The Paradise Prophecy

by Robert Browne

  Michael took his Roman from his waistband, kept his focus on Zack. “Step away from the girl.”

  “Sorry, asshole. Can’t do it.”

  “I really think you should reconsider. Ashes to ashes and all that.”

  The tattooed chick edged sideways, moving to the pile of pipes to her left. “I sure hope you got a spare skin back home, ’cuz we’re gonna have some fun with this one.”

  She snatched up some pipes and tossed them to the others. They hefted them in their hands and spread out, waiting for Michael to engage. Zack spun Jenna around and pushed her toward the sewing machines. “Sit down and watch, bitch.”

  Jenna stumbled and grabbed hold of one of the machines.

  “You really don’t want to do this,” Michael said, stepping toward them now. “Just let me take the girl and we’ll save the dustup for another day. I couldn’t care less about a worthless bunch of drudges.”

  “Worthless?” Zack said. “You trying to hurt our feelings?”

  “That would require you have a heart and a mind and a soul. And you’re oh-for-three at-”

  The Winnebago roared and came at Michael, swinging the pipe hard, aiming for his head. Michael ducked with plenty of room, but the Winnebago swung again, going for another head shot. The pipe whooshed past Michael and he jerked back, watching it brush past his chin, a little too close for comfort. Then he sidestepped and spun and sliced the Winnebago’s gut with his Roman.

  A split second later, the guy vaporized, dust scattering violently in the air, blowing directly into the faces of Zack and the others, as the pipe he’d held clattered on the floor.

  But Michael didn’t slow down. Not waiting for them to attack, he spun and swung, effortlessly knocking the pipe out of the tattooed chick’s hands, then doubled back and brought up the Roman again, the edge of his blade slicing through the swastika on her neck. She burst into fine ashes, her piercings scattering across the floor like jacks on asphalt.

  Deciding he didn’t have time to waste on this nonsense, Michael ripped his Glock from his waistband and opened fire, taking out the two remaining muscle men with two quick shots.

  Then he turned the gun on Zack.

  Zack took one look at the bead rings, the nose hoop, the star plugs, the barbells, the ear studs, the nipple piercings and God knew what else on the floor in front of him and stumbled backwards, dropping his weapon, throwing his hands up. “Okay, okay, okay, man! I give! I give!”

  Michael stopped, lowered the gun. “What do you do when you see a roach on your kitchen floor, Zack?”

  Zack looked confused. “What?”

  “Just answer the question. What do you do when you see a roach?”

  Zack kept backing away. “I don’t know, man, I don’t know-I-I step on it. What do you do?”

  Michael smiled. “Show it no mercy.”

  Then he brought the gun up again and fired, the bullet piercing Zack’s chest, turning him to dust.

  Good riddance to bad rubbish.

  Michael crossed to the sewing machines, where Jenna stood frozen on the spot. Despite the drugs, there was a look of stunned disbelief on her face.

  Had she really just seen all that?

  “W-who are you?” she stuttered. “What just happened?”

  “I’ll explain later,” he said, grabbing her by the wrist. “There’s bound to be an army coming up those stairs any minute now and we need to get out of here.”

  She jerked her arm, trying to pull free. “You’re a lunatic. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  Michael held her firm and leaned his face toward hers. “Listen to me, Jenna. I didn’t want it to happen like this, but if you stay here you’re in danger. We have to go. Now.”

  He could see that the drugs were still confusing her, that she didn’t know what to do, but she stopped resisting and he tightened his grip on her and pulled her toward the door. Without a backwards glance, they ran to his Buick, jumped in.

  “Put on your seat belt,” he said, firing up the engine. Then he jerked the car into drive.

  Two minutes later, they were blasting down Wilshire, weaving in and out of traffic, and the girl had come out of her stupor enough to realize how scared she was.

  “What’s going on?” she cried. “Who are you?”

  “That’s hard to explain.”

  “How do you know my name? Did my parents send you?”

  “No. They don’t know anything about this.”

  “Then what’s going on? What happened to those people back there? They just … disintegrated.”

  “There are things in this world that are hard to understand, Jenna. And I can’t give you an explanation that’ll make a lot of sense to you. Not like this. So right now you’ll just have to trust me.”

  “Trust you? I don’t even know you. You’re just some gross old man!”

  She seemed more alert now, which might have had something to do with the speed of the car and the wind rushing through her hair.

  “Pull over,” she said. “Let me out of this thing.”

  “I can’t do that, Jenna.”

  “Pull over! Or I swear to God I’ll-”

  Suddenly they heard shouts and the revving of engines as two cars pulled up on either side of them, packed with drudges from the dance club. One of the drudges scrambled out of the back passenger window and sprang onto the trunk of the Buick.

  Jenna screamed, and another one leapt from the car on Michael’s side, diving into the Buick’s backseat. Pulling himself upright, he wrapped his hands around Michael’s throat.

  As Michael struggled to breathe, the first one went for Jenna.

  Grabbing his Roman, Michael swung out, slicing him across the face, and a shower of dust blew back and away, disappearing into the sky.

  Jenna screamed again.

  Then the second one tightened his grip, and Michael’s vision narrowed. It was a miracle he was even able to drive. Fumbling the Roman, he grasped for it and missed, and it tumbled into the backseat. He tried to grab hold of his Glock, but he fumbled it, too.

  He grasped Jenna’s arm. “My gun,” he croaked. “Find my gun…”

  Jenna’s face was pale with panic. Her eyes wild.

  “Do it!” Michael croaked. He hammered a fist at the drudge’s head, but the guy didn’t let up.

  His vision was almost gone, the street in front of him a dark blur. He felt Jenna moving around beside him, but had no idea what she was up to. Then, just as he was about to black out, Jenna screamed again, a shot rang out-

  – and the pressure on his neck disappeared, the drudge disintegrating behind him, sending a swirl of black dust into the air.

  As Michael’s eyes came back into focus, Jenna dropped the gun to the seat as if it were contaminated, and started to tremble, tears springing into her eyes.

  Throwing his arm across her, he told her to hold on, then jerked the wheel, taking them into a hard right turn down a side street. The other cars faltered only slightly, then regained speed, once again pulling up alongside the Buick.

  Then the driver on the left side jerked his wheel hard and slammed into the side of the Buick. The jolt hammered through Michael but he didn’t slow down.

  The car slammed into the Buick a second time with brutal force, the impact knocking Michael’s hands off the wheel.

  The Buick careened toward the sidewalk but was cut short by a row of parked cars. Metal screamed as they came to an abrupt, jarring stop, pitching Michael forward. His face hit the wheel, pain rocketing through him as blood burst from his nose and the world started spinning around him.

  Suddenly there were drudges swarming all over the Buick, and Jenna screamed as hands grabbed at her, ripping her seat belt free and pulling her out of the front seat.

  Dazed, Michael lifted his head, his vision blurred, as another car pulled up alongside them.

  A black limousine.

  The rear passenger window rolled down and Beelzebub signaled to the drudges. “Bring her to me.”

 
Jenna struggled as the drudges dragged her over to the limo. “Let go of me!”

  As she got close to the window, however, Beelzebub reached out and took her hand. A gesture that calmed her a bit.

  “It’s all right, my angel. I won’t let him hurt you.”

  “Who are you people? What do you want from me?”

  “We have time enough to talk about that. But first we need to get you somewhere safe.”

  Michael tried to move, but his legs were pinned under the dash. “Leave her alone.”

  Beelzebub ignored him. “What do you say, Jenna? Would you like to come back home with me? You’ll be safe there. Not a thing to fret about.”

  “Don’t pay any attention to him,” Michael told her. “You can’t trust him.”

  Jenna looked confused. She glanced at Michael, then returned her gaze to Beelzebub. “He killed Zack. Just shot him point-blank. It was awful.”

  “I know, my angel. But don’t you worry, God will punish him. Why don’t you get in and I’ll take you home?”

  Jenna hesitated, then finally nodded. The door opened, the drudges released her, and she climbed inside, disappearing from view.

  Then Beelzebub turned to Michael. “See how easy that was?”

  “Don’t think it’s over,” Michael told him.

  “Oh, I certainly hope not.”

  And as Michael struggled to free himself, Beelzebub’s window rolled up and the limousine pulled away.

  43

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  St. Giles’ Cripplegate was one of the few medieval churches in all of London. It sat on soil that was believed to have held holy structures as far back as a thousand years. In the middle of the Barbican, London’s now-thriving cultural arts center, it was the only building left standing-although damaged considerably-when the area was destroyed by the blitz during World War II.

  It had also managed to survive the Great Fire of 1666, and Batty didn’t think these were insignificant facts.

  The church was an imposing structure, constructed of Kentish ragstone in the fourteenth century in the name of the hermit Giles, the patron saint of cripples-although, ironically, the name Cripplegate had nothing at all to do with this. It featured a high bell tower, and the churchyard was bordered on one side by a surviving piece of the Roman wall, which had been erected several centuries earlier to protect the port town of Londinium from interlopers.

  Stepping onto its grounds was like stepping through the looking glass into another time and place.

  Batty and Callahan had arrived in London early, and were forced to wait until well past nightfall to approach the church grounds. The streets here seemed only slightly less crazy than those in Chiang Mai, and as the unruliness continued, the police did their best to keep it contained.

  They had spent the day holed up in a cheap hotel nearby, Batty fidgeting like a teenager, unable to sleep or eat, just anxious to do what needed to be done. He tried to bide his time by reading sections of the Milton manuscript and Steganographia-both of which he carried in the book bag-but his mind kept wandering, remembering his vision.

  Only those whose motives are pure can read the pages without fear of the curse, Milton had told him. But were Batty’s motives pure?

  Was anyone pure?

  Part of what had fueled him, what had taken hold of him in Sao Paulo in the first place, was his desire to know who had ripped Rebecca out of his life. And when he found out, he had been filled with a rage and anger he hadn’t felt since the day she died.

  Yet when he’d put that bullet in Belial’s back, when he saw what McNab had done with his sniper’s bullets, Batty had felt nothing more than relief. Relief that Belial had been stopped-if only temporarily-from destroying more lives.

  So did that make his motives pure?

  No way to tell, unfortunately.

  And now, deep into the night, he and Callahan made their way across the churchyard to the main entrance. It was locked, as expected, and if there was any kind of security guard, he was nowhere to be found, undoubtedly spooked by the pandemonium in the streets these last couple days.

  Or maybe joining in.

  Callahan checked for alarms and found none, then got through the lock with little effort. Fortunately, she didn’t use her foot this time.

  They carried flashlights to guide them. Batty had been here before, in his quest to know everything Milton, and noted that it hadn’t really changed. Even in limited light, the church was impressive, sporting polished wooden pews and lined on either side with carved stone columns and archways.

  To their right, beyond the archways, stood a bronze statue of John Milton.

  Callahan put her flashlight beam on it. “This is a good sign.”

  “Here’s an even better one,” Batty said, then shone his light on a nearby wall that held a bust of Milton atop a plaque that read:

  JOHN MILTON

  Author of Paradise Lost

  Born Dec 1608

  Died Nov 1674

  His father John Milton

  died 1646

  They were both interred in this church

  “The question,” Callahan said, “is where?”

  “That part could be tricky.”

  She knitted her brow. “How so?”

  “It’s been a few centuries since he was buried,” Batty said. “And the place has been rebuilt and refurbished a few times since then, so finding the exact location could be problematic.” He paused. “Then there’s the issue of grave robbers.”

  “What issue?”

  “It’s said that during one of those rebuilds-about a hundred years after he died-Milton’s coffin was broken into and he was stripped of his teeth and hair. The coffin was supposed to have been moved after that.”

  The more Batty thought about this, however, the more he had to wonder if it was just a cover story. What if it had been the guardians who had moved him, at Saint Michael’s bidding? To protect the pages. The corpse with the missing hair and teeth may not have been Milton at all.

  “So, in other words,” Callahan said, “we have no idea where the hell we’re going.”

  “Then might I suggest you turn around and leave,” a voice told them.

  They both froze as a figure stepped out from the shadows beyond one of the archways. He was tall and slender, in his mid-fifties, and had a shotgun resting on his forearm, casually pointing it in their direction. The security guard, no doubt. Although he wasn’t wearing a uniform.

  He was British, of course. “Picking locks, carrying torches…looks to me as if you two are up to no good.”

  “Easy,” Callahan said, her eyes on the shotgun.

  “I don’t shoot, luv, unless someone provokes me. And you’re not going to provoke me, are you?”

  “Listen to me,” Batty said. “I can’t explain any of this without it sounding completely crazy, but we need to see John Milton’s remains.”

  “I was getting that impression, the way you two were talking. The question is why? I’ve seen some Milton crazies in my time, but not all that many of them have been anxious to get a look at a few rotting old bones.”

  “Like I said …” Batty spread his hands.

  The guard pointed to Callahan. “You. Do you have some form of identification on you?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’d like to know who I’m about to shoot, should it become necessary.” He turned a palm up and waggled his fingers at her. “Let me see.”

  Callahan pulled her State Department ID out of her pocket and tossed it to him. He opened it, gave it a glance, then suddenly relaxed, tossing it back to her.

  “It’s good to meet you, Agent Callahan.” Then he set the shotgun aside and held out a hand to shake. “My name is Grant. Jim Grant. I was told to expect you.”

  Batty and Callahan exchanged looks, then Callahan said, “You’re with Section?”

  “I presume that’s who you work for, but no, I answer to a higher authority.” He reached into his collar and brought out a Saint Ch
ristopher medal. “I’m the caretaker here, but I’m also here to protect what needs to be protected.”

  Callahan looked confused. “But how could you know we were coming?”

  “Quite simple. I received a telephone call.”

  “From who?”

  “That’s a question I don’t have an answer to, I’m afraid. But whoever he is, he knows about Custodes Sacri, so I can only assume he’s one of Michael’s associates. Recruited the same as I was.”

  Batty turned to Callahan. “The D.C. connection, no doubt. He obviously prefers to remain anonymous.”

  “Whatever the case,” Grant said, “we’re wasting time.” He turned and gestured with his fingers. “Follow me.”

  It was a vault. A burial crypt located beneath the church down a long, narrow stairway, behind a locked metal door.

  But the crypt itself obviously hadn’t been touched since it was built centuries ago, and the sight of it sent a sustained shiver of revulsion through Callahan the moment they stepped inside. She’d seen plenty of death in her time, but places like this gave her the creeps.

  It started with a narrow ossuary, or bone house. A stone wall to their left was lined with long wooden shelves-and on those shelves, sitting side by side, were several hundred skulls, yellowed by age. To their right were two large pallets carrying piles of neatly stacked bones.

  “The plague,” Grant said, without offering any further explanation. Not that Callahan needed one. She was surprised by his complete sense of calm. His demeanor seemed much more monklike than Brother Philip’s ever had.

  LaLaurie, on the other hand, seemed to be on edge the moment they stepped through the crypt doorway, and she had wonder if being surrounded by all this death had an effect on him. Those enhanced senses of his had to be going into overdrive.

  “This way,” Grant said, motioning with his flashlight.

  They stepped through an archway on their right and into the main chamber. It was the size of a small warehouse and Callahan was instantly reminded of the staging room in Istanbul. But instead of boxes full of antiques, this one held rows of coffins, some in the center made of ornately carved stone, while those lining the wall-in neat, horizontal rows-were shallow wooden caskets, warped and weathered by years of neglect.