The Blood of the Lamb

by Thomas F Monteleone

  He wished he could talk to Peter about his feelings. How could he? Knowing how intimate Marion and Peter had become, what could Dan say?

  There was a tap on the frame of his open office door.

  Looking up from the folder he’d been holding but not reading, Dan saw the receptionist and a short, stocky man who wore a plain, gray suit. He looked like he could have been a catcher on his high school baseball team. A trimmed mustache presided over his thin mouth and his nose looked like it had been broken at least once. His eyes were small and wide apart, emphasized by bushy eyebrows that would have made Groucho proud. Although he didn’t look much past forty, he was losing his hair fast. That he kept it cut short and combed straight back showed he didn’t really give a damn. Although his appearance was not intimidating, the guy sent out a message that he was not to be messed with.

  “Father Ellington,” said the young woman with him, “this is Mr. Bevins.”

  Dan stood up and shook the man’s hand. It was a strong grip. Calluses indicated the guy wasn’t afraid of hard work. “Have a seat, Mr. Bevins.”

  “Thanks, Father,” he said, giving the office a quick once-over.

  Dan looked down at the folder again, reacquainting himself with Bevins’ background. Associate’s degree in Forensic Psychology from University of Missouri; two years in the Army; Deputy in nearby Washington County’s Sheriff’s Office for three years; and ten years with Wells Fargo—as a security officer, ending up as a sergeant. Three more years as vice president of Secure Systems Ltd.

  “Can you tell me about this last credential, Mr. Bevins?”

  “You can call me Fred, if you want.”

  “All right,” said Dan. “What is Secure Systems Ltd.?”

  “My brother-in-law’s company. Always wanted to be my own boss, right? So I talked my wife’s brother, Harry, into backing the whole deal. I wanted in on security for the high-tech end of business. You know—uplink and downlink, information transfer, storage and retrieval, the whole computer thing.”

  Although he knew very little about the “whole computer thing,” Dan nodded. “What happened? Why are you applying for this position?”

  Fred Bevins smiled and put up his hands in a half shrug. “Well, it’s like this—the business took off, and my brother-in-law got greedy. He got some people to do my job—payin’ half what I was gettin’—and bought me out. Sent me packin’.”

  “I see,” said Dan, always amazed at how money changed folks. “So you’re looking for another security job…”

  “Well, it’s almost the only thing I know. I don’t need the money, but it’s important for me to be doin’ somethin’ with my life.”

  Dan smiled. Despite his appearance and his somewhat rough edges, Frederick Bevins had an entertaining, engaging personality. “I see…So you want to have something to do with your free time.”

  “Yeah, but it ain’t what you think—I would do a good, serious job. This ain’t no lark for me. Plus, I’m a Catholic, and I guess I’ve been kind of slack in my…my church attendance over the years. I figure this job might be a good way for me to get back in God’s graces.”

  Dan nodded. It was a familiar explanation. He’d been interviewing people for months, and it was surprising how many of them espoused similar reasons for wanting to work for Father Peter.

  “This boss of yours—Father Peter—I mean, he’s doing so many good works for everybody. It’s kinda made me think. Like maybe I owe some of the people who ain’t had it as good as me.”

  “Yes,” said Dan. “I understand that.”

  “Have you had many people applying for the security officer positions?”

  Dan nodded. “Oh, yes—but not too many with such solid backgrounds as yours. Would you like to hear what we have in mind for the job, Mr. Bevins?”

  “Sure! But please, call me Fred, okay?” He leaned back in the chair.

  Dan spent the next few minutes outlining the demands and duties of the position as best he could. Peter Carenza needed personal security as he traveled about the country. Crowd control had become a growing concern, and he was attracting the attention of more and more fringe crazies and would-be assassin types. The headquarters building also needed a standard security staff and some technical safeguards against hackers and other kinds of business espionage. Dan listed his concerns and listened as Bevins amplified every one of them with cogent comments and suggested additions. As the conversation wore on, it was obvious Fred Bevins knew enough to be a help in the new security division. A retired St. Louis Police captain had volunteered to run things, but Bevins might make a good sergeant, even a second-in-command. Dan would pass him on to the head of security.

  Dan wanted to meet all new employees personally. He never forgot that any applicant might be a Vatican plant looking to sabotage the organization or get close to Peter.

  “Hey, you okay, Father?” Fred was staring at him quizzically.

  Damn. Woolgathering again…

  “Oh yes, everything’s fine, Fred,” he said smiling. “Just thinking over a few things.”

  “Well, do I get the job?” Fred Bevins laughed at his own joke.

  “I have several more interviews to finish up today. We’ll let you know tomorrow.”

  Bevins stood up. “Hey, I’ll be waitin’ by the phone. Thanks, Father. It’s been real nice.”

  He shook the man’s thick hand and ushered him out of the office, through the bullpen area. Marion was nowhere to be seen. Just as well. He didn’t need the distraction.

  As Dan returned to the security of his desk and chair, he absently flipped through Fred Bevins’s personnel folder. The guy was friendly and knowledgeable enough. His credentials were great—far better than anybody else in the stack. Dan sighed audibly. Did he really need to talk to the others? He wasn’t cut out to be a corporate type, and didn’t really enjoy playing executive, even if it was for a good cause.

  He wished Peter would choose to have more to do with the management of the business-face he would present to the world.

  “You guys can handle it,” Peter had said. “I have to worry about other things.”

  Dan looked up at the ceiling. Other things. Yes, his friend Peter was certainly right about that.

  An image burned in the center of Dan’s mind. An image that would not fade in shadows of memory. Silhouetted against the blue-black wash of midnight, a darker shape against the darkness, Marion’s perfect body arched and swayed to the most ancient of rhythms.

  In those instants when the image burned in him like a newborn star, nothing else mattered. He wanted her.

  He wanted her.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Bessemet, Alabama—Cooper

  * * *

  April 16, 1999

  The warm, womb-like embrace of the water calmed him. Reverend Freemason Cooper pulled a final free-style stroke, then coasted the rest of the distance to the pool’s edge.

  Twenty laps. Every morning. Before breakfast.

  Yessiree.

  No wonder his doctors told him he had the body of a man fifteen years younger. He felt healthier now than he had at any time in his life. No wonder the women found him attractive—especially since he could still keep his crank hard for hours at a time.

  Freemason smiled as he measured his breathing at pool-side. Looking up through the glass roof of his indoor pool, he searched for the sun in the gray morning mist. This sort of thin, early spring sky, he knew, presaged a seasonal outpouring of grief, guilt, and heavy donations. Cooper’s church was entering into its busiest, most profitable quarter, culminating in Easter. While the prospect no longer thrilled him like it once did, Cooper was pleased to know the cash flow would be turned up a few notches in the coming weeks.

  He lifted himself from the water, and before he had settled comfortably on the pool’s edge, Lindstrom, his Swedish valet and masseur, had reached his side, a fluffy white, monogrammed towel at the ready.

  “Thank you, Linnie,” said Freemason, rubbing down his nude body, the
n wrapping himself in downy softness.

  “Shall I tell Frieda you’re ready?”

  “Yeah, but tell her to hold those phony sausages—I’m gettin’ sick of that soybean shit all the time.”

  “Yes, Reverend.”

  “As a matter of fact, tell her I want some Jimmy Dean sausage this morning!” Yessiree, he had a feelin’ it was gonna be a Jimmy Dean kinda day.

  Lindstrom nodded and retreated toward the kitchen. Freemason watched the tall, muscular blond man enter the house and disappear. He figured the guy for a faggot, but he’d never been able to nail him on it. Lindstrom was very quiet, very private.

  Probably hates my guts, thought Freemason with a wry smile.

  Standing up, he stretched his arms high above his head, enjoying the lassitude of the cool-down after a vigorous workout. Birds’ morning-songs filtered down to him from tropical trees, the banyan, the coconut, and the eucalyptus that flourished in the climate-controlled environment of the spacious enclosure of the pool. He liked listening to the birds singing. It was such an innocent, beautiful sound.

  The world could always use a little more innocence, a little more beauty, he thought satirically.

  A door opened and Lindstrom reappeared. “Breakfast will be served directly, sir. And you have a call on line four.”

  Freemason nodded, waved him off, and walked over to a set of cabana chairs and table where an elaborate telephone console awaited him. He punched the correct line—his private security line—and lifted the handset.

  “Speak to me.”

  “Reverend Cooper, it’s Freddie Bevins…”

  Freemason’s pulse jumped a few points as his P.I. identified himself.

  “I’m waiting, Freddie.”

  “Just wanted you to know everything went just like you said it would. They jumped on that list of credentials like a bass on a bullfrog!” Bevins sounded ebullient, pleased with himself.

  Freemason smiled. “The Reverend knows his stuff, Freddie. I told you that.”

  Bevins chuckled. “I snowed ’em so bad, I bet they don’t even check a one!”

  “No matter. I have people who will substantiate anything they want. I took care of everything, Freddie—you’re perfectly safe.”

  “Hell, I even told ’em I was Catholic, can you believe it?”

  “From you? Certainly.” Freemason cleared his throat. He had a sudden craving for some prune juice. “All right—what can you tell me?”

  “Not much, yet, Reverend. I don’t officially start work until Monday morning. But I’ve been keepin’ my eyes open, you know. I figure I’m going to have open ’n’ free access to practically every damned thing in this place—they won’t suspect a thing.”

  “What about their phones? Can you get me taps?”

  Bevins chuckled. “Probably. The building already had its own network in place. I’ll have to see how secure it was for the previous client. Odds are Ellington won’t bother to change it, or even check it out.”

  “Ellington?”

  “Carenza’s right-hand man. They were buddies all the way back to the seminary.”

  “All right, Freddie, you know your job. I’m payin’ you well; do it well. Until you get settled in, try to spend your time diggin’ up everything you can on Carenza. And I mean everything.”

  “Gotcha, Reverend. I’ll have plenty of dirt for you. Guaranteed.”

  “I’m counting on you, Freddie.”

  “Okey-doke, Reverend. I’ll be callin’ in real regular-like.”

  “You do that.”

  “Oh, one more thing. Here’s a coupla numbers where you can reach me if you hafta. Office right here, and the hotel.” Bevins dictated the numbers and Freemason scribbled on the pad next to the console.

  “Thank you, Freddie. Good-bye.”

  Hanging up before his hireling could say anything else, Freemason shook his head slowly. Bevins was an unctuous ass, but he was good at his job. The P.I. worked cases better than a mutt with a ham-bone.

  Lindstrom returned, pushing a serving cart carrying a silver platter covered by a crystal dome. The valet proffered to his boss the terry-cloth robe draped over his left arm. While Freemason slipped into the robe, Lindstrom uncovered the country breakfast platter and arranged a place at the table. When everything was prepared he departed without being told.

  As Freemason savored each mouthful of his decidedly unhealthy breakfast, he began thinking ahead, planning his strategies. Whether he admitted it to himself or not, the facts were simple: this fella Carenza was going to be a major concern in his life till things got resolved.

  He was glad Daddy was around to counsel him. The old man might be getting goofy about some things, but he still had his common sense and he could still hold his pee and his liquor.

  You gotta deal with this guy, son, the old man had said. Ain’t no makin’ believe he ain’t there.

  First thing was: know your enemy. Freemason had always believed that gave you an advantage. If, indeed, Carenza was his enemy…

  Sipping freshly ground and brewed Jambala coffee, Freemason remembered the news tapes and the miracles. If it was trickery, no one had figured out how Carenza’d pulled it off. Hell, probably wasn’t anybody tryin’ to figure it out.

  Except maybe Reverend Freemason Cooper.

  When he thought about it as directly as he’d allow himself, Freemason just didn’t know what to make of it. Not when you had these magicians on TV making the Statue of Liberty disappear and floating elephants across canyons and other bullshit like that.

  Even though you couldn’t always believe what you saw on television.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Colorado Springs, Colorado—Carenza

  * * *

  October 20, 1999

  He was changing.

  Every day, he felt himself growing more different. More in touch with himself, but also more aloof, more detached—at least from the self he had been before his curious awakening.

  Sometimes when he lay in bed at night, and he couldn’t sleep, he would try to pray, but it was like speaking into a dead telephone. Some characteristic of the silence in his mind told him no one was really listening.

  Why?

  Was no one listening because he wasn’t really talking? Because he couldn’t face himself? And when was the last time he’d said Mass?

  Then there was the question of his talents.

  Sometimes he felt so invigorated, so intoxicated by their use, he felt limitless, as boundless as the energy of the sun. And at other times, he was so drained and weak, he felt he was dying. It was as if some parasite lived inside him, playing with his mind and body, having no pattern or sense, no logic or purpose.

  He was constantly driven to test the limits of his powers. The press and his followers called his feats miracles, and Peter was beginning to believe them. When he healed people, when he restored them, he could feel a force surging through him like sweet, fragrant electricity. No, that wasn’t quite right—the power wasn’t really running through as much as coming from him. It was a geyser of staggering energy.

  And later, when he felt so close to death, he would ask himself what the hell was really going on. After the first few manifestations, when he’d asked for divine guidance and received nothing from the cold silence in his mind, he had fallen into an abyss of despair and abject fear.

  But recently the fear had been replaced by something else, something more impervious to pain and doubt. The way a tumor can become calcified into a hard encysted lump—no longer the devouring cancer, just a stony monument to the horror that once existed there.

  A part of him now felt like the fear didn’t matter anymore. There was work to be done, and it didn’t matter how that was accomplished, or how he felt. The only important thing was getting it done. Peter didn’t think he had a new sense of mission, but he did have an unstated sense of being. If he was being directed by some outside presence, he was not aware of it, and what was worse perhaps, he cared not at all about the possibility.r />
  It would be a lie to say he was not enjoying his recent celebrity. An ass-kicking ego boost accompanied the attention and the hype, the utter recognizability by the public. But Peter tried to keep the glitz within the proper perspective. The last thing he wanted was people thinking he’d deteriorated into some kind of rank performer.

  Sometimes he dreamed of standing in the midst of an immense crowd—a crowd that pooled out away from him in all directions with no end—and they were all laughing at him.

  He awoke to the warm touch of Colorado sunlight basting him through the withdrawn shades of the hotel window. Fluttering his eyelids, he tried to adjust to the light and fight through an instant of total disorientation. What day was it? Where was he?

  Rolling over, his knee brushed Marion’s naked thigh, and a jolt passed through him. Still asleep, she lay on her back, face tilted away from the uncurtained window. The memory of her coming to his room in the middle of the night flooded back over him like the return of an ebb tide. That, plus the touch of her flesh, gave him the beginnings of an erection. Unlike in prior months, he felt no guilt or need to repress his sexuality. Indeed, when he bothered to think about it at all, he told himself it was a most natural response.

  There was no denying Marion’s physical beauty, her simple, overpowering ability to attract men. Minutes slipped away as he studied her in repose. Her hair was a splash of red-brown across the pillow, her body a suggestion of round edges beneath the sheet. Long lashes rested on her high cheekbones, the corners of her mouth curved up slightly.

  Suddenly her eyelids fluttered, lifted. Two bottomless portals opened upon him, sea-green depths that housed the secrets of her soul.

  “Good morning,” he said, leaning close to kiss her.

  “I could’ve slept forever.”

  “Someday you will.”

  “Oh, and aren’t we cheery this morning.” Marion sat up, and the sheet fell away from her small, pink-tipped breasts. “What time is it?”