapacitation – whatever you care to term it. That much we know for certain.
“We also had a priest kidnapped by him and the little girl you met. This priest claims to have seen the horrors of hell but remembers little else. Then for some unknown reason, he was allowed to escape his imprisonment.”
“Allowed to escape?”
“Yes.”
Clay thought back to the VA hospital and probed his memory for the name of the priest who disappeared. “Father Gallo?”
Malachi stared at him for a moment and then a slight smile crossed his face. “Very good. You not only remember, you are able to put together diverse happenings and to look for patterns or clues – the sign of a good detective.”
“How did he get away?”
“Essentially he walked out. But he knew well the legend: that Adramelech tracks down and kills –” Malachi stopped abruptly. “Anyhow, we brought him back to the Vatican and this has become his safe-house of sorts. As it has been for you.” The cardinal smiled. “A thousand dollars a day, Mr. Montague?”
“If I took on this...assignment,” Clay said, “where would I begin?”
“London. You’ll work with Sister Maria.”
Clay thought again for a moment. Something was missing. “Surely an organization like the Vatican already has detectives it can recruit? Vatican Police...whatever? Why me?”
Maria looked at Clay but again quickly looked away. The detective sensed an uneasiness as Malachi answered in a deliberate, matter-of-fact tone. “Let’s just say you are somewhat aware of what you’re dealing with. And, you h
ave the added incentive of knowing that it savagely tore up your good friend Hitchcock...and then sent your poor wife plummeting to her death over a cliff.”
Despite knowing the cardinal was deliberately playing to his desire for revenge, Clay couldn’t help rising to the bait. For the first time in his life, he actually felt his blood run cold.
~ 9 ~
The child pulled her knees close in a useless attempt to keep warm. Once again, though she felt nothing physical, habit made her try to warm herself as she crouched in the corner of the dank London sewer. She was so tired and yet she could never sleep. For hours, a thousand tiny silken threads of cobwebs had flowed around her as hundreds of spiders worked their magic to create their intricate traps and capture and crunch the ever-present insects crawling busily along the stone floors and walls. From her feet to her head, she was virtually half hidden by a gauze of webs. No insects avoided the child as there was no movement nor any tell-tale temperature elevation to alert them to the presence of a living body. But other sewer predators were not so easily fooled. They knew a potential meal when they saw it.
Two large rats, with nostrils twitching and red eyes blazing raced towards the girl. The child’s own eyes lit up like twin fires and a deep, very low growl grew in her throat as she bared scissor sharp teeth. Some primitive survival instinct, honed by millions of years of existence, warned the rodents this campaign was a particularly bad idea and they abruptly stopped, peeled off, and ran squeaking in terror back the way they came.
More sounds. At first Rosalita thought they were returning. But then she heard heavy footfalls approaching. Her Master strode out of the shadows sheathed in a dark suit and a long black cloak that dragged unheeded through the puddles of water and animal urine forming tiny lakes in depressions left in the ancient cracked stone floor. She looked up at the strong, pale face, and the greenish yellow eyes. She felt such a surge of love and devotion that she could barely contain herself. Eager to please, she prostrated herself on her stomach, raised her buttocks and waited. But he was there for another purpose. A large hand picked her up by her shift and she was suddenly on her feet. Gently he brushed off the webs that fell like angel gauze to the stone floor.
“We have work to do tonight, Rosalito,” he said to her, his voice deep and guttural. “Those who have seen must be destroyed. You, my dearest, will bring me more sustenance – two to give me the strength I shall need. So go. Bring back what I ask. I eat first...and then we shall hunt.”
The child felt the hand release her and she quickly scurried towards an iron door that concealed stone steps leading to the London street grill above. Though its rusted condition and formidable weight would have prevented most strong men from opening it, she grasped the handle and easily pulled it wide with its metal hinges screeching and popping in protest. She must not displease her Master...for he could make even the dead feel pain and terror. She moved ahead purposely.
Slipping through the opening, she made her way up the steps towards the surface. Above her she could now see that it was dark and raining. And, as she climbed, she could hear the swish of the occasional car blasting through rain puddles pooling on the pavement. All she had to do was find two women plying the oldest trade in the world and lead them back down the stone steps to her Master. If they didn’t come willingly, then she would take them anyhow.
Once a younger call girl had refused to accompany her and tried to scream when she was seized. The child had simply reached up, grabbed her throat and squeezed until her larynx ruptured and blood boiled out of her mouth. The screaming had ceased immediately, as soon did her struggles. Fortunately her heart had continued to beat so that when Adramelech pierced her veins, it was an easy meal.
Either way, she could not return empty handed. Tonight, two more women would yield up their life-sustaining nourishment begging and thrashing about as they so desperately fought for life.
Rosalita looked up at the squared grill leading to the street above and easily pushed the 125-pound weight to the side. As she pulled herself up, she noted two ladies of the evening walking towards their favorite corner, barely 25 yards away. She turned away knowing they had seen her.
The taller one caught sight of Rosalita and both came to a halt.
“Hey child, you’ll catch your death. What in the name of Heaven are you doing out dressed like that? What are you up to, luv?”
With her back to them, Rosalita’s eyes began to glow as a wicked grin played across her features. She played the game, turned and held out her arms for help. Cooing softly in sympathy they came to her willingly.
~ 10 ~
Captain Wayne Bowden adjusted his large frame on the hotel bed, shook the London Times open to the city section, and sighed loudly at the headlines: SCOTLAND YARD INVESTIGATES PROSTITUTES’ DISAPPEARANCES. A kicker ran under it reading: Millennium Ripper prowls Soho. The story probed the disappearance of up to nine working girls in Soho and the finding of two more bodies which were under prolonged examination by Scotland Yard’s forensic pathology department. Though little news had been officially released, the press had managed to retrieve one bit of information; the bodies had been mutilated and virtually exsanguinated. From this came the speculation that some form of modern day Jack the Ripper was on the loose. Bowden shook his head. A sidebar story was headlined Highgate Murders – Has Ripper moved to The City of Shadows?
It told the story of two teenage girls being found in Highgate Cemetery side-by-side with battered skulls and gaping holes in their throats. With no signs of robbery or rape, the reporter was speculating as to whether the “ripper” had moved north of the city to Highgate Cemetery – a centuries old burying ground with an extensive systems of architecturally significant tombs, mausoleums, statues and catacombs.
“Ready to grab a bite?” Copilot Danny Gostini called exiting Bowden’s washroom while drying his hands with a small white towel. He threw the cloth on Bowden’s extra bed.
“Hey, mess up your own room,” Bowden said with a chuckle as Gostini quickly retrieved it and returned it to the washroom. “Yeah, let’s go. Café Latino on Frith Street okay?” He neatly folded the paper and placed it on the side table.
“Sounds good. I’m tired of Café Nero,” the First Officer answered affably. “We can walk.” He glanced at the newspaper’s headlines. “God, I thought crime in America was bad. Seems London is catching up.”
“No franchise on nutcases,” Bowden said. “When I was a kid and read stories about Jack the Ripper, I used to think we’d evolved since the last century. But then the Boston Strangler, Son of Sam, the Yorkshire Ripper and all those others made me realize the human race is pretty much stuck with its mixture of good, bad and indifferent. Unfortunately, their punishments hardly ever fit their crimes. They plead unhappy childhoods or insanity and the judges say: ‘Poor boy’.”
“For justice, my friend, you need politicians with the guts to pass the right legislation. Most live on a strata that isn’t touched by crime and so don’t give a rat’s ass.”
“You got that right.”
Five minutes later the two pilots, clothed in slacks, wool sweaters and waterproof windbreakers were making their way through the very streets of Soho named in the article, pausing occasionally to look in shop windows and then moving on. A light but chilling mist seemed to have thinned out the usual crowds so they hadn’t bothered with dinner reservations. Neither man was super hungry and they’d decided that if there was a prolonged wait, they’d find a coffee shop and settle for a couple of sandwiches.
“Did we get any marching orders from Rome now that the majors on the power plants are done,” asked Gostini, referring to their return to London for scheduled major overhauls on both A320 engines.
Out of habit, Bowden checked the pager on his belt for updates. No further messages. “Just what I received previously: Return to Rome tomorrow. The doc and his nurse will be at the airport by 0800 hours and fly back with us. Then, as usual, we wait. But, again, we have to be ready to move at a mome
nts notice. For what...or why...who knows! The only thing I’ve figured out so far is that they are looking for someone.”
“Blimey!” Gostini said in an exaggerated British accent. “Did I ever tell you I did a stint with FedEx ferrying everything from ant farms to a killer whale, as well as private work with the Saudi government transporting a prince’s six wives to wherever he needed them. And yet, this is the weirdest assignment I’ve ever had! A couple of times I even heard references to a demon. Demons! Boy!”
“No kidding,” Bowden said, dryly. Their footsteps echoed hollowly on the deserted side street they’d taken. “I heard the Bishop and two of his priests talking last week about the ‘Relic.’ Anyhow, when one priest saw I was half listening, he came up and slammed the cockpit door. Not a very friendly fellow.”
“No...they’d never make it as stand-up comics.”
Bowden laughed. “Yeah...welcome to my world of denial, servitude and self-flagellation.”
“They don’t beat themselves anymore,” Gostini said, his tone defensive.
“Aw...the eternal Catholic,” Bowden returned with a grin.
Gostini laughed, somewhat self-consciously. “When you’ve been raised in the Church, it never quite leaves you.”
“Maybe we wouldn’t have this gig if you weren’t Catholic. When I was interviewed, that was the first question they asked me.”
“Me too. But they seemed to be more interested in the fact that I was a bachelor and could be available 24/7.” He stopped and looked at a Swiss Rolex Submariner watch in a jewelry store’s window. “Always wanted one of those. Ever since I read that James Bond wore one.”
Bowden laughed again. “My Tag is good enough for me. Anyhow with the entire overtime premium we’re earning for stand-by, you should be able to afford one soon.”
“I don’t know,” Gostini said as they resumed walking. “No guarantees on the length of this assignment. They could pull the plug anytime.”
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