by Arno Joubert
Alexa opened the gate and skipped up the stairs. “We’re from Interpol.” She showed the girl her badge. “My name is Captain Guerra and this is Superintendent Neil Allen.”
The woman glanced over Alexa’s shoulder at Neil and flashed a furtive smile.
“Mind if we come in?” Neil asked.
“Sure,” she said and ground the cigarette beneath a sneakered heel. “Want something to drink?”
Alexa allowed Neil to walk in front. “Would love something, I’m parched.” He scanned the room. “Love your place, you been here long?”
She smiled. “Couple of months. I have OJ and soda.”
“Orange juice would be great, thanks.”
The girl poured a glass and stood in front of Neil, holding the glass between them, in front of her chest. She looked up. “You a cop?”
He smiled, putting his hand on the glass. “I guess.”
She smiled, then stood back.
Alexa ignored the fact that she wasn’t offered anything.
Neil slipped a photo from his pocket. “You know this man?”
The girl took the photo, twirling her hair around her finger, glanced at it quickly, looked up at Neil with a smile. “Sure I know him.”
“Who is he?”
She chewed noisily, twirling her hair. “What do I get if I tell you?”
Neil grinned his boyish smile. It had worked on Alexa, it would certainly have the same effect on other girls as well. He leaned forward, his face close to hers. “Anything you want, sweetie pie.”
She threw her head back and giggled, prancing around like she had warm coals beneath her feet. “His name is Ted Olsen, he’s the maintenance guy around here.”
Neil turned to Alexa and blinked. It could be a master key.
“Thanks for all your help, Miss…”
She stuck out a dainty hand. “Sands. Jenna Sands. My friends call me Jen.”
Neil nodded and turned to leave.
“Hey, what about my wish?”
Neil turned around. “Okay, what is it?”
“I wanna go out on a date with you.”
Neil rolled his eyes and turned to Alexa for help.
She stepped forward. “Unfortunately, I do not think Howard would be too enamored with that.” She shrugged. “Unless you would like to keep the two of you guys’ relationship strictly plutonic.”
The girl cocked her head to the side. “Who’s Howard?”
Alexa turned to Neil, her hand on her hip. “Yes, who’s Howard, Superintendent?”
Neil swallowed, then pursed his lips. “Howard is my, ah, you know?”
Alexa and Jenna both folded their arms and shook their heads.
“He’s my lover,” Neil blurted out before turning around and marching outside.
“Shit!” Jenna shouted and stomped her foot.
“I know, darling.”
Jenna nodded wistfully. “What a waste of a prime piece of meat. It must be killing you.”
Alexa sighed. “Wait till you meet Howard.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Lieutenant Bis Latorre massaged his neck and rolled his shoulders. It had been another long night at Interpol HQ. Laiveaux wanted to collect as much evidence as he possibly could before presenting the case to the local law enforcement agency in Rome.
Latorre had spent his time tracking Casanellas’ movements during the past year, checking the man’s flights across the world - he sure got around. He had managed to tie him to another dozen or more possible murders, all clergymen, all of the men murdered shortly after Casanellas had arrived in their cities.
Laiveaux seemed pleased, had given him the week off, but Latorre wanted to make sure that Casanellas ended up where he belonged before entertaining any thoughts of rest. Behind bars.
He grabbed the brown McDonalds’ bag from the back seat and slipped out of the car seat, locking the door and heading toward the front door of his simplex in the rural outskirts of Lyon.
A shadowy figure followed close behind, using the columns in the undercover parking as cover.
Latorre pushed the key into the lock to his front door as the cold hand clamped over his mouth. Something pricked. He struggled for a couple of seconds before his lips went numb. His tongue became a nerveless ball of flesh jutting out from between deadened lips.
The masked figure held him up and slapped his cheek. “The Lieutenant and I are going on a little road trip, isn’t that so?” His throat constricted as he recognized the voice. Father Timothy Casanellas.
The man grabbed Latorre by the belt, heaved him onto his shoulder. Latorre tried to scream, but his thick tongue couldn’t form the words that his brain so desperately wanted to scream out loud.
The masked man pressed the remote and Latorre’s car beeped, the lights flashing twice to indicate that it had unlocked. Casanellas opened the boot and unceremoniously dumped him inside before he passed out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Neil stood outside, his hands jammed into his pocket and a scowl on his face.
“What?” Alexa asked.
“You know what. Why must I always be….?”
“Gay?” Alexa asked with an amused smile.
Neil nodded.
“Because I know how much it irks you.”
“Hey, my brother is gay,” Neil said, brow furrowed. “Next time, you’re gay.”
“Ooh, sounds like fun,” Alexa said with a wink.
“That’s not what I meant, never mind,” Neil said with an irritated wave of the hand. “We’re here now, we might as well try the key on a door.”
“Which apartment?” Alexa asked.
“Why not Eden Calloway’s?”
Alexa nodded and they sauntered over to her home.
Neil slipped the key inside the lock, and he glanced up at Alexa as it turned all the way and the door clicked open. “Imagine that.”
They strode inside and pulled the door closed behind them.
“What are we looking for?” Neil asked, glancing around the place.
“Anything. Nothing. I don’t know,” Alexa said with a shake of the head. “I’ll start in Eden’s bedroom, see if you can find anything in Jeremy’s room.”
He nodded and walked down the passageway, stood in front of a door with a large stop sign on it. “Do not enter Jeremy’s room or you will die.”
He opened the door and switched on a light. He was fairly impressed. Everything was neat and tidy, books on shelves and the bed made up. He rummaged through a drawer, it contained Smurf figurines and a couple of Gospel CD’s.
He pulled two plastic containers from beneath the bed. More of the same. Comic books and a baseball bat and a pair of mitts, all neatly packed and stowed away.
He stood up and looked around the room, his hands in his pockets. He noticed a book in the rack, its spine an inch deeper than the other books which were all neatly arranged by size.
He pulled the book out and studied the title. It said it was an Illumenex Orientation Course. He leafed through the pages, noticing a piece of paper that looked like a bookmark. He pulled it out and folded it open. It contained a message.
Dear Jeremy,
I tried talking to your mom today, but she’s too scared to listen. Please be careful, Illumenex are a bunch of hoaxers trying to brainwash young people. I bet you they told your mom that all her income had to be donated to them, right? They’re probably telling her to earn extra money and give that to them as well. They’re a CULT, Jeremy, a CULT!
Once they’ve entrapped you, you won’t be able to get out. There are so many girls being targeted at campus with promises of a free place to stay and free food and drinks and parties. It always ends up in tears with the girls either pregnant or broke. All of them are addicted to the stupid relaxation pills dished out at the compound.
They’ve warned me to stay away, threatened to do terrible things to me. You need to get your mom far away from the village, pack up and get out as soon as possible. These guy are evil, trust me.
Speak
to you soon.
XXXX
Mika
Neil folded the piece of paper into his breast pocket. He met Alexa in the hallway. “Find anything?”
She held a white garment out to him. “Some robes.”
He took the plain garment from her.
“And these,” she said and handed him a bag filled with what looked like wafered bread, the type used by churches in communion. The word HOSTIA CORPUS and an image of a smiley face was embossed into the wafer.
“What is it?”
“Want to try one?”
He brought the wafer to his nose and smelled it. “Better not, I guess.”
Alexa cast Neil a bemused smile. “I guess we should have the lab analyze it.” She headed for the door, glanced over her shoulder and winked.
“What?”
She shook her head but said nothing.
Neil jogged to catch up. “You want me to risk my life to see if this stuff is edible?”
“What makes you think it isn’t edible?”
He nudged her shoulder. “Well, the smiley face kind of gives it away, don’t you think?”
She giggled. “It’s just, I’ve never seen you stoned.”
“Trust me, you don’t want to,” he grumbled, holding the garden gate open for her.
“And why is that, Superintendent?”
Neil unlocked the car and slipped in behind the wheel. He sighed. “Let’s just say I get kind of hyper.”
Alexa turned to him, frowned. “Hyper?”
He slapped the wheel. “Paranoid, scared shitless, insecure, you know?”
Alexa smiled and faced forward. “Well, I would never have guessed. I big man like you…“
“Get off it, Alexa,” Neil said and spun away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Martinique’s Bar and Bistro
Las Vegas Outskirts
Neil followed Alexa into Martinique’s. It had been recommended by Ortell, the cop heading the investigation form Vegas P.D.
The waiter pulled out a chair for Alexa and folded a napkin on Neil’s lap. Alexa was wearing a short, body hugging, one-piece cocktail dress with a deep V-neck in front. She had put on some make-up. And she was looking breathtakingly beautiful.
It always fascinated Neil how quickly she got dressed, it had taken his previous girlfriends hours to prepare for a night out.
The clinking of cutlery and murmured conversation died down momentarily as they took their seats but resumed shortly after, like someone had turned the volume knob of the place all the way down and then up again.
Neil looked around. The restaurant was smart, dark polished woods and gentle ambient lighting. The smells of roasted meats drifted through the room and a guy on a piano sat playing softly - familiar, jazzy tunes.
Neil used to feel out of place in surroundings such as these. He had grown up a simple gypsy boy, drafted into the army because he hated all the traveling and then he had been forced to travel some more. Bosnia, Afghanistan, Sierra Leone. Not his idea of tourist hot spots.
He had tasted the hard life, being broke and out of a job was nothing new to him. But then he met Alexa, and they managed to take out a multi-billion dollar syndicate, with enough change to go around to make them both multi-millionaires.
Not much had changed. Beer still tasted the same. He could afford more expensive cuts of meat. But he didn’t splurge out on anything else like cars or watches or clothes. He simply didn’t see the point.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Alexa said, her green eyes dancing playfully.
He shrugged. “I’m just thinking how lucky I am.”
The waiter appeared again and handed them simple menus, a sheet of rough paper that looked like it had been hand-hewn from a maple. The courses were written in black calligraphy, Neil guessed they changed the menu regularly to use seasonal ingredients.
Alexa took his hand. “This looks simple enough,” she said scanning the menu.
The waiter leaned closer to Alexa. “It may look simple, ma’am, but I assure you the dishes that will be presented to you will be of the highest caliber available in Las Vegas, if not the entire United States.”
Neil glanced up at the man and smiled. “You seem pretty confident of that.”
The man smiled and winked at Neil. “I sometimes forfeit my tips for the meal of the day.” He gave a curt bow and excused himself.
Neil checked the menu. There were three of everything, three starters, three mains and three deserts, of which one of each was a vegetarian choice. “Where’s the steak?” Neil asked.
Alexa grinned and pointed to an item on the menu. “You probably mean the Beef Tenderloin with Porcini Mushroom-Madeira Jus & Sage Roasted Fingerling Potatoes?”
Neil snorted. “As long as it’s beef.”
The meal didn’t disappoint, and the home-brewed beers were even better. They left the eatery feeling satisfied, mellow and slightly tipsy.
As they made their way toward their rental, a siren sounded and a police patroller pulled into the parking area. Two burly men wearing police uniforms heaved their bulky frames from the car and the vehicle visibly lifted up as their combined weight was removed from the suspension. They sauntered over to Alexa and Neil and one guy removed a photo from his pocket, then looked up at them.
Alexa cast Neil a furtive glance.
One of the officers nodded and the two cops stepped in front of Neil and Alexa, their broad shoulders side-to-side, thumbs hooked into their belts.
“Are you Alexa Guerra and Neil Allen?” the guy on the right asked. He was tall and had red hair barbered into a crew cut.
Neil nodded. “Yes, how may we help?”
The guy unhooked his thumbs and reached back, revealing a pair of handcuffs. “We have orders to take you in.”
Neil chuckled, casting Alexa an incredulous look. “You want to arrest us?”
The other cop pulled out a pair of cuffs and slapped them onto Alexa’s wrists. “Affirmative.”
“What for?”
“Murder.”
CHAPTER FORTY
Latorre opened his eyes with a groan. He licked his dry lips, they felt like a piece of sandpaper. “You got to be kidding me,” he said, glancing around the cavernous room.
“Welcome to Hell, buddy,” someone wheezed beside him.
He was in a dark room which smelled damp and mildewy, like the Lascaux caves in France he had visited as a kid.
Hanging lanterns cast a dim light against the walls. Between the lanterns, two bony men hung shackled by their wrists, suspended to the wall. He looked up, rattled the manacles around his own wrists. He lifted his foot as something small scurried across the floor. He was in a damned medieval dungeon.
“Where are we?” he asked to no-one in particular.
He glimpsed a movement in the shadow, blinked a couple of times as he willed his sight to adapt to the dark. The faint glint of the lanterns reflected in a serpentine eye. The figure emerged from the shadows.
It was Father Casanellas.
“You’re in a prison for religious exiles, deep beneath Vatican City.”
“Why?”
Casanellas unbuttoned his black shirt and pulled it off. He folded it neatly, placed it on a chair and then put his clerical collar on top. “Because there was no just cause to kill you.”
The man was ripped, like the gymnasts at the Olympics. His muscles weren’t as large though, more sinewy, indicating massive endurance. He turned around and Latorre could hear a clang as he picked up something in the shadows. He had a Hasta in his hand, the type that the soldiers used in ancient Roman armies.
For a moment, Latorre thought that the man was going to stab him, but then Casanellas started with a training routine, thrusting the spear forward, swinging it above his head and slamming it into the ground with a loud crack.
“You’re a murderer, Casanellas.”
The priest cast him a sidelong glance bit simply continued with his routine.
“Why haven’t you kill
ed me?” Latorre asked, trying to pull loose from the shackles.
“You’re Roman Catholic, right?” Casanellas said between his strikes, breathing heavier now.
“Yes, so what?”
Casanellas glanced at Latorre, grinned. “That’s why.”
“Who are these two?” Latorre asked, indicating with his chin the two frail men hanging against the wall.
“Same as you,” Casanellas said, not stopping his impressive routine. “People who got in my way.”
“I don’t understand.”
Casanellas cast Latorre a brief glance between thrusts. He had started to sweat now, his skin gleaming in the dull lamp light. “I don’t just kill indiscriminately, Lieutenant.” He thrust the spear at an imaginary enemy and cartwheeled, using the back of the spear for support. “God would never forgive me.”
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
The man shuffled towards him, thrust the lance in front of him before parrying some make-believe blows and thrust the spear at Latorre’s face. Latorre pulled his head to the side and the tip of the spear smacked into the wall beside his ear.
The man stood back and slammed the spear into the ground and straightened, his chin held high. “My name is Alessandro Raphael Timotheus Casanellas. I am one of twelve members of Illius Mortiferis, or the Angels of Death.”
The priest smiled, turned around. Latorre could now clearly see an intricate black cross tattooed on his back. In the centre of the cross was a flower with petals, each petal numbered from one to twenty-two. The man disappeared into the shadows, and Latorre could hear splashing, he was probably washing his face.
The man appeared again, naked this time. He was rubbing his short hair with a towel, started toweling his entire body dry. He had no hair in his groin area. As a matter of fact, he had no hair on his entire body at all.
“Like what you see?” Casanellas asked with a chuckle.
Latorre averted his eyes. “Who are these Angels of Death?”
Casanellas’ eyebrows shot up. “Now that is an interesting question. As a matter of fact, it is a question which has eluded many religious scholars for centuries.”