Shadows of the Midnight Sun

by Graham Brown

  CHAPTER 55

  KATE CRAWLED toward where she’d last seen Billy Ray. She held the wound on her neck as tight as she possibly could. She felt like she would throw up, but she had to keep going.

  She came across her gun, picked it up, and then used a tree to help her stand. She lumbered forward, lurching from one tree to another. She heard grunting sounds and other strange noises from the brush just beyond her.

  She pushed forward, past some ground cover. Twenty yards away, she saw two shadows on the muddy deck of the bayou. The woman was perched on top of Billy Ray like a vulture. All Kate could hear was the lapping sound animals make when they drink water.

  She steadied herself, lit up the flashlight on the lower rail of her pistol, and painted Vivian in the stark-white light of the high-intensity LEDs. The woman’s face and hands were drenched in Billy Ray’s blood. Without hesitation, Kate unleashed a hail of gunfire.

  Vivian’s head snapped back as the first shot hit. She tumbled onto the ground, but got up again, only to be knocked backward by three more shots. She hit the ground and began to shudder, but rolled over once again.

  Kate continued to fire, her mind flashing to New York and to the Ninth Ward. She emptied the entire clip into the woman, firing until the slide locked itself open and smoke poured from the breach.

  Somehow, Vivian still lived, though she shook and screamed uncontrollably.

  Kate dropped to her knees, struggling to pull a new clip from her belt. It slipped from her grasp and landed on the ground. Kate reached for it and slumped over sideways, so weak she couldn’t even break her fall.

  She lay there, unable to move.

  At this point, after all she’d seen, she wouldn’t have been surprised if Vivian got up and crawled away or stood and attacked her or Billy Ray once again. But it didn’t happen. Vivian’s convulsions slowed to a shudder, and eventually, her body went still.

  Kate lay on her side, trying to keep the wound on her neck from bleeding out.

  Time seemed to stretch out. She began to grow unfathomably cold. Her mind wandered to her son. She now understood all the pain her mother had wanted her to avoid. He would grow up alone—no mother, no father—knowing only that both his parents had been murdered.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Her eyes fell on Billy Ray. His neck was ripped to shreds. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated.

  It was all for nothing.

  Footsteps approached, running quick and soft through the forest. As her eyes began to fail, she caught sight of the blond man. The suspect. The killer who’d warned her to stay away from things she didn’t understand.

  At first, she thought it was just a hallucination. But he stopped and crouched beside her.

  “You,” she said unevenly. “You caused all this.”

  “No,” the man said. “I tried to stop it. I tried to warn you.”

  “Please,” she begged. “Get me out of here.”

  He touched her face. His hands were as cold as ice. Colder than she felt.

  “Your wound is too deep,” he said, pressing on it and trying to hold the torn artery shut. “You’ll bleed out before I can get you help.”

  “I…have a…son,” she said, beginning to cry. She was sobbing and shaking and freezing on that cold, wet ground. “Please…Please…Do something. ”

  She didn’t even know what she was saying anymore. The words were jumbled in her head. The only one that stood out was her son’s name. She was calling out to him. “Calvin.”

  The blond man held her face in his hands. She looked into his black eyes, but they were not as they’d seemed in the Ninth Ward. There was kindness in his eyes, kindness and pity.

  It was the last thing she saw. Then her vision failed and a sensation of pain spiked brightly in her mind.

  Her final thought was simple. This is the end.

  CHAPTER 56

  KATE WOKE up to darkness and the feeling of movement. She was rocking back and forth. It almost felt pleasant, except for the hard metal floor beneath her.

  She tried to move, but it was painful. Her entire body felt as if it had been crushed and mangled and then stretched to the breaking point. Her head felt as if it were being squeezed in a vice, and her throat and mouth were so dry she thought she was choking.

  She rolled over and realized she was up against a wall of some kind. The wall was made of metal. It had some type of raised pattern on it, like a line of rivets. In the distance, she heard the sound of a train whistle.

  A train.

  She was on a train.

  A match flared across from her, bringing light to the space. It was an empty boxcar. Across from her was the blond man from the Ninth Ward.

  She looked into his eyes, and it all came back flooding back: the voodoo ritual, the fires, Vivian, and then Billy Ray. Oh God, she thought. Billy Ray!

  She forced herself to sit up and looked the blond man in the eyes. “Where are you taking me?”

  “I’m not taking you anywhere,” he said.

  He held the match to a small stick of wood. It was like kindling. It burned softly. Kate found it was plenty of light to see by.

  “Why are we on a train, then?”

  “I had to get you out of there,” he said. “You needed time to heal. I needed space. It was the only way. With a little luck, they’ve found my coat by now.”

  He spoke calmly, matter-of-factly. He seemed almost emotionless.

  “Your coat?” she asked.

  “The one you painted with the radioactive marker.”

  She was stunned. “How did you know?”

  You told me.

  She heard the words clearly, as if he’d spoken strong and loud, but his lips had never moved.

  Yes, you can hear me. And I can hear you—at least when we’re close.

  Kate began to freak out. This was too much. She tried to stand and fell. Her legs were numb. He reached out as if to assist.

  “Don’t touch me!”

  “I’m trying to help you,” he said, speaking aloud.

  “Then let me go,” she said. “I have a son. He’s only five. His father died a year ago.”

  “I know all that,” the blond man said. “That’s why I…why I helped you.”

  “Helped me?”

  “You asked me to save you. This was the only way.”

  He touched his neck and pointed to hers. Suddenly, she remembered the horrendous gash the psychotic woman had left in her neck. She put her hand to it. It was closed. Not exactly healed, it felt more like it was scarred over.

  “It will heal,” he said. “But it’s the last wound that will ever heal on you.”

  She felt as sick as she could ever remember. What the hell was he talking about? It was like a nightmare come to life.

  “Look, I just have to go home,” she said. “I appreciate whatever you did to stop the bleeding, but I have get out of here. I have to get back to my family.”

  The train seemed to be rounding a curve. It didn’t seem to be going all that fast. The sound of bells clanging told her they were passing through an intersection. She noticed a tiny crack of light coming underneath the door.

  As before, the man seemed to sense her thoughts. He seemed concerned with what she was planning to do.

  She grabbed the handle and instantly felt his mind commanding her not to open the door.

  “Listen to me,” he said. “You’re about to go through a transformation you cannot possibly understand. It’s going to take months. It’s going to be painful and disorienting. At times, you won’t believe it’s even happening. At times, you’ll want to die because, against all reason, you believe that it is. Even when it’s done, it might leave you in misery. If you try to go through this alone, you probably won’t survive.”

  She gripped the handle tighter. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “For your son’s sake,” he said, “for the sake of everyone you care about, stay with me—at least until you understand what you’ve become.”

&n
bsp; “What I’ve become?”

  “I’ll explain everything,” he said.

  He stood and offered his hand. She wanted to reach for it. His will had a grasp on her that she found hard to resist, but more than that, she wanted to see her son. After all this madness, it was the only thing she yearned for.

  She pulled the handle hard and fast and yanked the door open to the blazing light of day. The blond man shrank back against the wall, forced into the shadows. They were moving slowly, maybe fifteen or twenty miles per hour. There was a grass slope outside the railbed. She didn’t care if she broke both her legs. She was jumping, and for reasons she couldn’t explain, she knew he wouldn’t follow.

  She flung herself free, landed on the slope, and tumbled down. One ankle rolled hard, but as she slid to a stop, she felt as if she was okay. She looked back. He hadn’t jumped; he hadn’t followed.

  She got up, limping and walking as fast as she could in the opposite direction from where that train was going. She was free. She was safe.

  The last car passed by, and the train continued to clatter off down the line. As she looked around, a thought rang out in her head.

  You’ll need me. I’m your only chance.

  She looked at the train as it continued down the tracks. It was his voice in her mind, she knew it. She didn’t understand or even want to know how it was possible. She just wanted him to leave, to go.

  “Don’t follow me,” she shouted. “Just leave me alone. I promise they won’t look for you. I’ll tell them you’re dead.”

  Then the voice appeared in her mind again, weaker and more distant, but she still heard the message clear enough. It frightened her.

  I am dead, Kate. And so are you.

  CHAPTER 57

  BISHOP MESSINI left Sunday Mass, where the Pope had just finished the service. He walked the halls with an argument raging inside him. He was troubled. He stopped to look upon the great square of St. Peter’s.

  His phone rang. It was Henrick Vanderwall.

  Strange, he thought, that Henrick should call him and not Simon. It could mean only two things. Either Simon was unable to call or Simon didn’t know of this call.

  Messini answered. “Yes, Henrick.”

  “I’m sorry for disturbing you, Bishop. But I have news.”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “I’m afraid Simon Lathatch is dead.”

  Messini felt his heart breaking. He said nothing.

  “Bishop Messini?”

  “Yes, I understand,” Messini replied bluntly.

  “Unfortunately,” Henrick said, “I’m not sure that you do. He was killed by a demon—a demon whose spell he’d fallen under. He was going to give the Sword of God to this abomination.”

  “The Sword of God?” Messini said. “No, Simon wouldn’t do that. Even if he did, no demon could wield it. I’m certain of that.”

  Henrick’s voice returned undeterred. “I can only tell you what I saw with my own eyes. We are dealing with a treacherous creature, the one who entered the cathedral in Cologne. He must have powers the others do not possess. He claims the name of our faith as his own. He took the Staff of Constantine.”

  Messini’s hand began to shake. He could barely hold the phone. He had to sit down.

  The Staff of Constantine in the hands of the enemy? This was not possible. No demon could touch a consecrated relic of the Church, let alone the weapon that had rid the world of so many. “There must be another explanation.”

  “I assure you there isn’t,” Henrick said. “We were lucky enough to fight this demon off and retain the sword. Five of the bravest are slaughtered in the church. I myself have been wounded. This blond demon is our greatest enemy now. He is more dangerous than even Drakos, for at least that one remains in his dark strongholds.”

  Henrick had a point. It unnerved Messini. “How did Simon die?”

  “The creature murdered him.”

  Messini took a deep breath. “Like John of Alexandria,” he said to himself.

  There was no question that the reckoning and dark time had arisen, but until this moment, Bishop Messini hadn’t imagined how dark it could possibly be. Still, one question remained. A question Bishop Messini feared to ask. A question upon which all things might now hinge.

  “And what of the angel?”

  Henrick did not respond immediately. “We’ve found no sign of any such thing,” he said finally.

  Messini grieved. Simon had died for nothing. Mislead by a demon. Perhaps all of them had been misled, right from the beginning.

  “What is your bidding?” Henrick asked.

  “Bring the Sword of God home to the Vatican,” Messini said. “I will anoint you a second time and enter your name as the ninety-first to lead the order. But you must come immediately. We’re now in a footrace with darkness. And I fear we are falling behind.”

  “Yes, Bishop,” Henrick said reverently. “I’ll come at once.”

  CHAPTER 58

  LIKE SO much in his world that was new, Leroy Atherton had never been in the cab of a semi truck before. The view was tremendous, clear and unobstructed. Perched high up, Leroy felt he could see for miles. A glorious day seemed to be laid out in front of him—blue skies, warm sun, just enough humidity to make your skin feel good. Up ahead, the buildings of New Orleans gleamed like the Emerald City.

  “There it is,” the truck driver said. Mr. Johnny O. Beasley, owner and operator of the semi, had been kind to Leroy since the moment they met.

  “That’s a beautiful sight,” Leroy replied.

  “You sure you want me to drop you off there?” the driver asked. “This ain’t all that far from where I found you.”

  Johnny O. Beasley had picked up Leroy outside the swamps, near Lake Maurepas. Leroy had been hiking all night, was soaking wet from the waist down, and was doubting anyone would give him a ride when he heard those air brakes come on.

  The trucker had asked him if he was lost.

  “No,” Leroy had replied, smiling, “not anymore.”

  Now, Leroy was smiling again. “I’ve got somewhere to go,” he said.

  “Okay, then. I’ll just hop off the highway near the French Quarter. And, well, I guess you’re on your own from there, partner.”

  “You’ve been more than helpful.”

  A couple of minutes later, the semi was parked, and Leroy was opening the door and stepping out onto the running board. He looked back at his host. “Thanks for the ride.”

  “Anytime, young fellow. Listen, the next time you’re in the Great State of Texas, you look me up—if I’m still around, that is.”

  Leroy reached out his hand and they shook.

  “You will be,” he said. “I think that cancer thing is gonna work out for you. Next time they take you in for a test, you might want to bet the doctor a twenty spot that they won’t find nothin’.”

  Johnny O. Beasley smiled a hopeful, gap-toothed grin. “From your lips to God’s ears, my brother. From your lips to God’s ears. Ha-ha-ha.”

  Leroy smiled, hopped down off the running board, and shut the door.

  A few seconds later, the great machine went into gear with a shudder. It soon moved off once again.

  Leroy watched it go and then turned and strolled into the French Quarter. He’d never been to New Orleans. He found there was just so much to see.

  He passed by antique stores, bars, coffee shops, and hotel entrances. But he didn’t stop; he didn’t even look in. He just studied the names and kept on strolling.

  Eventually, he turned down a small alleyway. No storefronts here, just a shingle by a blue door. It read, jackson’s soles.

  Leroy paused and studied it. That was the name the old lady in the swamp had told him to look for. He took a deep breath, climbed the three short steps, and opened the door to the cobbler’s shop.

  A bell tinkled. He smelled shoe polish and leather. He saw an old man behind a desk replacing the soles on a pair of heavy work shoes. Across from him, a teenage kid was stitchi
ng up a cowboy boot.

  The old man looked up. His eyes were white. He seemed to be blind. His smile lit up the room. “I’m Terrance,” he said. “Come on in. I’ve been expecting you.”

  Leroy wasn’t sure what to make of all this, but he had faith now to say what he felt and what he knew. “The old woman sent me. I felt like I was supposed to be out there in the swamp. But she met me and told there was danger and death out there. She took my coat and went in my place. She told me about the gift of healing I have. She said you’d explain how I need to use it and what I should do next.”

  The old man put the boots down on the floor, lining them up perfectly despite not being able to see. He looked sad for a moment.

  “She was a soul of exceeding brightness,” he said. “You’re fortunate to have met her, as am I.”

  “I feel like there’s a lot of work ahead,” Leroy said.

  “Yes,” the old man said. “More work than you can possibly imagine. Healing, for a part of the world that hasn’t known it in two thousand years.”

  Leroy wasn’t sure what that could mean. “I don’t understand.”

  “There are those who’ve fallen from grace,” the old man said. “You’ve been given the power to raise them up once again.”

  Leroy sensed this was something more than healing the sick. “You’re going to help me, right?”

  “Yes,” the blind man said. “My task is to show you the way.”

  EPILOGUE

  THE RAIN fell in sheets across New York City. It soaked the avenues, parks, and buildings. It flooded the streets and dripped from gargoyles perched high above in their endless watch for evil.

  Christian Hannover stood in that rain on the South Lawn of Columbia University’s main campus. Under the storm’s thick clouds, he could bear the daylight hours. The muted pain that reached him was now an almost-welcome reminder, a connection to his human past.

  Unmoving and alone, he stared across the wet grass to the Butler Library, an imposing structure that held nine million books, including a collection of rare volumes and manuscripts. He wondered what its curators might think of the journals Simon Lathatch had given him.