by Vince Milam
“Just remember, this creature we pursue is not all-powerful,” said Francois to no one in particular, as their drinks arrived. After inserting his nose into the snifter of cognac and taking a loud inhale, he said, “Only God is so. All-powerful. Much of the pleasure of this glorious French liquid is to relish it with the senses.” He turned to Nadine and tapped the side of his nose, emphasizing the point.
“Alright,” said Nadine, as she cupped the snifter and inhaled deep, made a face, and turned to Cole. Francois’s statement about a force for good provided nothing new and Cole’s stream of consciousness seemed to have emptied him of pertinent data. “Let’s talk about us,” she said to Cole.
“Us?”
“You and me. Why aren’t you dating anyone?” Nadine had now turned her whole body toward Cole, both knees tucked and both feet on the seat. Francois may as well have been sitting on another airplane, and that suited her just fine.
“Mercy’s sakes, Nadine.”
This constituted thin-ice territory for her, but Cole was seat-belted in and a captive audience. By treading carefully she thought this might just work. Past conversations she’d had with Cole painted a picture of Martha as serene, quiet, and gentle. Martha had clearly infatuated Cole with her calm and loving approach to life and their relationship. Nadine couldn’t make claim to calm and quiet. Then again, maybe he was at a place in life where change presented itself as a good thing, although too much change tended to scare people. Then again, dating her wouldn’t be boring, and you could ask anyone for confirmation of that. His kids were out among the world, creating few demands on his time, parenting-wise, and his role as Aransas County Sheriff couldn’t be too time-consuming. She knew the round peg, square hole challenge existed if they were to date, although that was supposed to be the spice of life or some such thing.
“Do you consider us friends?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“Don’t friends talk about these things? You’re good-looking, gainfully employed, and a good and fine man. A catch. Why aren’t you dating?” This approach resided in her comfort zone—straightforward, but not too abrasive.
“It’s hard, I guess,” said Cole. “You’re married a long time, you get set in your ways.” He paused to take a drink. “Suddenly she’s gone. And you settle into life without her and focus on raising kids. It’s different phases. Now the kids have scooted off on their own. I suppose it’s another phase in life and I just haven’t come to grips with it.”
She appreciated his honesty. It registered a little one-dimensional and offered nothing of great depth, but it showed progress having him divulge personal thoughts.
“Don’t you get horny?”
“Nadine.” Cole shook his head and looked at the ceiling of the aircraft.
“I mean, the plumbing down there still works, doesn’t it?”
“Nadine!” said Cole.
Francois took this opportunity to lean forward and look past Nadine at Cole, raising an eyebrow. Cole looked at the priest and unbuckled the seatbelt.
“I’ve got to go to the bathroom,” Cole said, departing.
Dammit, she thought. Dammit. Spooked him. A duck on a pond and I got too close. Took off quacking about the bathroom.
She turned to look at Francois, jaw tight. “Were you going to contribute to the conversation, Mr. Celibacy?”
Francois gestured “such is life,” apparently not offended by her question. “No. But one may want to consider the sheriff’s longer perspective. The years ahead. And not, perhaps, the immediacy of the plumbing.”
Francois was right. She’d remember this strategy for future reference. Start at the end game and work back. Reverse chronology. She acknowledged as much, saying, “Yep. You’re right.” She slumped back. “I’m not very good at social stuff. Never have been.”
Francois took her hand. “Mon ami, there is always help. Guidance. You simply must ask for it.”
“The higher power thing?”
“Oui.”
“How is God on making me easier to get along with?”
Francois smiled. “More than adequate, I assure you. And we will need him, of this I am certain. The three of us—Athos, Aramis, and Porthos as you say—should all be asking for help.”
Chapter 17
Assistant Chief Constable Jenni Thomas left work earlier than usual. Her daughter was staying with a friend for a birthday party, so she traveled to the edge of town to see her niece Anwen, who worked at the Cardiff School for the Blind. She’d arranged to take her niece for dinner as a treat. Anwen filled a place dear to Jenni, and no special occasion was needed to prompt the offer. Anwen loved chatting with her, particularly about men. Jenni expressed her lack of expertise within the men department, but her niece remained convinced she knew a great deal on the subject.
She arrived late afternoon and parked near the large, old stone building that had been converted from a shipping warehouse built several centuries before. Jenni considered it dark inside, but her niece explained the students were after all blind, and lighting was not a major issue. The school had seventy-three students and a staff of eighteen. As Jenni entered, the ancient hallways filled with the usual sounds of young people laughing, talking, and making their way to the final class of the day. They brought a sense of light to the stone structure, more than compensating for the lack of electrical lighting.
Jenni headed along a hallway to her niece’s office, knowing enough to offer a cheery “hello” as she walked, to let the students know of her presence. A janitor far down the hall stood with mop and bucket, leaning against a wall as he waited for classes to start and things to settle.
“Where to?” asked Anwen, as she put desktop items away for the day. Jenni leaned against the doorframe.
“Your choice,” said Jenni. “Chinese? Pizza? Whatever strikes your fancy. I’m foregoing my diet in your honor. How’s that for an excuse? And how’s life as an administrator these days?”
They chatted about budgets and government funding while Anwen finished her duties.
“Well now,” came an unexpected voice behind Jenni. “Aren’t you something to look at?”
Jenni snapped around to see the young janitor a few feet away. Her radar switched to high alert. Something wasn’t right about this fellow.
“Pardon me?” she asked, assessing the young man. Arms crossed and a smirking smile conveyed a weird, unsettling assuredness. The young man apparently took her response as a positive.
“You’re looking good, all I’m saying,” said Jones. “What’s your name?”
“Assistant Chief Constable Thomas. What’s yours?”
She thought her police status would throw him off and change the dynamic. She also wanted his name. The guy, however, continued to give off a disconcerting vibe. The young man must have thought it positive progress when she’d asked his name. He edged closer, invading her personal space.
“Jones. Price,” he said. “Although my friends call me a lot of things, including stud.” His smirk widened, with one lip raised more at the corner, giving the effect of a toothy sneer. He moved even closer.
“Well, stud, if I do a quick records search, what little surprises am I liable to find about you?”
She returned no smile and posed with the constable stare, hands on hips and full of official business.
This seemed to throw Jones. He held both hands in a “whoa” position and cocked his head, the smile becoming a display of teeth, with no sign of humor or social grace. “I’m just being friendly, ACC Thomas. You looked tasty, so I’m just being friendly.”
“Be friendly somewhere else,” said Jenni.
Jones kept his hands elevated as he stepped back and turned, his smile gone, replaced with contorted anger and burning eyes. She remained with hands on hips as he strode back down the hall casting a look back of unhinged resentment.
Anwen moved to the door to see who her aunt was talking to. “What in the world just happened?” she asked.
“Stay away
from him,” said Jenni. “I don’t like his approach, or attitude, or demeanor. Do you know him?”
Anwen replied he was a new janitor and that she had seen him only recently. They had never spoken.
Before they left the parking lot, Jenni fetched her laptop and did a search for Price Jones. “Several arrests for bar fights, once for vandalism, a sexual assault charge later dropped, and a suspect in a burglary we couldn’t nail down,” she said, scrolling the screen. “I’m going to file a formal notice with the school about this guy. Stay away from him, Anwen. Bad news.”
***
Jones grabbed the mop bucket and left for the cellar where the school kept the cleaning supplies. It took strength—great strength—to hide the quivering anger. The basement had two small lockers for the janitorial staff and he began to change the work coveralls for street clothes. “Enough,” he said to no one. “Enough. Screw her. She’s not that f’ing hot. Screw all of them.”
“She should have accepted you as her lover. How much more do you plan to take?” came a voice emanating from a dark corner.
Jones banged against the open locker door as he spun around and squinted into the far reaches of the room. The tall stranger he had eaten with last night came out of the shadows.
“What?” asked Jones. “What are you doing here? You scared the hell out of me.”
“Not likely,” said his new friend. “But to the point, how much are you going to take? When will you make people notice you?”
Still shaken by the sudden appearance of the man, Jones said, “I asked you what you’re doing here, mate. It’s weird.”
“I rent a place nearby. You told me you worked here,” said the tall, pale man.
“Oh yeah? Well, I’m off work now,” said Jones. “And I want to go home.” Enough of this day and its realities—it was time to get online with his cyber-mates.
“Do you believe in God?”
No telling where the old man was going with this, but once he peeled off these work clothes and got back into jeans, this whole blind school could kiss his arse. His new friend was a little creepy and some sort of God question fit the guy’s style, but Jones enjoyed talking with him. The conversation last night at dinner ranked as the best conversation he’d had in years. The man—Adal—made a great listener.
“Yeah. When I’m Kanamel the Crusher. It’s a great online game. I’m level thirty-seven. Crushing enemies, causing devastation. Whacking off heads.” Jones slid into his shoes. “I use a two-handed sword—a Scottish claymore. Seizing women, who always yield to me. They want me to take them. Then I’m God. Then I’m respected. And feared. A god.”
Moloch gave his tight smile. “Yes. Yes, you can be God here, too. Among these stupid people.”
“Oh yeah?” asked Jones, tucking his shirt. The inside of the locker door held a small mirror. Jones checked himself, smoothing back his hair, and caught Moloch motioning a hairy hand in the reflection. The mirror image changed. Now stood Kanamel the Crusher looking back at him, armored and wielding a sword. He looked strong, handsome, and feared.
“Do you know how to hate?” asked Adal. “Really, truly hate?”
“Oh yes,” said Kanamel, still looking in the mirror. “Yes. With a passion. Hate is power.”
Chapter 18
The team arrived in Cardiff. They cleared customs, assembled, and argued about the next immediate steps. Cole wanted first to go to the local police and introduce their effort. Nadine wanted to go to the hotel and establish a base of operations. Francois agreed both these endeavors were important and could take place after he stopped at a shop or two so he could dress in an appropriate manner. They went to the hotel.
Nadine had booked three adjoining rooms and they agreed to meet at the bar/coffee shop off the lobby. She unpacked, recharged her tablet, calibrated her two laptops, and connected through the hotel’s Wi-Fi with her security encryptions. No new information on Moloch showed, but she expected those results. He couldn’t hide from her and once she found him, they would tail him. She hummed a Gillian Welch tune as she worked. This whole field agent thing beat the pants off being cooped up in the apartment providing information to others. Plus, this case had a religious and spiritual dimension which was completely new and a little weird.
Completing her work, she considered the act of prayer. It wouldn’t be weird to do that, she thought. This whole thing has such a metaphysical component.
She had associated her consciousness with a higher being before, but not applied in a structured manner. So she forced herself to do something she’d never done before—have a dialogue, a formal prayer. She stood still, tilted her head, and looked at the ceiling.
Okay, I believe in you. That’s the biggie, right? So let’s get over that. It’s the whole bearded looks-like-grandpa thing. I’m sorry, but I don’t buy that. Maybe that’s not a deal-breaker. I know you are out there. But how active are you? Hand of God and all that stuff.
Eyes closed, her breath came deep and slow.
I’ve read the Bible. Digested it. I guess you’d know that. I don’t get you in the Old Testament. Sorry. I just don’t get all the death, destruction, and revenge. Particularly when the New Testament is all about love. I sure wish that segue was a little better defined.
Here she smiled and rolled her shoulders, keeping her eyes closed. Okay, this probably isn’t the time to provide literary criticism of that book. Your book. Sorry.
She moved to sit on the edge of the bed, clasped her hands, and bowed her head. Maybe the whole physical prayer bit with hands and head and who-knows-what-else was important, although a playbook or flow diagram would make things a lot easier. But she sensed the physical posture was worth a shot in case some physiological channeling took place in this position.
Okay, let’s go to the current situation. This whole thing with Cole and Francois—it’s got me messed up metaphysically. Evil as a walking, talking thing.
She shook her head and began to stand, sat back and crossed her hands, and closed her eyes again.
So, a little clarity on that would be good. And thank you for everything. I suppose I’m blessed. My life’s pretty good. So thanks. Whatever you have done in my life, thanks.
She stood, still unquenched. She looked around the room at the laptops and tablet and cell phone. She opened her arms and held her palms upward in supplication.
Let’s give this position a try. Now, I know you’ve got a lot on your plate, but I want to ask for one more thing from you. It seems selfish. Put all those starving kids and people living in horror and despair ahead of me in line. That’s more important.
She paused.
Okay, maybe assuming you have a queue shows the limits of my thinking. I’m not telling you what to do. I do that a lot, but not now. Not with you. So here’s the problem. Help me understand love. There’s a hole in me. I try, God, I really do. My wiring just doesn’t let me interact and understand. I need your help on that. It would mean a lot. And again, thanks for all you have done for me. Please just toss in that one thing. That one request. Thanks for your time. Amen.
***
Cole met Nadine at the elevator. Off the lobby, they found Francois in a clothing shop trying to decide on a woolen scarf. He chose the teal color, draping it around his neck.
“We need to get you a coat, Cole,” said Nadine as they waited for Francois to make the purchase. “This isn’t summer in Texas.”
He smiled back. “Later. I’ll survive. Let’s get some coffee and get to the local cops. I’ve called them to let them know we needed to talk. Let’s find Moloch. Let’s get some answers.” A fresh trail started here and the hunt was on. The chaotic horrors surrounding that day in Rockport still came hard and sure. The smells, the cries, the death—justice called and now was the time for answers.
The one distracting element—a burr-under-the-saddle realization for Cole—was the lateness of his call to the Cardiff police. The team introductions and information on Moloch should have been passed on prior to their d
eparture from Texas. It was unprofessional to appear at their doorsteps without a prior briefing. Moloch was dangerous. Cole owed it to the local cops to let them know of the man’s arrival on their turf. He would expect the same courtesy. The phone call that morning to the Cardiff police was routed to a low-level clerk who told Cole to “drop by.” An earlier warning would have connected him to someone higher up the Cardiff police food chain. He’d screwed up, and it rankled him.
The three of them strode into the empty pub and headed for a table in a remote corner. Nadine and Francois led the way. Cole froze. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, his nostrils flared, and his jaw clamped while he instinctively slapped his right hip, reaching for a nonexistent .40 caliber pistol. He scanned the room.
In the opposite far corner sat Moloch. Surrounded by empty tables, near a door leading to the outdoor porch, he perched upright and observant. Before him sat three cups of coffee, untouched and steaming. He gave a slight nod and signaled with one long, hairy finger. Come.
Cole’s chest contracted and fear coursed through him. Move, he thought. Move. You are Cole by-God Garza. Go right at that sumbitch.
Resolve shoved aside fear. He strode toward Moloch’s table.
He took the chair opposite, their eyes locked. “Let’s talk,” he said, spinning the chair around prior to sitting, in case events required sudden action.
The glass door behind Moloch lay ajar. The sound of birds chirping combined with the clink of glasses behind the coffee bar. Cole’s senses, flooded by adrenaline, caught everything.
Moloch chuckled, speaking with mirth. “Oh, yes. Let’s do. Tell me. How is Martha? Or should I tell you?”
Cole jerked back, recovered, and coiled to spring across the table to take Moloch by the neck. From across the room Francois barked, “L’ennemi!” and Cole risked a quick glance over his shoulder to see the priest flinging one tail of the scarf around his neck, girded for battle. Francois’s face had become florid, his blood on fire. He drove toward Moloch’s table, leaning forward and aggressive—a knight charging. Nadine lagged behind.