“Exactly. Did it ever occur to you that he might have been manipulated?”
“By whom, for God’s sake?”
“Come now, Paul. The devil works in mysterious ways.”
“You think it was the . . . Collector? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Paul, he sees the fallen one, or so it seems, a vindictive demon cast out by God—”
“There is no evidence that creature was cast out by God. Truth is we don’t know what it is or where it came from or even what its real intentions are.”
“Be that as it may, he is an unholy creature that has somehow managed to exist here on earth among mortals for God knows how long. McArthur witnesses the atrocities the fallen one commits in the name of the very artifact you wear around your neck. He does not see God; he does not see good, he sees only evil. Are we to believe that this man will be a good custodian of the artifact? You want us to blindly trust that his unborn child is the chosen one?”
“He’s not even a holy man,” a second voice railed in protest, picking up the thread of dissent and running with it. He was a tall middle-aged man named Conyers, an annoyingly intelligent and analytical individual who possessed several doctorate degrees in fields as diverse as quantum physics and Greek Mythology. “For God’s sake, he doesn’t even attend church.”
“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Redington replied calmly, although he was seething inside. “There was never a guarantee that the chosen one would be a holy man.”
“But from the very beginning all have been holy men,” Dougherty argued.
“All Jesuits, actually,” Redington reminded them, even though he knew they were all aware of this simple fact. “At least since the thirteenth century, when that soldier pulled it from the mud and handed it over to the Collector. Don’t forget, it was the Collector that placed it in Jesuit hands for safekeeping.”
“So the legend goes,” said Dougherty. “I’m not sure I ever actually believed that.”
Redington was fuming. “It does not matter what you believe. What matters is I have the artifact. The Jesuits have been good custodians of the object, but it has been known from the beginning that the artifact was meant for something . . . greater; that it might not always remain in Jesuit hands.”
“Something greater?” Conyers said. “What do you suppose this great purpose is?”
“No one really knows,” said Redington. “Perhaps mankind’s very salvation.”
“Or it’s destruction,” added Dougherty.
Redington smiled but to him it felt more like a grimace. “Exactly as the two opposing visions suggest.”
“What if it is a trick?” a third priest asked. His name was Isaac Ross and he was head of the Order’s security force. “Suppose this man—this so called chosen one—or even his unborn child, turns out to be the anti-Christ? We’ve been protecting him and his wife for years, calling them the chosen ones. All because of these . . . visions of yours.”
Paul Redington stared long and hard at Ross, trying to decipher the man’s thoughts with the sheer power of concentration. But it was no use. Redington could not read minds. Finally he said, “And the visions of my predecessor. And of his predecessor and his before him. They are more than visions, Isaac.”
Ross heaved a deep sigh.
“Be that as it may,” Conyers interjected. “What if this is just more of the Collector’s clever trickery?”
Redington glared at the man. He could not talk sense to these hopeless conservatives. There were things he’d sworn never to confide and it was useless to go on this way. He just needed to appease them long enough to do what had to be done. “The most pressing matter is the destruction of the chosen one’s home this morning and the blatant attempt on their lives,” he said. “These matters need to be addressed now.”
“And what would you have us do?” Ross said.
Redington’s eyes drew down on the man. “What we have sworn to do,” he said. “Protect them! Something we failed to do this morning. Something you failed to do this morning.”
“Obviously there was some sort of security breach,” Conyers said, his attention now focused on Ross.
“I hope you’re not making accusations, brother Conyers,” Ross said.
“Tell me, how did this happen?” Redington asked. “Do we have a traitor in our ranks?”
“Why don’t you ask the young woman who was in charge of the security detail this morning, Brother Redington? The woman you yourself placed in that position against my better judgment. Perhaps she could shed some light on it.”
“I already have,” Redington said. “Actually we’ve had a long conversation, and we do have some theories.”
“Oh, I see. And what might those theories be? What are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything. Only that we should be very careful.” He raised a suspicious eyebrow, looking from face to face trying to recognize any sign of deceit. His scrutiny elicited grunts and groans of discontent from the men around him.
“Come now, gentlemen, this is hardly the time to start questioning loyalties,” Ross said.
“My loyalties are being questioned,” Redington shot back.
“No, Paul,” Conyers said. “It is not your loyalty that is being questioned.”
“What then?”
“I believe Brother Conyers is speaking of . . . good judgment,” Dougherty said.
“This is about good judgment?” Redington said with astonishment. “I was chosen because of my judgment.”
“Yes, correct,” Dougherty said and Redington detected a certain measure of arrogance in the man’s tone. “The Order has always had its . . . chosen one. That does not necessarily mean the judgment of the one doing the choosing has always been sound. As you well know, human judgment is fallible.”
“Do not make accusations, Brother Dougherty.”
Dougherty raised an eyebrow. “I was speaking of your predecessor, Paul.”
“I am well aware of what you are implying. You are saying that Father Starbird used poor judgment in choosing me?”
“Or something else entirely.”
“What do you mean?” Redington’s voice had turned hard.
“Well, we all know your history. Of how your two seminary friends drowned and how Starbird came to the rescue. And of how . . . close you two became.”
Redington glared at his accuser. “Go on.”
“I’m only saying that his judgment might have been misguided.”
“How so? I’m afraid I’m not following you.”
“Well, perhaps he saw something in you other than . . .”
Redington held his hand up to silence the man. His barely-controlled rage began to make its way to the surface. But he could not allow it to do so. There was too much at stake here and he did not need an out and out mutiny. He was well aware of what these men were implying. Somehow he needed to steer them clear of the dangerous path they were heading down, and he needed to stay calm to do so. It was as if something had gotten into their minds and was twisting everything around, some doubt, some sort of . . . persuasion. He glanced around the great room, feeling suddenly ill at ease. Everything felt wrong. The atmosphere seemed weighted, dead, and he was having trouble breathing.
“My biggest concern,” said Conyers, “is that you want to place the artifact, perhaps an object with potentially the greatest power the world has ever seen, in the hands of an ordinary man. It does not seem like good judgment to me.”
“Please,” Redington said. “Let us retire to the downstairs meeting room where we can discuss this matter in comfort and at length. For some of you, coming here has been a long and tiresome journey. Food and drink has been prepared and is waiting. Perhaps sustenance will add perspective to our arguments.” He gave a tired smile, already weary of trying to sway these staunch conservatives. In the final analysis it did not matter whether they agreed with him or not, he had the power to make the decision with or without the council’s approval. And of course the decision ha
d already been made. All the rest was simply polite formality.
The six men began slowly making their way toward the door that would lead them to the basement meeting room. Before following after them, Paul Redington turned and carefully scanned the inside of the great temple as if it was the first time he’d ever really looked at the place. And then the thought struck him strangely that perhaps it was the last time he would do so. Some mysterious sense was telling him to be on guard. Yes, something was wrong, and not for the first time since calling the meeting did he regret bringing the elder body together in one place.
Dougherty stopped in the doorway’s entrance and turned around, looking at Redington who was still standing in the center of the cathedral floor. “Aren’t you coming, Paul?” he asked.
“Yes,” Redington said, “I’ll be there in a moment.” Dougherty hesitated a moment longer before turning and stepping through the doorway.
Beyond the windows, to the west, the sun was setting in a brilliant blaze of glory, casting multi-colored prisms through the stained glass and over the interior of the great temple.
Outside, from its hilltop, the cathedral had once commanded fine views; west all the way to the Ohio River, north and south over the lush meadows of the region toward the small village of Darby in the distance. The former view was still available to the occasional tourist who wanted to bother with sight seeing; the latter had been interrupted in the second half of the twentieth century by urban sprawl and shopping malls. Now there was a screen of well-tended hemlock trees between cathedral and road; not sufficiently tall to conceal the upper half of the building’s steeple and tower, but enough to dampen the view from the lower levels of the church to the modern world beyond.
How such a place had come to be built in rural eighteenth century Ohio—given the fact that Jesuits were by definition soldiers and wanderers who, for the most part eschewed excess—was a story of sheer and enormous will, a testament to the innate need for roots, the insatiable sense of home that drives men to accomplish uncommon feats.
Redington’s moment of reflection was suddenly interrupted as the statue of Christ, hanging on its eternal cross near the altar suddenly exploded in a convergence of multi-colored light prisms. It was as if the deity had suddenly come to life and was attempting to convey some sort of cryptic message. It was just the setting sun of course, slanting through one of the stained glass windows. The old priest stared at the spectacle in awe for a long moment, watching the familiar image wax and wane in the dying sun’s illumination, waiting for some sign from the heavens. But of course, no message was conveyed, no answers to his most daunting questions, just a great weight in his heart for what had to be done on this day.
Just as suddenly as the strange spectacle began, the sun set behind the hills, and it was over, the interior of the cathedral darkening as if a blanket had been drawn over it. The only sound in the chilling silence of the holy place was the soft murmuring of voices as the other six members made their way down the stairs at the back of the church toward the basement meeting room. And as the voices receded Redington felt a strange and prophetic chill come over him. In his pocket the fragment began to vibrate, and through the fabric of his robe he felt heat. He plunged his hand into the robe’s pocket and encircled his fist around the object hoping to tame its ambition. The pain was immediate and nearly overwhelming, as he suspected it would be. Even so, he did not release his hold on the artifact. Extracting it, he finally opened his hand and held it close to his face, examining it for the umpteenth time. And again he was awed by its strange, almost alien metamorphosis. It pulsed and glowed in the dim illumination, morphing from a simple pitted iron spearhead fragment into the most beautiful golden object he had ever seen. And as this strange alchemy took place, blood poured from the wounds it caused, and again, as always, the pain felt somehow right.
Redington did not move, couldn’t move. The silence was too intense, almost annoying. Something was happening. He felt it in every fiber of his being. He’d been nervous since making the decision to call the meeting of the elders twenty-four hours earlier. And he didn’t know why until this very moment. His brethren had come unquestioningly from all corners of the globe. All understood the importance of this meeting and what it could mean to the future of mankind. These men, these elders, members of an ancient brotherhood who had dedicated their lives to a single cause, were the antithesis of the darkness that occupied the shadows of this strange and contradictory universe. But something was very wrong on this day. As far as he knew, loyalties had never before been questioned, yet moments ago that had all changed. Dear, God, yes, it was true, everything felt wrong; the body had somehow been infected, and the air inside the cathedral felt thick with evil.
Redington knew that these holy men had not made the journey here alone. The Brotherhood of the Order employed many people, scientists, tacticians, security forces, ex-soldiers, and yes, even assassins, all sworn to loyalty and obedience, well paid, ready and willing to do whatever was necessary to protect the Order’s secrets and sanctity. And Redington knew that stationed outside the temple on this day were innumerable of these forces. These nameless, faceless people, trained professionals, soldiers and assassins, flew in the face of everything the church stood for. But it was a dangerous world, and Jesuits had always been forced to live by the sword. The Jesuit Brotherhood of the Order was, after all, a direct descendent of the legendary Nights Templar; this was the truth, although society at large had no idea that the Templars still existed in any place other than internet conspiracies, of which there were many. And that’s the way the Order preferred things to be.
The Jesuit Templars began as a military religious order of the Roman Catholic Church. They’d been betrayed once driving what was left of their decimated ranks underground. They would never make that mistake again. Ever vigilant, they had managed to remain in the shadows for more than half a millennium, they’re most sacred mission: to see that the artifact ended up in the proper hands.
Although Redington had always taken comfort in his and the other members’ security, in that moment he realized a cold hard fact. All of the trained professionals in the world could not protect them. The object was telling him to run, to go quickly and not look back, because something inherently evil, something greater than all the power of man’s collective good had infiltrated the Order’s sanctity on this day.
From the corner of his eye Redington picked up a quick and sudden movement, a flash of light so silvery-bright that it was almost blinding. He whirled, his heart racing to a gallop in his frail chest, and for a moment he thought his seventy-nine year old bowels might let go. But the flash was gone before he could identify it. He scanned the interior of the darkening cathedral for more movement, but saw none. The artifact was pulsing, telling him to run, to go from this place as quickly as possible and deliver the prize to its rightful owner before it was too late. Run, it said. Run, run, run! But he could not run. He could not even move. Not yet. First he needed to see. And what he needed to see was the truth, which came to him in a flash of gut wrenching horror.
When finally he did move, he did not run away, as the artifact kept insisting, instead he began walking determinedly toward the door that led to the downstairs meeting room, the place where moments ago his six contemporaries had gone. His pounding heart filled with dread, he descended the carpeted stairs. All along the way the corridor was lit by guttering candles set in wall sconces. As he drew closer to the meeting room, he heard nothing but a chilling silence. Then the slaughterhouse smell struck him and he stopped cold. “Oh, God,” he murmured. “Not now. Please, not here.” But he knew, God, he knew, and he began walking again, tentatively this time, toward the door at the end of the corridor, toward the truth he knew lay within. In his tight fist the artifact vibrated so severely that blood spilled to his feet along the way. He felt no pain. He was beyond pain. His entire being was numb with shock and disbelief.
When he pushed the door open he saw death everywhere. No, it
was more than death, it was blasphemy; the bodies all mixed up somehow, as if they had been put through some sort of cosmic blender. The heads were whole and untouched, calcified, like blocks of alabaster, propped up on individual chairs, eyes wide open staring blankly toward the doorway, mouths stretched and elongated; five silent screams. The reality struck him like a lance in the heart. Five, not six. He looked from face to face counting them again, recognizing each one. He glanced around him. At the end of the room the exit door stood ajar and there was no sign of the traitor. The reality struck him with cold finality. Nearly seven hundred years of effort had all been erased in the wink of an eye by a traitor he had suspected but had no proof of, a servant not of God, but of an unholy entity that was gaining in power by the minute. His attention was suddenly drawn to a tier of Aramaic words scrawled in the victims’ blood on the far wall.
He knew what the words meant, of course, he’d seen them before.
LOST
FORSAKEN
FORGOTTEN
But what astounded him most was the image below the name. A perfectly-rendered—in an almost supernatural way, as though it had been photo-flashed onto the wall—copy of the object he’d worn around his neck for nearly half a century.
The same object that pulsed and burned in his hand at this very moment.
Clutching the artifact tightly in his fist, he placed it against his chest where his heart beat out a syncopated rhythm.
He stared, unable to move, his breath wheezing in and out of his lungs. This seemed a first in the annals of the Collector’s brutality. Redington did not actually know who or what the Collector was. His predecessor, Father Starbird, had given him as much as he knew, but in fact, no one actually knew for sure; there were rumors that he was a fallen angel cast out by God and trapped here on earth. But Redington had never been convinced of this; the demon he knew seemed more illusionist than something of God’s making. There were other wilder rumors that he was some sort of alien from another world—perhaps another reality—come here to wreak havoc upon the earth. To Redington this seemed more like science fiction than anything based in fact.
Soul Thief (Blue Light Series) Page 19