The Paladin's Message (The Keepers of White Book 2)

by Richard Crofton

  “I wanna go home,” she answered weakly.

  “I’m sorry, my dear, but this is your night. The night of the new moon.”

  It’s during the new moon that the real monsters come out.

  “She really is quite lovely, Paul,” another man’s voice commented. Megan turned toward the voice and recognized Professor Madsen from the last Bible Study session. The night when it all started.

  “How could you?” she tried to voice defiance, failing miserably.

  “Nothing personal,” Father Paul answered. “You were selected. We don’t always have control over that. It must be frightening for you, but if it’s any consolation, from our point of view, it’s quite an honor.”

  “What are you going to do to me?”

  The priest smiled. “No need to spoil it, child. Besides, I’d say the whole experience is more enlivening to the senses when it comes as a surprise.” Then he changed his tone to one who was about to start a business meeting. He raised one hand in the direction of one of the other visitors. “This is Senator Homan. He came all the way from Iowa to be here with us tonight. This here is the honorable Judge Dickson.”

  The two elderly men nodded with a terrible smile at her. They seemed to be staring at her arms more than her face, her arms that were covering her breasts. Apparently, they were hoping for a peep show. “You’ve already met Dr. Palmer and Professor Madsen,” Father Paul continued. “The others here are part of what we call the Secondary Circle. They’re here to bear witness, and not to engage directly in our ceremony.”

  She glanced at the men and women. They were all dressed in dark pants and turtleneck shirts. Among the “others” were the police chief whom she had met, also on the night of the Bible Study, Irene Drew, the P.R.E.P. coordinator, and to her terrified surprise, her own manager from Maybel’s. The woman she had playfully nicknamed Butch, only to refrain from using a more obscene title. “Mrs. Arenson?” she gasped.

  The large woman regarded her with disdain. “Make fun of my eating habits, will you?”

  Fresh tears began to form in her eyes. It became clear to her just how many people in her life were moles, set in place to watch her, for God knows how long. She had never imagined such betrayal could be possible. “You’re all fucking crazy!” she shouted with a hoarse voice.

  “After seeing what we can do, do you really believe that?” the priest asked calmly.

  “Yes!” she answered, unable to stop the tears flowing down her cheeks.

  “I suppose we’re all entitled to our own opinions,” he shrugged.

  Just then, Thing Three carelessly tossed the body of the person he had been dragging onto the mattress next to her. He was a haggard looking middle-aged man with a scruffy beard of brown and grey and a mat of unkempt hair. His clothes were tattered and dirty. “Th’ fuck?” he muttered groggily.

  He reeked of piss and filth; Megan could see in the now brightened room that his crotch was wet and his eyes were glazed over. “Who is he?” she asked with confusion.

  “Why,” Father Paul replied, “he’s the nasty fellow who abducted you two weeks ago. Cliff, I believe his name is.”

  Megan took another hard look at the man. She had never seen him before. The side of his face was pressed against the mattress, on which he was drooling. “Takin’ me ta bed?” he mumbled. “Shouldn’ I meet yer parents first?” He started laughing meekly at his own joke.

  “That’s not Cliff,” Megan said, almost in question form.

  “Bill?” the priest turned to the police chief.

  “He’ll do,” Chief Biddle answered.

  “The police are looking for a wino,” Father Paul added. “It doesn’t really matter who it is. As long as they have a suspect in custody, the media, and the public will be content. He won’t be going anywhere, will he Bill?”

  “No sir,” the police chief replied. “We gave him some heavy meds. He’s high as a kite. Probably feeling finer than everyone else right now.”

  “Well done, Chief,” Father Paul congratulated.

  “Nah,” the man who was not Cliff chimed in with spittle in his words. “Meedyum rare. Well done’s fer pussiezzz.”

  Megan finally understood. This was just a random homeless soul they had fished out of some alley. He was to be their scapegoat. Which further confirmed she would not be going home. Ever.

  In one last ditch effort, Megan sprang to her feet and tried to bolt toward the door with all her remaining strength, but Things One and Two grabbed her immediately, holding her arms in place. She struggled as best she could, but there was nothing for it. In the corner of her eye, she could see the two elderly gentlemen leaning forward, finally getting the peep show they had been anticipating.

  Directly in front of her, the priest approached, his eyes almost glowing the sickening green she had seen before. “Right,” he said. “Nothing left to discuss.” He moved in close, leaning his face to hers. She tried to shut her eyes but couldn’t. Once again, they had been ensnared by his spell.

  “No…” she stuttered as her breath became short and rapid.

  The priest’s poisonous eyes bored into her own, and she could feel herself slipping. The last time, she had not known what was happening, but now she was fully aware, and tried to fight. “The… Lord… is my shepherd… I sh-sh-shall not want…”

  Father Paul blinked, momentarily taken aback. “Adorable,” the voice of Senator Homan said softly with a sneer. “She’s trying to resist, poor thing.”

  The priest turned and glanced at the senator for a second. No, not adorable. Incredible. He turned back and resumed the dark procedure on his victim.

  “He… makes me… lie down… in… green pastures…”

  Father Paul gripped her chin with his right hand and drew her ever closer. “Zin cah-vay molock olgah thay,” he whispered, concentrating more effort that he first thought he would need.

  Megan convulsed. “He… He… leads me…”

  “Zin cah-vay molock olgah thay,” the priest repeated more audibly.

  “He leads me… beside… qu-qu-quiet… w-w-w-waters…” The tears in her eyes blurred her vision, but only seemed to enhance the green glow permeating into her membrane.

  “Zin cah-vay molock olgah thay,” the priest said again in full voice. Never had anyone fought him so fervently, and ironically the one girl whose spirit had more reason to break, having been locked in this cell for almost two weeks enduring all the horrors his people bestowed upon her, was the one he was having trouble with. “Zin cah-vay molock olgah thay.”

  “Zin cah-vay molock olgah thay,” the entire assembly of agents within the room joined in, assisting the priest. “Zin cah-vay molock olgah thay. Zin cah-vay molock olgah thay. Zin cah-vay molock olgah thay. Zin cah-vay molock olgah thay…”

  “He restores my soul!” she screamed against the chanting. But she might as well scream at an enormous waterfall. There was no stopping the rush of venom flowing through her nerves. She tried to speak the next line of prayer, but nothing came out.

  The large hands that had seized her finally released their grip. She could feel. The priest smiled, though a few faint droplets of perspiration had formed upon his brow. She could see.

  “Some fucked up mojo goin’ on,” Not-Cliff spoke in a muffled, dazed voice. She could hear.

  But she could not move.

  That is, until she was ordered to.

  “Now Megan,” Father Paul’s voice echoed in her mind as she saw and felt him applying fresh ashes to her forehead, “be a dear and remove the rest of your clothing for us.”

  As her body did so against her will, she could hear a couple murmurs of sickening desire, probably from the elderly perverts. Probably both married men with children at home. Her thoughts were still her own, she realized, and she wished that all of her senses would become numb to what she could only imagine awaited her, where somehow she knew it to be in the unknown room behind the ominous door with thirteen locks, but she was aware of everything. She had only lost her abil
ity to move on her own. Now completely naked, she knew that she was helpless to resist anything, but fully alert to experience everything. The worst of both worlds.

  “That’s very good,” the priest taunted. “Remove the tampon as well. I’m afraid we’ll be needing your blood.” She tried to give him a pleading look. She tried to say, Please don’t do this, and although she couldn’t, Father Paul tilted his head as if reading her thoughts. “It’s a very important part of the ceremony,” he added. “Very sacred, you understand. Now turn around.”

  She did so and found herself staring at the terrible dark door that filled her with dread. Professor Madsen was standing before it with a set of keys that he was using to unbolt the thirteen locks. Each clacking noise as the locks released sent menacing vibrations up her spine.

  Finally, the door opened. Blackness darker than oblivion lay within.

  “Walk,” the priest commanded. Even in her state of utter obedience, her mind fought to resist him, but her legs moved toward the nothingness before her.

  From behind her, she heard the voice of Diana Palmer: “You stay here. Make sure he doesn’t try to escape.” Megan could only assume the woman was giving one or more of the three zombie-like men an order concerning Not-Cliff, laying in his own piss and adding to the already unpleasant stench of the mattress. Even in her plight, she pitied him for whatever fate awaited him.

  But when she heard the threatening sound of the large door shutting tightly behind her, along with the clacking of the locks, she envied him.

  Chapter XI

  One foot in front of the other, Harrison told himself as his light jogging pace had decelerated to a brisk walk. Inch by inch, life’s a cinch. Yard by yard, life’s hard. His mother used to quote the saying often, and he found himself adding to the rhyme during the hike: Mile by mile... he couldn’t know how far he had trekked, but he had been at it for nearly two hours. He may have taken it inch by inch, but the miles certainly added up… gonna be a while.

  Every now and then he came across a side road or path paved with loose gravel or sometimes dirt where he had searched for fresh tire tracks but found none, so he continued on his way. Since the fourth Cadillac Escalade, including the one he had been tailing, not another vehicle came his way from either direction. Periodically he checked his phone and his two-way radio. They were still dead. He wasn’t sure why he even bothered. But he kept getting a strange inkling that the phenomenon had nothing to do with the batteries. For some reason, he pictured himself under a massive, dark, yet invisible cloud that hindered him. If he could just get out from under it, maybe his communication devices would fire back on somehow.

  That’s just ridiculous, he thought. Dead was dead. Plain and simple. Still, there was no simple way to explain how they went dead. The Ford, the phone, the radio… no such thing as coincidences.

  Though his body was weary, the night air and the exercise kept him wide awake. He knew however, that once he was back at home, he would crash hard. IF I get back home, he thought. He wasn’t sure why that idea even popped into his mind. He wasn’t in some foreign hot-zone fighting a war; he was just taking a late-night jog down a Pennsylvania country road, following up on a hunch.

  Nothing to worry about.

  He thought again of the phenomenon that took out his transportation and his communication.

  Nothing to worry about at all.

  He thought again about the identical make and model of the four SUV’s that he witnessed driving in this direction. He wondered how many more there were coming from the opposite direction to whatever destination lay on or near this road. He thought again about Dr. Palmer and the suspicious attire she wore. The three shady men accompanying her in similar clothing.

  What the fuck have I gotten myself into?

  He had thought about quitting this ludicrous venture and stopping at the first farmhouse he might come upon, asking to use their phone so he could call for Gibbons to come pick his stupid ass up. But he had yet to come across any residences. Even if he had, would he really want to call it a night after investing so much time into this mystery? Something unlike anything he had ever related to was afoot here. A foolishly rash side of him wanted to know what.

  Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks. From some distance behind him, he could hear a high-pitched buzzing like a hornet on steroids, constant, growing louder.

  “Crotch-rocket,” he said out loud as he turned around. Sure enough, within seconds, a single headlight appeared over the horizon. Though it didn’t seem to move at first, from the sound of the engine, Harrison could tell it was in high gear and closing in fast.

  Quickly, he pulled out his flashlight and switched it on, stepping into the middle of the road. Considering the way his night was going, he doubted he would have any luck flagging the rider down, but frankly he was tired of being out here and was on the verge of desperation. Besides, the good news was that at least it wasn’t another damn Escalade.

  Methodically, Harrison clicked the flashlight off and on towards the oncoming motorcycle. When he was certain he was in its light and in the rider’s view, he started waving his arms, badge in hand. To his relief, the pitch of the engine’s tune lowered, slightly quieted, indicating that it was slowing down. Finally! Harrison sighed.

  The bike was a pure black rocket, either a Kawasaki or Suzuki of some sort. It was too dark to tell, even after it came to a full stop in front of him. The rider was dressed in black as well, from head to toe. Black working boots, black cargo pants, a black, sporty leather jacket often donned by speed-devil bikers across the nation, even his helmet was black. The rider did not speak, nor did he remove the helmet, but he lifted the visor, partially revealing his face.

  “State police,” Harrison announced with caution. Something about this man made him hesitate. He contemplated ordering him to surrender his bike for the sake of police business, but he knew, given the condition of his unauthorized pursuit, that he had no legal right to do so. Besides, he didn’t know how to operate a motorcycle. “My car broke down a couple miles back,” he continued instead. “Do you have a phone I can use?”

  “‘Fraid not,” the rider replied, “Don’t you have a two-way?”

  “Seems to be dead out here,” Harrison shrugged.

  The rider’s head tilted. “Dead car. Dead radio. Phone too?”

  The detective paused briefly. “Don’t have one,” he lied, “same as you.”

  The rider said nothing; offered no other solutions for him. Harrison regarded the man curiously. Something seemed to be sticking up from behind his back under his jacket. “Look man,” he went on with a sheepish smile, wanting to appear disarming, “I’m in a bit of a bind here. I’m trying to get to a place somewhere up ahead. Can you give me a ride?”

  The rider pulled his visor back down over his face. “Go back the way you came, officer. This is beyond you.” He then pulled the throttle, quickly veering around the detective with ease and blasting off down the road.

  Harrison shouted “Hey!” as the rider took off, but didn’t try to stop him. He was more perplexed than he had ever felt. What was the guy talking about? Did he know what he was really up to, walking on the road? Was he part of the mystery surrounding the inexplicable events of the night? And what was that thing he saw protruding from the back collar of his jacket? He had caught another glimpse of it as the biker passed him by. It looked like a black handle. A hilt.

  A sword? Did that guy have a fucking sword on his back?

  It was upon this realization that he caught himself actually walking back towards his car. He had been retreating back without even being aware of his movement.

  (Go back the way you came, officer.)

  He stopped. Was his subconscious somehow obeying the guy’s instruction? Or was it common sense? Perhaps it was. Everything about this was crawling with crazy. Common sense would have him running back to his car.

  But he was an officer of the law.

  Common sense would have him forgetting he ever set out on
this path in the first place.

  Questions needed to be answered.

  Common sense would have him find a normal driver to get a ride back to town with and find a way home.

  Who did this guy think he was, having the audacity to give him an order?

  Common sense would have him down a glass or two of the strongest booze in his cabinet, pass out in bed, and sleep in until at least noon tomorrow, taking the day off. He had plenty of unused leave, and it was tempting to consider. Hell, Gibbons would probably take off too and join him, just to witness his partner cutting himself some slack for the first time in history. And to share in the consumption of strong booze.

  He couldn’t shake everything else about the unearthly encounter. The mystery grew denser. The movie’s plot thickened. This biker was another player in it.

  Common sense told him he was more than ready for some time off, especially after the predicament he had gotten himself into tonight.

  (Go back the way you came, officer.)

  That son of a bitch gave me an order.

  Questions needed to be answered. And he had already come so far. He had developed that detective’s insatiable thirst to always get to the bottom of things a long time ago. It was just the way he was. He forced his stiffening legs to make a 180, and upgraded his brisk walk back to a light jog. Back in the direction of the SUV’s and the motorcycle.

  It never fails; ego trumps common sense. So does curiosity. Miles Harrison was running on plenty of both.

  Chapter XII

  Darkness gave way to light, but it was by no means comforting for Megan. Little by little, the glow of long candles coated with black wax intensified as the men and women ignited them; they were set upon medieval looking iron holders, and they numbered in the hundreds, lining tiered ledges along walls of stone on all sides. There were many more surrounding an ill-omened stone altar in the center.