“Wait for Cardinal Malachi and we’ll all go,” Maria said, taking hold of the old man’s hand.
Father Gallo withdrew his hand and shook his head. “The cardinal saved my life and I owe it to him to bring this wretched monster to its end.”
“And you know exactly where it is?” Clay asked.
“Precisely,” Gallo responded, waving the map on which they could plainly see an X marked in black ink.
“How can you be sure the demon will be there?”
“If he isn’t, it’s simply a matter of waiting for him. And, that’s where you’ll come in, Maria, to give us warning. But eventually he will be there. That’s why he’s in the British Isles.” He looked them both in the eyes and continued. “He’s going home because even an emissary of hell doesn’t have unlimited strength. Now is the time to get him – when he’s weakened.”
“How do you know this, Father?” Maria asked.
“I spent half a year in his tender care.”
Clay and Maria exchanged glances.
“Are you with me or am I off to fight it alone,” Gallo asked. When neither replied, he turned and went back into his own room, quietly closing the connecting door.
“What do we do?” Maria asked. “We can’t allow him to go alone.”
“And we can’t convince him to stay. Shall we try Malachi again? If we could get him on the line, he might be able to convince Father Gallo to wait.”
“I left the hotel number with his answering service. He must be as desperate to find us as we are to find him. He would have called back if he’d called into his service.”
“Well there seems to be little choice,” Clay said. “You remain here and wait for the Cardinal to get in touch with you. I’ll accompany Father Gallo and try to get him to hold off as long as possible.”
“Clay, I am not staying anywhere. I may be his best chance of anticipating if Adramelech is there...or to alert him as to when he is returning.”
Both heard the door of the other room slamming. “He’s leaving,” Maria said, opening their room door and looking out down the hall. “Father, wait, we’re coming with you.”
~ 4 ~
The Metropolitan Police Air Support helicopter bucked, twisted and then abruptly dropped 200 feet toward the churning ocean a mere 800 feet below; the pilot used his collective and throttle to bring them back to altitude. Sleet and hail pounded against the windscreen as he fought the controls, working the cyclic and anti-torque pedals to maintain their desired heading and keep the craft from turning turtle. He had his helmet on with night vision goggles down to provide some measure of sight in the darkness. The conditions were, by far the worst in which he had ever flown. Sweat gleamed on his forehead as he yelled back without benefit of radio: “Bad idea, Chief.”
Cruickshank, clutching an air sickness bag and looking very green, nodded his agreement with Frazer.
Beside Frazer, Constable Cockerill held onto the edges of his seat; for him too this was an unusual ride. By now, everyone on board was awake.
A half hour before, they had landed in Ullapool and found a formidable storm growing in intensity over The Minch. Still, at Malachi’s insistence that this was a matter of life and death, the pilot had reluctantly agreed to try the crossing. Whose death wasn’t discussed, but more and more it began to look like it now involved the six men in the chopper.
“How long to Stornoway?” Malachi shouted above the beat of the rotors and the screaming of the wind penetrating the cabin.
“No-no idea...” the pilot said through gritted teeth. “We’re fighting a 50 knot headwind and we’ve passed the point of no return. This is suicide.”
The police observer beside him hung on for dear life as, more and more, the chopper resembled a rodeo bronco rather than a million dollar piece of high technology. At times it seemed to pause in the air and was almost blown backwards. The two Crusaders, while fully aware of the danger, merely watched Cruickshank hovering over his sick bag in amusement. Father Oberon looked at his watch and then passed Father Nathaniel a five-pound note since the detective had not used the bag as yet. The priest grinned and accepted the money from his colleague.
The pilot slapped his goggles attached to his helmet up out of his sight line and said tersely to his observer, Arthur Cockerill: “Nightsun.” It was critical neither the pilot nor the observer had on their night vision goggles when they turned on any other light. The night vision goggles worked by gathering and amplifying any ambient light present as well as leveraging the lower portion of the infrared light spectrum invisible to the naked eye. Turning on the NIGHTSUN while wearing night vision goggles would blind them both for some time.
Malachi stood and hung on for dear life as he peered anxiously over the pilot’s shoulder trying to see land as the spot of the “NIGHTSUN”, a 30-million candlepower spotlight mounted under the tail of the helicopter, turned on and pointed down and forward. All he saw was a sheet of rain and sleet being driven horizontally through the blue-white light beam by heavy winds. The copter continued to roller coaster with its human riders being jerked against their seat belts. Suddenly the craft yawed wildly and dropped at the same time.
“We’re going down,” Constable Cockerill yelled, obviously frightened as the craft continued its wild dive.
“No...we’re...not!” Frazer said, fighting the controls and stopping their descent.
All aboard let out a collective sigh of relief as the chopper gained altitude again.
“Why don’t we go higher,” Malachi yelled above the roaring of the engine and the wind and rain buffeting the craft.
“Because those are cumulonimbus clouds over us and the ceiling is a thousand feet,” Frazer yelled back. “If we get into them, we’ll be nothing but metal confetti.”
“Who...is...the idiot who suggested we...cross tonight?” Malachi shouted in an effort to break the fear and tension. It worked. All eyes turned towards him. He made an elaborate gesture of pointing at himself in mock surprise. “Moi??”
Cruickshank and the two Crusaders couldn’t help but laugh and even the police constable cracked a tentative but nervous smile. The pilot was too busy to allow any distractions.
Suddenly, Malachi became serious and slapped his hand down on his thigh.
“What’s wrong,” Cruickshank yelled.
“Damnit...how could I miss that?” He sat down and buckled his seat belt.
“Miss what?”
Malachi leaned close to Cruickshank. “Father Gant was stabbed with his own crucifix.”
“We know that,” Cruickshank replied.
“It couldn’t have been Adramelech. He couldn’t handle the crucifix. Nor can any of his familiars.”
“Then if not that chap...who?”
“Who wound up with the case...the Relic?”
“Your friend, Father Gallo. But Why? What would be his motive?”
“I don’t know. He’s never been the same since he was taken. I put it down to trauma but maybe Adramelech has somehow managed to...subvert him?”
Cruickshank shook his head. “Well, if he’s changed sides, why are we risking life and limb to save him?”
“Because there is more at stake than Father Gallo,” Malachi said. “It would mean Sister Maria and Clay Montague are being led into a trap. And, the Relic might be lost forever; in fact, a clear priority of Adramelech would be to destroy it.”
“I-I see breakers,” the pilot yelled, interrupting them.
Sure enough, far below, the sea was breaking over a long beach. The police constable worked the NIGHTSUN’S remote control and scanned back and forth on the beach, recognizable only as a mass of water that surged white against the land and then retreated in a foaming cauldron of bubbles. Within five minutes of making landfall, while still rough, the ride in the helicopter improved considerably. Ten minutes later, the pilot was on the radio to Stornoway Control trying to advise them of their ETA. The pilot finally called Her Majesty’s Coastguard operations based at the airport and found the
airport was closed and transportation was limited. They could still land if required at the heliport. The pilot shrugged and half turned to his passengers: “Airport’s closed but that’s not a problem for us. I’d say this would be the least of our problems tonight, chaps?”
He was so right.
~ 5 ~
Grantham told Murphy that Stornoway Airport did not keep its landing lights on all night but there was a 24-hour On Call system for emergencies or Air Ambulance flights. The pilot called for help, declaring a fuel emergency and a controller was at the airport and responding within fifteen minutes.
“Stornoway Control, this is golf, x-ray, tango, foxtrot, golf, Cessna two one zero en route Stornoway, over,” Grantham said into his microphone.
“Cessna two one zero, this is Stornoway Control,” came back an immediate reply. “Stornoway Airport is closed until 0730 hours tomorrow; however, I understand you’ve declared a fuel emergency, over.
“Roger Stornoway. Are your runway lights active yet, over?”
“Roger, Cessna, we have LIRL; you are cleared for runway two-five, winds at two-eight-five at forty gusting to fifty knots. Must have been a right nightmare of a flight, old chap; be a rough landing.”
“Thank you, sir.” The pilot hung up the microphone. “There’s the beacon...and the strip.”
“What’s LIRL?” Murphy asked, hanging on as the plane bucked and rolled.
“Low intensity runway lights; and there they are – dead ahead,” Grantham said, tersely.
Within five minutes, despite gale force winds, the pilot had skillfully landed the aircraft and they were taxing towards the single-story terminal building lit only by outside lights. Above them the airport beacon rotated, its beam swinging endlessly through the wild night sky. The wind sent leaves and bits of brambles scuttling across the tarmac in front of them in the glare of the plane’s landing light. They could see a small Austin painted in a Union Jack motif parked by the tower, and some low level lighting in the tower windows. Likely the controller was watching them.
Murphy’s new satellite phone rang. It was Rautenberg. “Father Murphy, I’ve just got off the line with Cardinal Malachi; he was wondering where the dickens you are?”
“I’m at Stornoway Airport.”
“How did you get there?”
“On the wings of angels.”
“Well...however...,” Rautenberg answered, sounding a little grumpy. “They’ve just diverted from Stornoway.”
“Diverted? Why?”
“The Relic has been on the move.”
“Where?”
“As near as I can tell from the signal, Father Gallo and his entourage traveled northwest from Stornoway, up A857, turned west on A858 and then into a small hamlet called Arbor. I ‘Googled’ the area and tapped into some satellite photos of Arbor and the coast. I see a road out of the hamlet going northwest to the coast. They reached the end of that, and from the speed they are now making, I’m guessing they’re out of the car and proceeding directly north on foot towards the ocean...some miles away.”
“But Cardinal Malachi and the others will still have to land here,” Murphy exclaimed.
“They’re in a helicopter, Einstein” Rautenberg exclaimed. “They can land virtually anywhere they’d like.”
“I knew that,” Murphy responded quickly, trying to cover.
“Sure you did,” Rautenberg answered, his dry humor returning. “From what I can see on the Google satellite photo, it’s pretty desolate up there. I just see one major structure – sort of looks like an old stone castle with a moat – and they seem to be heading directly for it. Based on the topography, it’s right beside some fairly high cliffs overlooking the ocean.”
“So I’d have no hope of finding it in the dark?”
“Father, no offense, but what are you up to?” Rautenberg asked.
“I was hoping to help.”
“Very noble, and I mean that sincerely, but Malachi and the others can’t wait, Father. They are proceeding towards the Relic’s signal in the helicopter.”
Colin Grantham, with one ear cocked, leaned over to Murphy. “Get the longitude and latitude of whatever you’re looking for and I can find it for you in a pea soup fog with a set of knickers tied over me eyes.”
“What?” Murphy asked, staring at the pilot.
“Just get the coordinates and I’ll tell you later,” Grantham stage whispered over the noise of the idling engine as they sat on the apron in front of the tower.
“Monsignor, is there any way you can give me the coordinates for this castle?”
“Just a minute,” Rautenberg said. He was back momentarily. “Love this Google. Just put the cursor over the structure on the satellite photo and click the mouse and presto: 58.35894 North –.”
“Just a minute,” Murphy said, snatching a pen out of the sleeve pocket on the pilot’s bomber jacket and a map out of a door pocket beside him. “Go ahead.”
“Ready? The coordinates are 58.35894 North and 6.59017 West. Got that?”
“Yes...” Murphy answered, scrawling the numbers on the edge of the map.
“As I mentioned, they are not landing at Stornoway but going directly after Father Gallo.”
“I know but I’m in Stornoway. How far away am I from Arbor?”
“From what I can see, it’s about 20 kilometers north and then five kilometers west. Then maybe five or six kilometers from the end of the road to this structure.”
“So maybe a half hour or so driving?”
“At best,” Rautenberg answered, hesitantly.
Murphy thought for a moment and then asked: “What’s their ETA?”
“From what they said five minutes ago...about 40 to 50 minutes I believe. They are bucking some terrible headwinds.”
“Then I may make it with bells on,” Murphy said. “I’m going to have to go.”
“Well...watch yourself.” Rautenberg’s tone was one of resignation. “They are heavily armed and don’t know you are anywhere near. You don’t want to be taken out by friendly fire that wouldn’t be so friendly. I’ll call you on your phone if there’s any change in direction.”
“Right, thank you,” Murphy said, pushing the end button.
The pilot looked at Murphy and handed him a small device with a screen. “You are holding a portable GPS unit,” Grantham said. “Day or night it can guide you to within ten feet of those coordinates you have. I’ll put them in and explain how it works.”
“I love technology,” Murphy answered. “But before you do that, can you get the control tower on the radio? I need an automobile and assuming the controller drove here in that mini I’m seeing, I’m going to make him an offer he can’t refuse.”
~ 6 ~
Clay stood in the pounding rain and wild wind looking in awe at an immense, perfectly-preserved, black, gothic-looking stone structure in front of him.
It was a full-sized castle all right, complete with corner towers, a keep, a chemise and a 40-foot wide moat filled with water. The wall of the castle was easily 150 feet high topped by what appeared to be a parapet walk and battlements from which soldiers could rain arrows down at their enemies in days of old. As he stared, thunder exploded almost directly above him; multiple forks of lightning split the night sky rendering brilliant daylight on his surroundings. The strobe lasted for a full five seconds before the sapphire-colored flash winked out and the gloom returned. In that time he was able to see a lowered drawbridge at the end of which were twin doors set in an arch frame. Clay had passed a half-dozen No Trespassing, Private Property and Trespassers will be Forcefully Prosecuted signs a half-mile from the perimeter of the castle.
They had run well off the road, gotten lost and run out of gasoline a few miles back. Gathering their gear, they had hiked onward and been surprised to find a brightly painted, wrecked and abandoned Austin Mini over hill and dale less than a mile from where they now stood. There was no sign of any driver.
He heard the labored breathing of Father Gallo as Maria a
nd the priest approached behind him; Maria had volunteered to stay back with the old man as Clay had forged ahead at first sight of the amazing edifice.
The priest still stubbornly clutched the handle of the aluminum case despite Clay’s offer to carry it. Maria’s yellow anorak made her visible as she moved forward holding the halogen security flashlight that emitted a brilliant swath of bluish light; she kept it pointed at the ground with one hand while she held Father Gallo’s arm with the other.
“Not...through...there,” Gallo said, trying to catch his breath as he noticed Clay looking at the drawbridge. “There’s a better way.”
Maria now stood transfixed by the sight of the castle. Suddenly she shuddered and the blood drained from her face, evident even in the limited light. “It’s in there,” she whispered, her words lost on the wailing wind, her countenance ghostlike.
“What did you say?” Gallo asked.
“He’s is in there somewhere,” she shouted forcefully. “I sense blackness...an overbearing and suffocating evil. Something this strong could only be Adramelech.”
Clay reached under his anorak and pulled the Ruger from the holster set on his waist belt for a Texas John Slaughter cross-draw. He flipped the weapon open and checked the loads. Six brass cartridge heads gleamed in the cylinder. He gave it a flip and the cylinder snapped closed.
“It’s time,” Gallo said. “Come with me.” Surprisingly, he led them away from the castle and to the right over increasingly rough and rocky ground towards the ocean cliffs.
Shivering from the cold and dampness, they soon found themselves traversing a carpet of smooth, rounded stones on what seemed to be a dried up creek bed; it deepened and twisted and turned as it led them down towards the sea cliffs. With both sides of the channel in which they trekked now higher than their heads, they gave thanks they were partially sheltered from the wind. Within minutes, however, they stood at the edge of a cliff where the creek had once emptied into the ocean. The wind shrieked like a banshee as a maelstrom of water and foam seethed below them, the hollow boom of the waves almost deafening as they exploded against the sharp rocks.
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