“So far...so good. Besides they have tons of cash.”
“Every organization has controls,” the co-pilot answered. “Just because they have cash doesn’t mean they want to spend it on an aircraft and two pilots sitting around waiting for God knows what orders. Or orders from God.” He laughed at his own joke, already feeling bad for saying it.
“Hello!” Bowden came to a stop as a young, barefoot child stepped out of an alley about thirty feet in front of them. They stopped in surprise. “What the hell is a kid her age doing out on a night like this? And dressed like that?” He felt an immediate anger towards her parents as he looked about to see if there was any sign of them. Strangely, the street seemed to have grown even quieter than it had been; the usual throb of the city had abated. Other than themselves, it was deserted.
The child looked at Gostini, raised her forefinger and beckoned him to approach her.
“Hey little girl...stay there please!” The voice rang out from behind them and Bowden and Gostini turned expecting to see some very worried parents. Instead two helmeted London Bobbies had appeared and were hurrying towards them, their night sticks swinging.
Bowden swung back round towards the child and started as she moved and the muted glow of a street lamp fell on her face. Her eyes lit up like a Halloween pumpkin and for a brief instant he could only think of the eyes of an animal caught in the headlights of a car.
“Missy...stop!” the second officer said, as the constables drew abreast and passed Bowden and Gostini. The child had turned abruptly and darted back into the alley from where she’d come.
All four men hurried forward but when they came to the alley the child was nowhere in sight. The Bobbies quickly gave the pilots the once-over. The taller constable spoke. “She isn’t one of your lot, is she, sir?”
“No, we saw her about the same time you did,” Gostini said. Bowden nodded in agreement.
“Right, off you go then,” the second copper responded. “We’ll have a look-see down there.” They hurried into the alley which appeared to be very long and very dark.
“Did you see her eyes?” Bowden asked.
“Her eyes? What about them?” Gostini probed.
“Nothing. Must have been a trick of the light.” The pilot shrugged off a vague feeling of uneasiness and they began to move forward. Suddenly there was shouting from the alley behind them followed by a man’s shrill scream splitting the air; Both men knew immediately that it wasn’t the scream of a child; it came from one of the constables. As one, he and Gostini barged into a convenience store to summon help.
~ 11 ~
Cardinal Malachi fidgeted impatiently in the ante-chamber as he cooled his heels in preparation for his long-awaited audience with the Holy Father. Archbishop Dominique Bortnowaska, the big man’s personal secretary, had happily come through for him and scheduled thirty minutes for “ecclesiastical discussion” as a cover for his true purpose. Malachi was disappointed that The Seven had not been allowed to accompany him, but together, they had labored for more than ten hours putting together an abbreviated PowerPoint presentation with newspaper articles and other cryptic documents necessary to highlight their case. His laptop would run the presentation while he backed it up with pieces of parchments and original documents signed out of the Vatican Library under pain of death, if damaged or lost.
Malachi’s singular purpose, of course, was to elicit a papal waiver restoring his budget; their entire mission was rendered impotent without it. When their Vatican Bank credit card accounts were being declined for everything from jet fuel to lodgings, it became an enormous nuisance limiting the movement of the Crusaders, the Watchers and even The Seven. And finally, they were getting close to Adramelech; he knew it with every fiber of his being. And with some luck, they now had a weapon whose power he hoped would snuff out this scourge once and for all.
There was a muffled crash of what sounded like breaking glass inside from the Pope’s office and Malachi stared at the heavy carved mahogany doors. The sound served as a tension breaker as he smiled to himself wondering if the Holy Father was breaking up the furniture. He’d heard that at times he could give in to temper. Not that he was prone to throwing things, more like he didn’t suffer fools gladly and had made this fact well known.
Malachi wondered for the umpteenth time if he’d ever been briefed on the existence of The Seven, much less their mandate. The Holy Father was reputed to be pragmatic to a fault. Though the church was intensely spiritual as well as, admittedly, selling a certain amount of mysticism, talk of arch demons and the like might not sit too well with the Vicar of Christ in a 21st Century setting.
Still there was no alternative. He’d pulled in every favour, exercised a few threats and even arranged for Monsignor Giuseppe Lopez, the Prefecture of the Pontifical Household, to “win” a three-day sabbatical (via a non-existent contest) to Nice on the French Riviera where he would also attend a hastily-arranged seminar on Exploring Celibacy Vows in the Modern Priesthood. The Bishop of Nice, a very old friend, had been only too happy to help out and hurriedly lined up speakers, a set of rooms and fake attendees for the “seminar.” With weasel nose out of the picture, Malachi knew he was reasonably certain he wouldn’t be preempted.
Suddenly the tall doors opened and Bortnowaska stuck his head out. “Mustavias, old friend, His Holiness will see you now.”
Malachi abruptly stood up, felt his Notebook sliding and grabbed at it while dumping all the papers from his half-opened briefcase onto the terrazzo-tiled floor. Bortnowaska quickly came out to help him gather them up. Not far behind him shuffled a familiar figure dressed in immaculate white, sporting a small silk skullcap and with a heavy golden Crucifix dangling from his neck. The Holy Father was smiling kindly at Malachi’s predicament through the doorway. He motioned by throwing his hands in the air with a “best laid plans of mice and men...” gesture and then re-entered his office and headed to his desk to await their entry.
As Malachi stuffed newspaper clippings, budget sheets and photocopies of ancient scrolls back into the leather satchel, he noticed with surprise that his hands were shaking. It didn’t take much to realize why. So much was riding on his personal persuasiveness during the next five minutes. In fact, everything was riding on it.
He heard the distant ringing of the phone as he rose with his reclaimed papers. He could now see Bortnowaska already picking up the receiver, speaking briefly with someone and then handing the phone to the Pontiff as he shook his head. Quickly he came out of the office towards Malachi, an apologetic look on his face. “My friend, I’m sorry. We’ve a bit of a legal emergency and I can tell you it will take some time to resolve. I will reschedule you as soon as humanly possible.”
“Can I wait?” Malachi pleaded
“I’m sorry, it will serve no purpose. I will call you later, I promise. Mustavias, we have no choice but to deal with this now. I am so sorry.” Looking sympathetically towards Malachi, Bortnowaska backed through the heavy doors and pulled them shut as he went.
Feeling beaten, Malachi nodded resolutely at the closed doors and turned slowly away with his computer and leather satchel. If only they knew his true purpose, all other emergencies would pale in significance. The first part of the conundrum he found himself in was that he was representing a spiritual problem in an increasingly secular world. A corollary, unfortunately, was that their spiritual problem was rapidly becoming more secular by the moment. And, only God knew how fast it would grow. Already the newspapers were reporting on mysterious multiple murders that seemed to have no motives and no discernible perpetrators.
Malachi decided to stop into the Basilica on his way back to his office. It was time to once again test the power of prayer.
* * * *
PART FIVE
“THE HUNT”
“...Fancy thinking the Beast was
something you could hunt and
kill!” said the head...
William Golding
THE LORD OF THE FLIES
<
br /> ~ 1 ~
British Airways Flight BA2542 sailed westward through the blue morning sky over an unbroken bed of white clouds below. With nary a bump to betray the fact they were flying at more than 500 miles per hour, for all Clay knew, he might have been having breakfast at his own table in Manhattan rather than trying to scoop up the remnants of two over-easy eggs on a piece of toast from a meal tray at 35,000 feet.
According to Malachi, it was cheaper to send them via commercial carrier than bring their own aircraft back from London where it was undergoing a scheduled and paid for major engine overhaul. Though the engines had undergone an intensive inspection less than two weeks ago, the “major” was required by law.
Beside Clay, in another oversized and comfortable 767 seat, looking quite fetching and professional in a plain grey suit and ruffled white blouse, Maria sat quietly reading a London newspaper while intermittently sipping black coffee from a china cup. The Vatican had sprung for Club Europe, a form of business class and Clay settled himself more comfortably in the leather-like seats. They were at least three inches wider than normal and he had oodles of room for his long legs. Infinitely better than “sardine class” – his customary habitat when he flew.
“There were two policeman murdered in Soho last week, same area where the prostitutes have been vanishing,” Maria said, quartering the paper and handing it to Clay. He quickly dropped the toast back onto the plate and read of the killings. Reporters, who managed to get on scene before it was well-secured and taped off claimed that the victims looked like they’d been attacked by a wild animal. There was even reports of dismemberment. According to the press, Scotland Yard had refused to comment on the homicides.
“Sister, I—”
“Call me Maria,” she admonished, with a slight curve of her red lips accentuating her natural dimples. “Remember, we’re supposed to be your average married couple.”
Clay nodded but couldn’t help noticing the healthy shine of her hair nor a form of merriment that forever seemed to lurk in her eyes as though she was privy to a private joke. She was a bit like a dolphin, he thought, with a natural smile in the curve of her lips. No wonder people seemed to like her immediately. In fact, in the brief time they were together he’d already seen ample evidence of an inherent attractiveness that seemed to magically open doors as she’d requested pre-boarding, and then a more private seat location near the bulkhead. Fortunately the flight wasn’t crowded and the young male flight attendant, smitten by her easy manner and charm, had accommodated them. And, he’d been around several times since with newspapers, pillows, and even an open bottle of champagne – any excuse to spend a few moments making small talk with her. Small wonder.
“And here’s a story of two teenage girls being killed in Highgate Cemetery in northern London two nights ago,” she said. “There’s even speculation that it may have been the work of the Millennium Ripper.”
“Maria, just to clear up any misunderstanding, I still believe we’re searching for a madman,” Clay said. “A very intelligent and cunning killer but one with his feet planted firmly in our world.”
“How can you say that after what you’ve seen,” she asked, more puzzled than upset.
“All I’ve seen have been a bunch of people shadowing me for months with some rather obsessive and excessive notions.”
“And what about Vermont? You saw what was done to your deputy. You shot that little girl and yet she’s still alive.”
“I know...I know...but who’s to say she was the same girl as the one in New York?” He shook his head. “As for Hitch...I don’t know. It could have been some crazed sect or something got to him and then cut out before I got there.”
“And Panama?” She issued the words like a challenge.
“Panama...was-was nothing more than a nightmare. It all happened so fast I barely saw anything.”
“I think it’s a case of you don’t want to believe. Perhaps it frightens you?”
“Perhaps it does,” he admitted with a shrug and then sighed. He sat back and closed his eyes.
Maria, however, wasn’t content to let it all lie. “Do you think these senior members of the Church have nothing better to do with their time than chase goblins? These are learned men, Clay.”
“Men who believe in the supernatural, miracles and the tangible power of prayer?”
“I believe in all those things,” she said, simply. Then with her jaw jutting forward at an angle that betrayed a natural stubborn streak, she said: “What do you think came out of the limo that night? What blinded Bishop Aquila?”
“Propane explosion set off by Murphy firing his weapon. You felt the heat.”
“A gas explosion ripped the heart out of the limo driver?”
“That happened before we got there. I’m not denying that the Church is in conflict with a violent and deadly adversary, Maria, but asking me to believe a demon is roaming the earth....”
“Shush, Clay,” she warned, bringing her finger to her lips.”
He realized his voice level had been rising and he resumed an undertone. “I don’t know what happened that night. If you recall, I had a fair amount of drugs pumped into me.”
Maria shook her head looking somewhat disappointed. “I wish you were right. But what I saw outside your office in New York that night sealed it for me. She levitated in front of me. And when I accidentally ran over her, I felt the wheels of the automobile bump over her body, and yet she stood up immediately afterwards and acted as though nothing had happened. You were unconscious at the time.”
“Yes, I seem to miss all the good parts, don’t I?” he said, with a wry smile. “And why me? Not to appear narcissistic, but why am I in the middle of this mess?”
Maria pondered his question for a moment and then softly said: “God has plans for all of us, Clay.”
“Plans? You believe God has an individual plan for me, for you...for every human being on this earth?”
“Yes I do. I believe that some of us fit into His plans. I believe He helps us find our way when we are lost in life. I believe that if we ask Him for help, and believe in Him, He will provide the help we need.”
“If it fits in with His plan?”
“Perhaps. Look at what has happened to you. You met Adramelech in Panama...”
“Allegedly.”
“You survived. And then you survived again in Vermont. And you survived in your office in New York. And then at the airport in Rome. Maybe it was all for a reason, Clay.”
Clay didn’t say anything. Maria’s prompts reminded him of a cold alley in New York City. Was this all part of a plan? But why him? As a devil’s advocate he could also ask: why not him? He smiled at the irony and Maria saw this and immediately took issue.
“It’s not necessarily preposterous, you know. Throughout history there have been many instances of God intervening purposely and directly in people’s lives. The Bible tells us of hundreds of instances.”
Clay held up a hand. “Forgive me but I wasn’t laughing at the idea, Maria. I was just thinking of something else. Maybe there is a plan for us all. It would be more comforting to believe so. And if that helps anyone sleep better at night, I would even encourage that thinking.”
“But you must not only think of it only for others, Clay. You must have faith. You must believe that God loves you.”
There was silence between them for a few minutes and finally Clay closed his eyes and thought about the past few days. After he agreed to do some sleuthing for the Church, he’d been sent to Sister Raphael in the Vatican Library who, through a legion of documentation tried to convince him that this Hellspawn – or Beast as she sometimes called it – actually existed. She presented him with historical portraits from Church reports, as well as with newspaper and microfiche records of his supposed crimes against humanity. Its reason for being, she theorized, was to prepare the earth for demonic rule.
After his sessions with Sister Raphael, he was certainly convinced that she believed it was real; still,
when he emerged into the light of day, he could not bring himself round to their apocalyptic vision. Instead, he’d decided to pursue the killer and reserve judgment on his/her or its origin.
His educational phrase was followed by a photographic session and the issuance of a new American passport in his own name. His New York Driver’s license, Private Investigator ID and several credit cards in his name, were also returned to him from his wallet which had obviously been confiscated when they took him in New York. He’d been told there would be other necessary tools waiting for him in London. One “tool” he had specifically requested and he had been surprised that they didn’t give him an argument about it.
Finally, he and Maria had spent time with Father Murphy going over the exact process to be followed should they locate the hiding place of this Adramelech fellow. If they found anything, they were to avoid contact at all costs, phone a cell number immediately, and give the exact location and time of their find. They were not to try to engage it, merely observe, report and get the hell out of there. Apparently, a team of Jesuit priests would then be quickly dispatched to their location to settle the matter.
Malachi said that if they were lucky this time, it would be annihilated for all eternity. Also they would be operating with backup in the form of the Crusaders but neither he nor Maria would know the identity of these priests nor their whereabouts. If they were compromised, he didn’t want their team of assassins attacked without warning. It was safer to have the information compartmentalized.
Malachi had also hit Clay with another bombshell. Sister Maria had a well-documented history of a physic ability to sense impending evil or danger. So he was to listen to her in every instance and act accordingly. Malachi had held his hand up when Clay protested, and stood firm. The cardinal admitted he thought her abilities might have been a bunch of malarkey until he’d seen proof, and then heard of further proof of its existence from Father Murphy – a notorious skeptic himself. In fact, if she hadn’t been present that night in New York, and given Murphy and Langevin advance warning of Adramelech’s impending arrival, Clay would likely not be alive at the moment.
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