Cruickshank held up his hand again. “I would hope you wouldn’t be trying to delve into my case and perhaps use the information to get in my way and muck it up....would you?” He stared unblinking at Clay. “Bad form, old boy.”
Clay decided the best route was to be truthful, to a point. He handed over his New York Private Investigator’s license. “I’m a private detective hired by Cardinal Malachi to find out as much as I can about these murders. Why, I have no idea. Naturally I intend to cooperate fully with Scotland Yard if I discover any leads.”
“Naturally,” Cruickshank replied, dryly. “And Miss Lapierre?”
“My assistant.”
He sighed. “I daresay I shall have to get hold of Mustavias again to find out what’s up.”
Cruickshank, seemingly more relaxed now, passed back the license and agreed to allow them to review some “Ripper” files in a briefing room.
They spent the next four hours going over a series of gruesome murders in and around London. They reviewed the recent murders of the two London Bobbies in Soho, the murders of multiple known prostitutes and of two teenage girls in Highgate Cemetery, two days prior. They even found a map of the cemetery with the positions of the murders clearly marked. The report said that though forensics had finished with the area, the crime scene was still taped and guarded by a constable. Maria noted the location of the last murders.
Finally, gathering up their notes, they tried to see Cruickshank to thank him for his help but were told he was out. Wearily they left Scotland Yard. On the drive back to the hotel, they decided to get washed up, grab a bite to eat and head up to Highgate Cemetery to see where the teenagers had been found.
Back in their room, Maria pulled a map of Highgate Cemetery off the Internet and printed it via their small compact printer. It came with a set of driving instructions. Clay studied the London map on how to get to Highgate.
Later, as Clay was brushing his teeth, he noticed a five o’clock shadow. Ordinarily he would let it go, but for some reason he pulled out his razor and shaving cream. As he shaved, he heard Maria on the telephone reporting to Cardinal Malachi on their first day’s progress and their plan to go to Highgate Cemetery that evening. “Don’t worry,” she was saying. “We’ll be careful.”
~ 4 ~
After dining at the Aberdeen Angus Steak House in Soho, Maria and Clay climbed into the Previa and headed north on Highway A-1 in the twilight towards Highgate, also billed: The City of Shadows. They hoped to find the taped off crime scene and talk to the constable guarding it.
Darkness quickly overshadowed them as they drove up the one-way, brick-walled Swains Lane which bisected the cemetery; they began looking for the entrance. They passed various townhouse-looking complexes on their left. According to their notes, the cemetery was divided into east and west sections with the murders having taken place in the western section. What the victims had been doing there after dark was still unknown. Because of its relatively wild state, the western section was closed off to visitors with only guided tours allowed. Newspaper reports had speculated that the two teenagers were just looking for thrills amongst the gravestones; testing societal taboos, as it were. Their attempt to tease fate resulted in their murder by some wayward fiend.
It was dark now and a cool mist was settling quickly over the area making the pavement greasy and bringing a fog-like consistency to the air. Street lights assumed halos and visibility became more and more limited. They drove slowly on the narrow, one-way road, passing the yellow lighting emanating from small houses and cottages, and eventually finding themselves rounding well marked bends as they ran parallel to a spike-topped, rusted ornamental steel fence with a three-foot-high, brick base and spaced brick columns. Clay slowed the car at a sign on the fence reading Danger – Keep Out. They continued on under a canopy of hundred-year-old trees hanging formidable leaf-laden branches over the road, Highgate Cemetery now on both sides of them.
“It’s a little spooky,” Maria said. “I think....” Abruptly she stopped and looked over at Clay, her eyes widening.
“What’s the matter?” asked Clay.
Maria stared at him in horror, slowly shaking her head. “Dear God...no!” she managed to get out a fraction of a second before it happened.
Something heavy smashed onto their automobile roof driving the entire vehicle down on its springs as the roof caved in a good two inches. Maria screamed. A branch crashed through the windshield in front of her; a deadly tentacle reached out to pinion her at chest level.
At the same time, Clay’s foot involuntarily hit the gas. With spinning, smoking, screaming tires they shot forward. Slammed back in his seat, he lost his grip on the wheel as he began to realize that it wasn’t a branch poking through the windshield but something alive. A blackened arm with a claw-like shape at its end was scrabbling wildly about looking for a purchase. Meanwhile, Maria cowered desperately in her seat, arms pulled back in horror and eyes wide in fright.
Clay was clawing at his gun when the automobile slewed sideways, hit the brick fence base and careened through it scattering bricks and hunks of mortar. Freed of it’s anchor, the attached wrought iron, spike-topped fence hit the hood and was deflected upwards where it rotated twenty feet in the air. The automobile surged through into the graveyard. Behind it the piece of fence returned to earth upside down and embedded its steel spikes in the ground. The car bumped forward mowing and pulverizing smaller, brittle gravestones that exploded on contact until, with a metallic crash of tearing metal and bursting glass, it smashed into a large, upright stone monument.
Silence....
~ 5 ~
Father Gallo made his way down the corridor towards Cardinal Malachi’s office walking very slowly, his arthritis causing him to bend over like some Frankenstein Igor creature. His shoulders ached constantly these days and yet he couldn’t straighten them out for relief. He had a herniated disc in his back and was spending more and more time in the company of ice packs and heating pads. But that wasn’t what disturbed him most. Rather it was his blackouts. Sometimes they lasted for minutes, sometimes hours. Once he went to bed on a Tuesday and awoke on a Thursday.
He even found himself in different clothes so he knew he’d been up and about; but, doing what? Going where? He refused to tell anyone since it would doubtlessly mean a battery of tests and hospitalization. Perhaps they were mini-strokes, he reasoned. Whatever they were, he seemed none the worse for wear so he continued to keep mum.
Oh to be young again, he thought. To experience the sheer delights of a body unfettered by age and to be free of his calling. To be able to partake of the delights of youth. For a few delicious seconds, his mind drifted back to his one and only sexual experience.
He was 18-years old, a seminary student in Rome on his first week-end pass to visit his father and mother in the village of Siena up north. He remembered his excitement at the railroad station as he’d run through the bursts of steam billowing from under the panting steam engine. Clutching his hemp-woven sack containing a change of clothes, an apple and his toothbrush, he climbed aboard the train. There he secured a seat in a compartment inhabited by two bored-looking young men in heavy turtle-neck sweaters and wool jackets.
Before long, a squeal of releasing brakes, the clanging of the bell on the steam engine and a sudden jerk announced their departure. The great locomotive slowly chugged its way through the back streets of Rome rapidly gaining momentum as it headed for the open countryside with a happy Benito humming as he looked out the window.
The two young men turned out to be architectural students originally from a small northern Italian village near Florence. They were ebullient fellows, good-humored as well as bright conversationalists. Later he also found out they all shared an extraordinary fondness for the grape.
He struck up a conversation with the young men who were soon trying to talk Benito out of wasting his life in the priesthood. There had been a spirited exchange of ideas, lively and yet friendly, an experience he found both r
efreshing and exhilarating after having spent the summer in deep devotion and prayer. The quickness of debate and the scoring of rhetorical points through calling on the powers of his own knowledge and deductive reasoning excited Benito in a manner in which he had not been excited for many months; obviously he thrived on discourse as opposed to dogma.
The journey north was long and arduous. Soon however, out came two large bottles of wine. Young Benito had been talked into imbibing...“just a sip.”
Within an hour, with much good-natured laughter and back-slapping encouragement, he was roaring drunk and eager to experience life. They got off the train in the dark in the moderately sized village of Grosseto and stumbled down the cobblestone streets at one o’clock in the morning searching for a bordello. The students had been eager to show Benito what he would be missing by becoming a man of the cloth.
The local village constable had finally been roused by the citizenry to quiet the drunken louts staggering through town. He threatened to lock them up, but then realized he would be able to use this late night visit by the students to explain his absence from his home and icy cold wife; through dumb luck, within his grasp was the means of paying a nocturnal visit to his mistress. All he had to do was quickly deal with the young men.
The constable followed the most expedient course of action possible: he gave them wonderfully simple directions to the local whorehouse and accompanied them part of the way.
As they thanked him profusely for his hospitality and waved good-bye, the constable hitched up his trousers and wandered off humming “O Solo Mio”...in a direction opposite to his own home.
Within five minutes, the boys had found the modest whitewashed house covered with lush bougainvillea and trumpet flower vines. They noted the red lamp in the window and soon gained entrance through flashing a thick wad of lira.
Benito, his inherent shyness repealed by the drink, had brazenly chosen a short brunette named Carmelita. She had flashing dark eyes, wide hips and an ample bosom. After his companions whispered in her ear, the girl laughed, took Benito upstairs and over the next few hours became both a lover and a teacher to the young seminary student.
He awoke a few hours later, aching, confused and sick. He looked at Carmelita’s naked body sprawled beside him and slowly realized with horror what he had done. He had compromised his celibacy; he had betrayed his God and the vows he was destined to take.
His face reddened with shame, and between bouts of throwing up into a commode she pulled from under her bed, he cried softly. She was both perplexed and then confused at her weeping customer. At first she thought he cried with joy at the wonder of his experience with her and she seized him in her hand to let him know that it didn’t have to be over. As a simple soul in all but the art of love-making, she failed to make any connection between their act of nature and his utter disgust with himself. Was he a man or was he not? He drew away from her as though she were a leper and tried between sobs to explain the magnificence of his sin.
When Benito confessed he was a seminary student and soon to be ordained as a priest, her eyes grew wide with fright. She’d blessed herself and fell to her knees to seek forgiveness from God.
He’d dressed quickly and stumbled downstairs abandoning her and his friends before they even knew that he’d awakened. When he last saw Carmelita, she was silhouetted in the doorway with her devotions forgotten. The yellow light from the oil lamps spilled out around her as she screamed at him to come back and pay for her services.
He’d quickly found and boarded an early morning southbound train and returned immediately to the seminary where, with great shame and humbleness, he tearfully confessed his sins to his father confessor, ran out of the confessional and back to the dormitory where he made ready to leave and go back home.
He’d just finished stuffing his few simple belongings in a canvas duffle bag when there was a knock on the door of his cell-like room.
Father Bullo, a visiting professor and a Jesuit known for his harsh disciplinary beliefs, asked to enter. He sat quietly on the thin mattress covering Benito’s wooden bunk as the chastened student packed.
The priest, with the crinkled grey hair and severe brown eyes, allowed himself a gentle smile as he saw Benito’s wet cheeks. He proceeded to speak in a low, modulated and almost hypnotic tone and for the next twenty minutes, Benito listened in rapt attention as Father Bullo delivered a gentle admonishment for his actions and then a lecture on the powerful temptations of the flesh and how to avoid them in future.
He led the boy through a theological lecture on the evils and the goal of sin as well as the purpose of the sacrament of confession – a gift from God to wipe away the sin and the guilt of all those who were weaker than He.
He patiently showed Benito, through examples in the scriptures, of the many followers of Christ who had fallen prey to the devil’s tricks and yet who had risen up afterwards to become iron Christians – some even went to their deaths as martyrs for the Church.
Finally the Jesuit had asked Benito: “Why do you still cry my son...and why do you still ready your clothing?”
Benito said, “Because I have sacrificed my purity!”
“There are many before you who were not pure.”
“But they were not like me! I-I....” He swallowed and gathered his courage. “I enjoyed it, Father...I wantonly fornicated like an animal and I enjoyed it!!”
The priest looked at him with amusement: “So did I, my son...when I tried it. In fact, the beauty of womanhood was the singular most powerful reason for me to reject the call of God. But deep inside I knew God was testing me to see if I would sacrifice even this great gift which He had bestowed upon humanity. My love of The Trinity triumphed...and here I am.”
Benito had stared at the Jesuit. “You...?!”
Father Bullo nodded. “We did not all come to our callings from saintly backgrounds, my young idealist. Often we came, not because of purity...but because of sin, and because we recognized the severity of our sin and sought to make atonement for our failings. Obviously, you are a young man of conviction, humility and true remorse, excellent qualifications for someone who has chosen to serve Christ. And your adventure was not a mortal sin; no final vows have been taken.”
More than a half century later, Gallo wondered what the good Father would say now about his charge if he were alive and able to evaluate his career as a rabble rouser and constant thorn in the side of the Vatican. Gallo certainly wasn’t a candidate for sainthood.
He shuffled up to the cardinal’s door and used the brass knocker; Malachi bellowed to enter. He did so just as the cardinal put down the telephone.
Within five minutes Gallo had been briefed on Sister Maria and Clay’s progress, and their plans for the evening to see if Maria could sense anything at Highgate Cemetery where two teen-age girls had been murdered. Gallo noted that Malachi was looking more tired than usual.
“My friend, I have to admit that I’m beginning to be concerned over our course of action,” Malachi confessed to Gallo. “I’m also concerned about Sister Maria and our detective friend. Do we have the right to put them in mortal danger?”
“Mustavias, you must facilitate the apprehension of the Beast,” Father Gallo responded without hesitation. “You know that. Their lives, my life or even yours should all be sacrificed to stop this abomination. I’ve often wondered why you didn’t use me as bait long ago.”
“You’ve never been strong enough, Benito,” he answered, wearily. “Now I need your help.”
“Are the Crusaders in position,” Gallo asked.
“Yes. We used every remaining cent in our budget to get them into the field. They have a room on the floor directly above our friends. Of course they are unaware; safer for everyone in case Adramelech decides to find our team and strike first.”
“So if they get close to Adramelech, they dial the cell number and our men will be there in short order.”
“Exactly,” Malachi said.
“And the Crusaders
carry the relic??”
“Not right now. It’s a concern because Father Gant won’t have it popping all over the world. When we think we’ve found Adramelech, we have to fly it to them right away. And then pray it works.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Gallo. “But what if it doesn’t?”
“More corpses,” Malachi muttered. “And among them will be our dear sister and our detective. Which brings me to another point?”
“And that is...?”
“I’d like for you to join them in London.”
“Why thank you,” Gallo said, in amusement. “I’ve yearned to be on the bleeding edge.”
Malachi ignored him. “You’ve been within its grasp and are one of the few to escape from it. You may be able to give them the edge they need in terms of experience and judgment.”
“While my imprisonment is a fact, I’m afraid I wasn’t exactly a model of strength and defiance,” Gallo said.
“Maybe not but our army friend is not yet fully convinced he is dealing with anything supernatural and may act accordingly. Maria can only do so much. I wouldn’t ask you to risk this Benito if I didn’t think it was critical.”
Gallo swept his concerns away with a wave of his hand. “What does it matter? I am an old man who has had a long and interesting life. I can leave tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” Malachi answered, simply. “I’ll have arrangements made.”
“I understand from our mutual friend Bortnowaska that your audience with the Holy Father was not successful?”
“It never happened. Some other emergency came up. Our aircraft is back in Rome but we’re trying not to incur more expenses until we settle this budget issue.”
“Am I to hitchhike to London,” Gallo asked, with a smile.
“No, old friend, I’m sure we can do better than that,” Malachi answered. “There’s a commercial flight booked for you already...First Class.” He was interrupted by the telephone ringing. “Malachi,” he answered.
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