Within the hour all three stood in front of the smashed Previa with police still busily milling about. The car was surrounded with blue police tape; the doors still stood open, and the bullet hole in the roof with protruding shards of metal plainly showing that a shot had come from the inside.
“That’s an impressive bullet hole,” Cruickshank said eyeing the roof. “What sort of weapon did you grab from this fellow?”
“I’m not sure,” Clay said. “It all happened so fast.”
The Chief Superintendent raised a hand and a short, heavyset plainclothes detective hurried forward and handed him a canvas sack. With his back to them, he extracted something, handed the sack back to the detective and turned. “Might this be yours, old chap?” he asked politely, holding the Ruger .44 cal. and holster in hand.
Clay sighed and slowly nodded. There had been no opportunity to retrieve his weapon under the watchful eyes of the constables the previous night and he was hoping they would miss it. “Yes...it’s mine,” he said, resolutely.
“We had to have protection,” Maria protested, stepping forward.
The Chief Superintendent looked at her and pursed his lips. “I suppose that’s what compromised the leak-proof guarantee on the Previa’s roof?” he asked.
“Yes,” Clay said simply. “He must have jumped from a tree onto our roof, smashed in the windshield and was trying to grab Maria when I lost control, went through the fence and we ended up here. I grabbed my gun and fired through the roof in case he was still there.”
“But he obviously wasn’t.”
“No...but I caught a glimpse of something after I got out of the car. And, as I said, I chased him...that way,” he said pointing towards some monuments.
“Why make up a story about grabbing his weapon?”
“To enable me to keep my own. I was afraid you might seize it.”
“Quite,” Cruickshank said. He shook his head. “You know you are wasting our time with evasions and half truths? We are on the same side, Mr. Montague. Or, at least I hope we are.”
“I’m sorry,” Clay said, digging out a card. “I have a permit for the revolver.”
Cruickshank turned it slightly to catch the light and handed it back. “I know. Your cardinal has friends in powerful offices to get that permit.” He abruptly shoved the holster and weapon at Clay. “Put it away and do not...I say again...do not fire it in this city unless you are in mortal danger. Have I made myself clear?”
Clay nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”
“There’s another condition attached to keeping that,” he said, pointing at the Ruger.
“Name it,” Clay said.
“I want the truth from now on. First time...every time.”
“Fair enough. But sometimes you may not like what we tell you.”
“Very well. What I find strange is that, despite the fact we’ve been chasing this blighter for months, you are in the city one day and you have had the good fortune...or bad fortune, as it were...for him to immediately find you. Any comment on that?”
“Truthfully...no.”
“I spoke to your ‘employer’ last night. He was his usually circumspect self, however, he did promise me you would cooperate.”
“Of course,” Maria said.
They attempted to retrace the path that Clay had taken the night before and found where he had fired at the shadow he’d been chasing. Cruickshank examined two pock marks in an Ivy-covered stone wall where Clay’s bullets had struck. There was no sign of blood anywhere so it was pretty certain he’d missed both shots.
They returned to the Previa which was now being removed by what Cruickshank called a recovery vehicle. The Chief Superintendent advised Clay and Maria to let the rental agency know the status of their automobile as soon as possible. He told them that he was satisfied they couldn’t help further with the investigation and returned their passports. However, he wanted them to keep in touch and let him know immediately if they uncovered anything or had contact with the killer. Clay agreed and they were offered a ride back to the hotel.
As they sat waiting in the back of a police cruiser with the window lowered, Clay looked between two police cars and nudged Maria. Off in the distance, Cruickshank was deep in conversation with two of the military-type men who had been in the car in Swain’s Lane the previous night. The dark-haired man with the lantern jaw who had identified himself as Kit Nathaniel, and one of his accomplices was nodding slowly. They reached out and shook hands with the Chief Superintendent.
So Scotland Yard was working with some Americans trying to find the Millennium Ripper, Clay thought. He’d been right to be somewhat suspicious. They just didn’t happen by. They must have had the cemetery under surveillance and responded to their situation. Still, he was puzzled. If they were responding to the car crash and the shots, why drive away and leave them? Why hadn’t they become involved at that point rather than posing as people just passing by? Little was making sense. He looked up to see Cruickshank making his way to their police car.
Reaching them, he leaned on the window frame and looked inside. “Just one more thing, Mr. Montague. Last night we took some skin scraping off the roof of your car where the bullet exited the roof. Obviously your assailant had a wild ride. We had them analyzed at the lab and the results came back this morning. Can you guess any of the details?”
Clay shook his head.
“Well they seemed somewhat normal, apart from the fact they were in an advanced state of decomposition and likely cadaveric.”
“Cadaveric?” Clay asked, in surprise.
“Yes,” Cruickshank said. “Skin from a corpse. I personally find it hard to believe that, being dead, and for some time by the looks of it...your assailant simply ran away. But then, I’m just a backward London flatfoot obviously out of his depth. Have a nice day.” With that final comment, the Chief Superintendent banged the automobile roof twice with his palm and the driver turned the squad car and pulled away, The Chief Superintendent looked after them with hands in his pockets.
As his image grew smaller, Maria turned to Clay and then whispered: “How come he’s letting us go when he knows there is more here than meets the eye?” She spoke as quietly as possible since they were both well aware of the constable in the front seat.
Clay thought for a moment and then also leaned close to avoid the driver’s ears. “I doubt it’s benevolence on his part, Maria. I think it’s called: Giving us enough rope to hang ourselves.”
~ 2 ~
Counting himself, Malachi saw that five of The Seven were present and clustered around the formidable oak table in the Chamber as he lit up a Bances Habana Corona de luxe, and puffed furiously until he was sure he had an even burn. Comfort tobacco, he mused. He held a paper in his hands, the Vatican letterhead was plain enough for most to see as he flipped and scanned it once more vainly looking for any loophole of hope that might have been extended. There was none. Still, it couldn’t end this way.
“Gentlemen,” he said, addressing the group.
The conversation stopped and they gave him their full attention. For some reason Malachi found himself noting small and insignificant details about his band of merry men. For instance, Monsignor Heinz Rautenberg, who was in charge of the Crusaders had a fresh haircut. Fred Gant, the Keeper of the Relic, and this was the most secret and significant relic the Catholic Church possessed, was madly chewing gum in his own continuing quest to quit smoking. Bishop Jean Castilloux, their PR man, seemed somewhat bleary eyed as though he hadn’t gotten enough sleep. And finally, Father Peter Austin, their Provost Marshall, leader of the Watchers, and the only other man among them who knew what Malachi was about to say, had taken to shredding paper for amusement. A four inch yellow pile sat in front of him as he seized another 3M Post-It note and awkwardly began to tear it into even squares. His left hand, curled and stiff was barely able to grip the tiny pieces. Near the pile was a small, red leather notebook which he periodically moved as the pile got bigger.
“Gentlemen
,” Malachi began again, clearing his throat, “Last night I received two pieces of news. Sadly, both are extremely unfortunate.” His congregation said not a word and he wondered idly in Prefect Lopez had already been busy stoking the fires of Vatican gossip. “I regret to tell you that our dear friend and confident, Bishop Flavious Aquila, died in his sleep last night.”
“Oh my goodness,” Rautenberg said. “How? I mean, do we know the cause of death?”
There were other murmurings around the table of shock and dismay.
“Not yet,” Malachi answered. “But since he was blinded less than ten days ago in the most holy of causes, he has not been well. He had virtually ceased to eat and he was battling a great depression that had settled over him. As you know, I visited him several times. Each time he was increasingly morose and appeared to lack any hope for the future. In fact, I personally wonder if his brief but intense proximity to the demon was the cause. Of course, we may never know. We can only be certain that it was a most difficult time for our brother in Christ and that God surely welcomed him home with open arms. In his honor, and to comfort his soul, I would like to lead you in a brief prayer.
All bowed their heads and blessed themselves. Malachi said the Our Father and then made a heartfelt request that the angels lead Bishop Aquila, a servant of the Lord, into the glory of Heaven. All joined him in the “Amen.”
He looked up. Father Austin was fingering the leather book as though pondering what to do with it.
Malachi held up the letter. “My brothers, I am also sad to say that we have a crisis unlike any other. Last night, I had a brief audience with the Holy Father, and he has chosen to recognize our conversation in this letter which I received this morning. In it, he has officially ordered us to cease any operations regarding the Hellspawn. We are to surrender any assets acquired to a financial representative – to be appointed – cease accessing any previously allocated funds, and avoid the use of existing equipment. I imagine he means the aircraft which he knew all about. This is extremely grave gentlemen. It could be the end of the line.”
There was a stunned silence and Malachi saw that there hadn’t been enough time for the rumor mill to work. Father Gant sat back and shook his head but lost no time in getting down to business.
“We must retrieve the Relic right now,” he said. “I am assuming it’s still where I think it is, right?”
“Naturally,” Monsignor Rautenberg answered. “It’s aboard our A320 in a heavily secure area at Leonardo da Vinci Airport ready for shipping to London.”
“Why?” Bishop Castilloux asked, somewhat impatient with Gant’s constant and obsessive focus on the Relic as though that was their only priority. “Why would His Holiness stop us now?”
“Because someone got to him before I did,” Malachi answered. “Someone with detailed knowledge of our operations. Someone who may have wanted us ‘out of business’.”
“A traitor to our cause?” Father Gant asked in disbelief. Then he looked around the table. “Where’s Benito? Where’s Father Gallo?”
“It wasn’t Gallo,” Father Austin said. He pushed the small red leather book towards Malachi. “I got hold of Flavius’ calendar that was still being kept by Brother Rusty Swaga. Look at the entry for yesterday – the 13th before he died – a visit from the Holy Father.”
Malachi scanned the page and sure enough, there was a notation that the Pontiff had made a hastily scheduled appointment to see Aquila in his quarters, likely to express condolences over his blindness. The visit had been allocated five minutes. Two other appointments, immediately following, were crossed out by the same red pen and showed that the Pope’s visit had lasted one hour and thirty minutes in its entirety – not significant for the bishop but an enormous amount of time out of the Pope’s calendar, considering his obligations.
“I also spoke directly to Brother Swaga, Mustavias,” Father Austin continued. “I’m not sure if you know this but it appears our poor colleague may have died of a self-administered overdose of sleeping pills.”
“Suicide!” Monsignor Rautenberg exclaimed. “He would never do that. He knows full well that he would spend eternity in hell.”
Austin shrugged. “Maybe he felt he was already there...with his eyes and all.”
“Flavius was a good man,” Monsignor Rautenberg angrily shot back. “He wouldn’t compromise us!”
“Understand, I’m not judging anyone, I’m merely looking at the facts,” Austin returned. “And I may have a few more facts than you do, Heinz.”
“Enough!” Malachi said, and all looked toward him. “There would be no reason for Flavius to skewer our operation. He very nearly gave his life in pursuit of Adramelech. Why would he try to sabotage us?”
Austin shrugged. “It was well known to all of us of your difficulty in getting to see the Holy Father regarding our financial crisis,” he offered. “When he received the visit, Flavius may have seized the opportunity to try to help...to tell exactly how he was blinded and then to give details of the hunt. After all, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.” He said the last bit with the hint of a crooked smile.
“Very funny,” Monsignor Rautenberg muttered.
“And the Pontiff’s reaction wasn’t what he hoped for...in fact, he let Flavius know he intended to close us down,” Father Gant finished. “You already said he was depressed, Mustavias. Perhaps the knowledge that rather than helping us, he had ‘skewered’ us, got to him?”
The five men were silent as they considered the possibility and then grudgingly accepted the possible theory.
“And hence my sudden summoning to see our most Holy Pontiff,” Malachi said. “Makes sense.”
“And so The Seven become six,” Father Gant said. “And soon to be none. By the way, where is Father Gallo anyhow?”
“He is on his way to London to help our emissaries,” Malachi said. “Sister Maria reported that she and Mr. Montague were attacked and nearly killed by Adramelech in Highgate Cemetery. Anyhow, despite this letter, I think we still have a chance to get the deed done.” He sighed, puffed once more on the Havana and exhaled slowly looking at the smoke rising towards the ceiling. “As Sherlock Holmes used to say gentlemen: ‘The game is afoot!’ And I, for one, am not going to quit when we are breathing down Adramelech’s neck.”
~ 3 ~
Adramelech, clad in a blue-black cloak and dark suit over a black turtleneck, moved slowly through the swirls of midnight fog, stepping over stones and dead branches as he approached the Circle of Lebanon in Highgate Cemetery, a neo-Egyptian mausoleum complex.
This section of the post-Gothic Victorian necropolis was overrun by nature. Visitors were severely restricted except for timed tours during the morning and afternoon. Not that it was a problem for the Beast since he avoided the daytime. He did this simply because his work was best done under cover of darkness.
While there was a lingering anger over his failure to excise the soldier, he was ever confident in his ability to find him once again. Meanwhile, there were larger issues surfacing.
As mankind turned more and more away from the spiritual world, Adramelech could feel the time drawing ever nearer for his and his kind to come forth and seize power. While wars and atrocities around the world were nothing new, it was the increasing abandonment of religious belief in favor of a moral relativism that was creating a godless society, one that believed nothing was inherently good or evil. Increasingly, mankind as a whole seemed to feel that it was in charge of its own destiny, that it was no longer accountable to a higher power. As the church surrendered its traditions and office to corporatism, the edges of what constituted morality became more and more blurry.
The Beast chuckled to himself. The last time that strategy was adopted, Adam and Eve figuratively had their asses kicked out of Paradise on Earth and were left to fend for themselves. Surely their righteous God must be close to washing his hands of such sinners? Surely he must be ready to surrender to Satan what had been rightfully earned?
For
instance, even in the Middle Ages, men and women would suffer for their faith for hours, sometimes for days, until madness from the pain of torture would bring about their capitulation. But, modern humans were willing to barter their souls just for a few moments of relief from pain. Their secularly focused lives of ease and comfort were obviously their undoing. They were weak and narcissistic. And, since they had the gift of free will, the Hated One seldom interfered.
It had been a good afternoon with news of the Relic’s whereabouts. He knew through his network of unholy alliances and his insider that this was something to be feared indeed. If he could destroy it, humanity would have lost its chance to rid itself of him. His existence was particularly effective this time. He’d now had decades of life in which to work his deeds of horror as evidence that there was no God looking to save humanity. Still he yearned for the triumphs of yesteryears when he sat at the right hand of the powerful corrupting their intentions through devious suggestions and carefully fostered paranoia. And it would be so again.
Indeed, Adramelech, bred to bring misery to humanity, sensed that the Self Anointed One was well pleased in his work as the human race abandoned spiritual focus, saw greed, avarice and gluttony as evidences of success, and viewed integrity, honor and charity as holdovers from a darker age. A pursuit of Heaven had been replaced by the quest for the almighty dollar, and as business conglomerates maneuvered and manipulated their indentured servants, casting them aside when necessary and destroying families and livelihoods along the way, the very idea of a loving and tolerant God lost its luster and its credibility.
He stopped at the sound of a twig snapping in the distance and then decided it was likely an animal since few humans would venture here after his delightful young female meals of some nights ago. His thoughts of triumph continued. Suffer the little children to come unto me, indeed? Almost 30,000 children died every day in the third world from starvation and disease, their bellies distended, flies crawling on their faces and their hopes crushed. Meanwhile their sanctimonious earthly brothers and sisters engaged in halcyon days of makeovers, massages and McDonalds. And, what did the Church offer in the way of support? Promises of glory supported by benign platitudes issued from golden thrones.
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