Vicarious

by Jon F. Merz

  Her heartbeat increased.

  Was this the room?

  The key felt hot in her hand and she realized she’d been clutching it within the folds of her palm since the old nun had pressed it there hours ago.

  Now or never, she thought. She held the key up and then aimed it at the keyhole.

  It stuttered into the lock, coughing for a blast of graphite dust to smooth its passage. Lauren turned the key and heard the heavy deadbolt slid back into its recess with a solid thunk.

  She opened the door.

  A long thin wooden table stood before her, polished to a dull sheen from years of sleeves and elbows resting on it. Around the table, more bookshelves. But the books in this room differed greatly from the rest of the library.

  The books here had strange titles.

  Some were in foreign languages.

  And some didn’t seem very Church-like at all.

  As she looked at the titles, she knew she’d found the repository of information she’d need. In this room, the Church apparently kept its documents related to Satanism, exorcism, old legends, witchcraft, supernatural studies, and all manner of accounts on dealing with the occult.

  Lauren inhaled, tasting the stale musty air mixed with old leather and smiled. The room seemed to pull at her. It’s as if, she thought, God wants me to be here. Like he wants me to study these subjects.

  So she could help Steve.

  Detective Curran, she corrected herself.

  And smiled in spite of it. Certainly he was the best looking man she'd seen in a long time. Not that he would have ever graced the pages of a fashion magazine, but the rugged features of his face and body made him seem carved out of wood. Tall and strong. And she'd even detected a hint of emotion lurking somewhere far beneath his ironclad exterior.

  She laughed almost out loud at the thought of a dalliance with him before pledging herself to God forever. But she quickly abandoned that idea, knowing her path lay elsewhere.

  Before her, books stretched out in either direction.

  Where to start?

  She chose the shelf closest and began scanning the old Latin titles. She’d studied a number of ancient languages in preparation for her Church service. But she still didn’t know what she was looking for.

  For the next three hours she proceeded to pull each book off the shelf and scan through it as fast as she could. In that time she saw all manner of personal accounts of the occult. Enough to convince her that even though it was the 21st century, evil had always lurked on the fringes of society and would most likely continue to do so.

  In her fourth hour, she found the book.

  Written in the twelfth century by a monk named Gerhardt in the monastery at Schwarzwaldheim, a small town in Bavaria known for its close proximity to the Black Forest, the book catalogued every known creature and demon available to help the Devil in his work.

  Even as Lauren scanned the pages, roughly translating in her mind what she read, she felt a shadow of fear pass over her. The names and spells within the pages told of incredible evil and untold power for the person who swore eternal allegiance to the Dark Lord.

  They also warned of the unbearable agony inflicted upon those in his service.

  A cold gust of air swept through the room.

  Lauren shivered and looked up.

  The room had no windows.

  The light hairs along her forearms stood up straight.

  Where had the wind come from?

  She bent back over the book and read some more.

  Another gust of cold wind swept over her, this time flipping the pages of the book in front of her. The old paper crinkled and crackled as sheets flew by under her nose.

  The wind died.

  And Lauren looked down.

  The book now lay open at a chapter dealing with servants of the Devil.

  Lauren looked up again.

  There was no one in the room with her.

  The wind had vanished.

  Her heartbeat had drummed up again to a steady staccato rhythm. She tried to grin. Get a hold of yourself, Lauren.

  She turned the pages, reading and translating. Toward the end of the chapter, she stopped and felt very cold. But this time she felt cold on the inside.

  Soul Eaters.

  She ran her finger down the page to the text and began reading...

  Little is known of the Soul Eaters except that they have been

  imbued with the ability to steal the very essence of man from

  him with little more than a touch of the hands. All that makes

  up the man himself, his memories, his thoughts, his very

  emotions, is robbed from him. For what purpose the

  Soul Eater exists is not yet known, but care must be taken

  in dealing with them, for their power is truly directly

  given from the Devil himself.

  Lauren sat back and inhaled a long deep breath.

  A Soul Eater.

  What if...?

  What if there were one actually living here in Boston? What if he had killed her brother? What if he was planning something right here in the city itself?

  But what?

  She frowned. Would Steve believe her? He didn't necessarily appear to be a very trusting soul himself. She'd never met many cops who were. Most of them stuck to hard facts only. It was understandable, being a prerequisite for the job. They couldn't put someone away on speculation or the supernatural.

  And Steve himself had told her he was firmly rooted in facts and logic. He would be difficult to convince.

  Still, she wondered.

  After all, Steve had invested years of his own life trying to get to the bottom of the strange murders that plagued him. Perhaps he would be able to see the possibility.

  Perhaps.

  She traced her finger lower on the page reading again...

  The Soul Eater himself is apt to be cunning in his own right.

  By virtue of his job for the Devil, he must be careful to remain

  hidden. If discovered, he would be unable to complete his

  nefarious objectives, whatever they may be.

  Something had been written in pencil in the margin of the book and then erased. Lauren peered closer, barely able to make out the letters and what they spelled out.

  Graham Westerly - 1907

  She frowned again and continued reading, but there was little else, except for several documented cases that happened during the third, seventh, eleventh, and nineteenth centuries. The nineteenth century instance was hand-written in German scrawl, which Lauren could not read. She knew it must have been details of the Soul Eater for that time.

  She made a quick notation in the small red notebook she carried and then closed the book.

  The air in the room suddenly changed.

  It felt heavy.

  Oppressive.

  Lauren felt glued to her chair. Like she couldn’t get up.

  She tried taking a deep breath. It did little good. The earlier joyful smell of must and leather cloyed at her, now almost suffocating her as she tried to breathe.

  It felt like…something was in the room with her.

  Lauren glanced up at the door. Was someone outside watching her?

  The air grew cold again.

  But a line of sweat broke out along her hairline.

  And then she heard it.

  A soft sound that snaked through the stacks, slowly circumventing the room as it came closer to her, caressing her ankles and slithering up her body past her shoulders until it kissed her ears.

  Sooooooooooooooooon.

  Lauren sat very still. She lifted her eyes toward the ceiling and saw a small crucifix on the wall. She closed her eyes and pleaded.

  God, don't let anything happen to me here.

  She kept her eyes shut and began praying softly. After a dozen Hail Mary's she felt better and opened here eyes, able to breathe again.

&n
bsp; Whatever she felt had passed. She gathered up the book and placed it back on the shelf, pushing it back into its resting place with care.

  Pushing the chair back to the table, she gathered her things and left the room. As soon as she opened the door, the air seemed lighter. She could breathe again.

  She walked back through the rooms, but paused when she saw the same nun still bent deep in study.

  “Excuse me, sister?”

  The nun, older than Lauren, looked up. “Yes?”

  Lauren smiled, almost embarrassed. “Just a few minutes ago...did someone else come through here?”

  “Someone else?” The nun looked closer at Lauren. “No, I’m afraid not. It’s just us in here today, dear.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I...I'm not quite sure.” Lauren smiled. “I felt a little odd a minute ago.”

  “Odd?”

  “It was probably nothing. Sorry to disturb you.”

  The nun smiled. “Now, don't you apologize. There are plenty of books in this library that can make you feel a little...suffocated. Some of the cardinals used to say the very knowledge of the world rests in these books. All the good, you know.”

  And all the evil, thought Lauren. She tried to smile. “I heard that.”

  “Have you entered the service yet?”

  “Not yet, no. I’m preparing to, though.”

  “How soon?”

  “Probably next year.”

  The old nun smiled. “It will be a glorious time for you. Don't worry about this old place. Just keep your studies up and make sure you've made your peace with God before you enter the Church.”

  Lauren nodded. “Thank you. I'll do that.” She glanced around, suddenly wanting to call Steve. “I should go.”

  The nun merely inclined her head and Lauren backed away, quickly turning the corner back toward the front of the library.

  I need some fresh air, she thought.

  Outside in the entranceway, she paused, leaning against one of the marble columns. It felt cool to the touch and she welcomed the temperature change. She realized her skin was hot and she felt her head.

  Her hand came away wet with sweat.

  What happened back there?

  Briefly, she wondered if it was her period but she dismissed this. Ever since her brother had raped her, she'd stopped menstruating. The doctors all concluded that the psychological trauma of the event had jarred her system so much that she'd simply become barren.

  Strangest thing, though, she thought. This does feel a lot like PMS.

  Chapter Seven

  Curran stirred some sugar into his coffee. “Say that again.”

  Lauren’s eyes sparkled in the late afternoon sunlight that streamed through the windows of the coffee shop cum bookstore on Newbury Street, a spit away from the secret library. Around their small table, shelves packed with used and new paperbacks leaned in on them.

  “A Soul Eater.”

  Curran sighed and tried to ignore Lauren’s beauty and remind himself she was going to become a nun. He didn’t succeed. “Listen, I know you did a lot of work here.”

  He could see the frown already creeping across her face. “But?”

  Curran took a sip of his coffee. “I don’t know if I’m all the ready to accept a supernatural reason as being the cause of all these deaths. I mean, in all likelihood, it’s probably some nut case who’s just figured out a nifty trick of killing people off.”

  “Steve, you asked for my help. I'm telling you what I found.”

  “Yeah, but this...” He paused. “Do you really buy it?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “We’re living in the 21st century for one thing. A Soul Eater sounds more like it belongs in some sword and sorcery epic movie or something.” Curran could see his fellow detectives laughing their asses off when he tried to tell them there was a servant of the Devil at work in Boston.

  Lauren looked down at her coffee. “I don’t have a problem accepting ideas based solely on faith.” She looked up. “Do you?”

  Curran chewed his lip. “Yeah, I do.”

  “Your lack of belief doesn’t mean this guy will go away, though. Does it?”

  Not with my luck, thought Curran. “What did this book say it could do?”

  “Eat a person's soul.”

  “And there are recorded instances of this in Church history?”

  “Yes. And the method of death fits with what you’ve described as happening with all these cases. The Soul Eater is somehow able to steal the life essence away from the people he touches.”

  “But why?”

  Lauren shrugged. “I don't know. What I read in the book didn’t make mention of the reasons for its existence.” She rummaged in her purse and brought out the red notebook. “But someone had penciled someone’s name into the margin. Even though it had been erased, I was able to make it out: ‘Graham Westerly, 1907.’”

  “What do you think it means?”

  “Maybe he was some sort of expert on Soul Eaters.”

  “Great. I guess we’re a little late to interview him, huh?”

  “He might have passed his information on to someone else in the Church. The old nun I told you about seemed to have a lot of information.”

  “Can you find her again?” Curran didn’t think it would yield much, but he didn’t want to entirely discourage Lauren, either. He liked having her around.

  “That shouldn’t be a problem.” She sipped her coffee. “Did you make any headway on the case today?”

  “As a matter of fact, I hit on a connection. Finally.”

  “What is it?”

  “Evil.”

  Lauren eyed him. “What?”

  “They were all evil.”

  “Who?”

  “The victims of this…Soul Eater guy. Each one of them had rap sheets a mile long. All bad seeds, the bunch of ‘em. Each one was a certifiable-”

  “Grade A Scum bag?”

  Curran smiled. “Exactly.”

  Lauren smiled. “How come you didn't figure this out before?”

  “Honestly? Probably because we're so used to having murder victims that are good people, not bad. Certainly not in a serial murder case. Like I said, most of those cases came at me pretty quick all those years back. Plus, there’s the fact that I was so close to the case, so absorbed by it, that I probably couldn’t see the most obvious thing in front of me. Sometimes we look too hard for the solution when it’s staring us in the face.”

  “Are you sure they were all evil?”

  “Well, the cases I had at the Bureau all were. And your brother was a pretty rotten egg-” He winced. “Sorry.”

  Lauren waved him off. “Forget about it. You're right.” Even so, Curran saw her eyes mist over slightly. They cleared quickly and Lauren looked at him again. “So, now what?”

  “I need to see if there are other outstanding unsolved murder cases anywhere else in the country. Since I wasn't with the Bureau for close to five years, there's a good chance our boy has been busy elsewhere.”

  “Will that be easy to track down?”

  Curran nodded. “It might be. All I'll have to do is put out a request for information. We'll see what comes back. For all we know this guy could have been criss-crossing the country offing people and we weren’t even aware of it.”

  “I think there's a pretty strong chance that's what been happening.”

  She seemed strangely confident. “Oh? What makes you say that?”

  She frowned. “I'm not really sure. I just have a feeling.”

  Curran cocked an eyebrow. “A feeling?”

  “Don’t make fun of me on this, Steve. I swear I’ll walk out that door if you do.”

  Curran held up his right hand. “Promise.”

  “Besides, there’s nothing weird about a feeling. Haven’t you ever had them before? Like a sense of premonition?”

  “As m
uch as I hate to admit it, I have.” He took a sip of his coffee and paused to wipe his mouth. “I’d graduated from Quantico and got shipped out to Montana. Lot of times, they do that with new agents. Get them acclimated at a less-busy field office. After a year or two there, they get bumped up to a busy office like LA or New York.”

  “What happened in Montana?”

  “One time, me and this other guy were working late. We’d had a rash of bank robberies across the state. Nothing too serious, but enough to get concerned about.” Curran took another sip. “So, the phone rings. Turns out some guy has a tip for us. It'd been happening a lot. A bank would get robbed, we'd ask for the public's help. Tips would come in and we'd go out following up on them. Got so we pretty much thought they were all dead-ends. Nothing ever panned out.

  “But this one time, this one evening for some reason it felt different. I can’t describe it.”

  “What did you do?”

  “We drove out. This was in January. State was frozen. All sorts of howling wind. Chest-high snowdrifts. The kind of snow that comes at you sideways and manages to get itself down your collar, in your boots, everywhere. And it was cold. You know the kind of cold where your breath comes out in huff of steam and then freezes? This was worse.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been that cold,” said Lauren.

  “Yeah, it’s not the greatest sensation. Anyway, I made sure I took a vest along, one for me and one for my partner. Outside the house where these guys were supposed to be holing up, I put the armor on, the feeling was getting a lot stronger then. I told my partner to put his on, too.”

  “Did he?”

  Curran saw the scene again in his mind. The snow. The howl of wind. The purr of the car engine. Even the heat streaming out of the vents. “Uh uh. Said we'd be back at the office in no time and he didn't want to waste time slapping a bulky vest on. Said he thought it would turn out to be another bad tip. I tried to insist but he was adamant.

  “So we made our approach. I took the back and he said he'd flush the front. I worked my way around back, trudging through the snow, getting all wet and uncomfortable. Really sucked being out in that weather.” He took a sip of the coffee trying to push out the memory of the cold. “I could hear my partner out front knocking on the door, identifying himself.”