9th Circle

by Carolyn McCray; Ben Hopkin

  Saint Thomas was surrounded by figures with wings and horns, each one holding a tri-headed spear thrust into the body of the apostle. The devils were all laughing at the pain on the holy man’s face.

  The stones used in the martyrdom of Saint Stephen were all carved with hideous faces, leering at the saint as they pummeled his flesh. The stones themselves were carried by statues of other saints ripped from their own alcoves, placed in sexual positions with one another, their sad faces totally at odds with what they seemed to be doing.

  This was bad. This was so very, very bad.

  The blasphemy probably wasn’t doing much to Darc. As far as Trey knew, his partner was neither a believer nor a nonbeliever. For Darc, it was all about what was happening in the moment, or where their killer was going next. Afterlife, schmafterlife.

  But to Trey, this was like ripping his childhood out of his chest and then spitting on it. Everything that mattered to him, everything he believed in, was being degraded. And then there was the totally overwhelming loss of life. It was staggering. Everywhere he turned, another human life bled itself out in horror and suffering. It was almost more than he could bear.

  Lifting his head, Trey found the worst of the worst above them. Corpses dangled by chains from the ceiling, huge industrial fans causing them to sway in the artificial wind, raining down gobbets of flesh and blood on the pews beneath. Occasionally one of the bodies would careen into the bared blades of the fan. The sound and spray from that contact were beyond description.

  And ahead of them, on the altar within the chancel, lay the girl.

  “Janey!” Trey shouted.

  Although she wasn’t chained or strapped down, Janey didn’t move or even seem to notice their presence. Trey began to rush forward, but Darc placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping his movement almost before it started. Trey had no idea what the freak was going on.

  “Dude? What the—?”

  Darc pointed to several trip wires spread out at ankle level across the nave of the church. He then waved toward an LED display right behind the girl’s head. The numbers were counting down…4:54, 4:53, 4:52. Okay. Yeah, that had been a good call. Trey turned back to thank his partner.

  From the alcove behind the desecrated statue of Saint Matthew, a dark figure sprang toward Darc’s back, a metal meat hook glinting in the light from the fires. In the span of a gut-wrenching heartbeat, Trey’s pistol was out of its holster and pointed at the man’s face. He squeezed the trigger, slamming the attacker square in his center. The killer stumbled but kept charging forward, the hook coming dangerously near to his partner as he swung wide.

  Trey fired again and again and again, hitting the killer straight in the chest, the shots clustered in a pattern that would’ve made his teacher back at the academy proud. He emptied his entire clip into the psychopath, still pulling the trigger well after all he heard were the clicks of an empty chamber. The assailant finally fell to the ground face up, twitching.

  The man was heavily built, dressed in a dark blue canvas work shirt and Dockers, with heavy work boots. His face and torso were spattered in blood, some from the bullet wounds, but most probably from his victims. He sighed out a breath, blood and spit bubbling around his lips.

  “Forgive…me.”

  And then the light in his eyes was gone. The killer was dead.

  “Holy mother of…” Trey breathed.

  He stood there, stunned. He had saved his partner. He had put down pretty much the worst serial killer ever. This was…

  Not right. It couldn’t be. Could it?

  “Wow. That was way too easy. Right?” Trey glanced over at his partner, who remained where he had been, his face impassive as always. But even within that, Trey had a sense that Darc was…not shocked, so much…perplexed, maybe? His partner scanned the cathedral around them, as if he were looking for the next shoe to drop or something.

  But there was nothing. Just Janey on the altar, with the beeping monitor ready to count down to zero in another four minutes or so. Speaking of which…

  The two navigated the trip wires, stepping over and around them, hopping over the railing that separated the slightly raised dais of the chancel where the altar sat. Trey tucked the gun back into his holster as he approached the tiny form on the marble slab.

  Janey lay as still as death on the altar, not moving a muscle. The only movement came from her breathing. Her very steady and deep breathing. Was she drugged?

  The altar was the only thing in the whole freaking church that didn’t seem to be dripping blood. No defacements of the ornate carvings on the surface, no hideous pictures glaring out at them. The girl and the altar were completely pristine. Except, you know, for the beeping timer and stuff.

  “Seriously, Darc,” Trey continued. “I mean, it couldn’t be that easy, could it?”

  Darc kept peering around at the wires and electrodes attached to Janey, not even acknowledging the question. Trey ran his hand through his hair.

  “Dude. Turns out he was just a wack job after all. Latin, Greek, and whatever the hell else, my ass. Beretta, baby.” Trey patted his gun. “That’s the language I speak.”

  But before Trey’s enthusiasm could go any further, Darc pointed to the wires. Trey followed Darc’s hands as they traced from Janey to the beeping LED screen. He then continued on down to back behind and underneath the altar, pulling back the velvet draping to expose enough C-4 to blow the entire city block and then some.

  Janey finally opened her eyes, her gaze latching on to Darc. A huge smile lit up her face.

  And the counter on the bomb sped up.

  Trey grabbed his hair, pulling hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. “Oh, no, no, no! And I killed him. Aw, hellfire and damnation.”

  Janey’s eyes shifted from Darc over to Trey and then back to the monitor behind her. The numbers sped up even more. There was nothing Trey could think to do.

  “Oh, man. Oh, God. Oh, shit.”

  “Calm down,” his partner intoned.

  “What? But…How…How can I calm—?

  Darc grabbed Trey’s arm, pulling him over to the altar. “If she can calm down, you can calm down.” He pointed at Janey.

  Trey glanced at the girl, whose eyes were now shut once more, then looked back at the counter. It was slowing down. Darc pointed to the wires attaching Janey to the monitor.

  “The counter is hooked to her heart rate.”

  “Oh, Mary, mother of—”

  “Calm, happy thoughts, Trey.” His partner was speaking in a level tone, like they were talking about baseball or the weather. Or like Trey was on a plump leather couch in his office, talking about his mother or something. Trey was done, man. Just done.

  “Yeah, things are awesome. We’re in Satanland, Seattle’s newest amusement park. Let’s go get a bucket of blood and a thigh burger before we go and hit the fan ride. Sounds like a freaking good time to me.”

  So maybe Trey felt the slightest bit better after his little rant. That was, until Janey’s heart rate spiked again. Darc bent down to her, his face close to hers.

  “Listen to me. Watch what I’m doing.”

  Janey opened her eyes up again, her attention riveted on Darc. Trey’s partner began searching through his pockets.

  “Dude. What the hell are you doing?” Trey knew to expect the unexpected with Darc, but what was going on here?

  Finally, Darc pulled a marker out of his left inside breast pocket. He began drawing on the marble around Janey, tracing the form of a detective’s badge. Janey’s heart rate began to slow, coming back down to normal as his partner completed enclosing her in the protective drawing. Darc leaned close.

  “I’m not going to leave you.”

  Laughter echoed around the cathedral, bouncing off of walls, the ceiling, the floor, the demonic depictions of the saints. Janey’s monitor sped up again.

  “What the—?” Trey swiveled his head around, looking for the source of the sound. “I killed him. He’s dead.”

  The voice mov
ed from the right side of them, to the left, then up. How was he doing that? Either he moved fast or he was throwing his voice. The disembodied words drifted down to them from up above.

  “Do you think I’ve gotten his attention yet?”

  The voice was distorted with frenetic passions coupled with dark despair. The laughter was enough to lift the hackles on the back of Trey’s neck. His hand inched closer to his gun, his fingers itching to fire a shot into the darkness from which the demonic voice spawned.

  The counter was ticking down so fast, it was almost a blur. Darc looked up into the void and clenched his fist, seeming to listen, observe, and process all at once.

  “You realize, of course, that Aristotle did not believe in the devil,” Trey’s partner calmly observed.

  “But he did believe in the complete absence of good.” The voice floated down, this time from a different corner of the church. The sound of it was vaguely familiar to Trey. He could swear he’d heard it before. But the dark bite, the crazed intensity, the laughter? No. Trey would’ve remembered that. And the echoes weren’t helping things much, either. Darc repositioned his gaze to face the new direction.

  “No. Aristotle did not believe in the absence of good. He said evil could never be scientifically proven.”

  The laughter began again, the macabre sound vibrating through the chapel. Trey spoke out of the corner of his mouth to his partner.

  “Um. Darc? Do you really think you should be insulting this guy’s knowledge base?”

  But on the marble slab, Janey’s heart rate had diminished, returning to a seminormal pace. Darc whispered under his breath, whether to him or to Janey, Trey couldn’t tell.

  “Calm, happy thoughts.”

  Once again, the maniac’s voice migrated to another part of the church, still up above, this time coming from behind them. Janey’s device beeped a little faster.

  “All this.” The voice sounded proud and sad at the same time. “I have spilt more blood than Brutus and Cassius ever did. But has he appeared? Caesar flooded the Curia, but what have I done?”

  Trey reached into his pocket and pulled out a fresh clip, changing it out for the one he had emptied into…who? Not the killer, apparently. Accomplice? The guy Henry from the slaughterhouse?

  Anyway, the extra ammo wasn’t going to do him much good. Every five seconds this psycho changed locations. The voice came from their left side now.

  “More even than Judas. What did he shed? A grail’s worth, nothing more. I have surpassed him in all ways. But still nothing.”

  The voice was growing louder, the distortion greater. The echoes bounced around the room, ricocheting off every surface they encountered and coming back stronger, more malevolent. Not to put too fine a point on it, Trey was freaking out.

  “I’ve made the city streets slick with it. Babes have bathed in it. You know of what I speak, do you not, Detective? You can vouch for the veracity of my words. I’ve traveled the path Dante forged, but has he graced me? Has he graced me?”

  The killer’s voice crescendoed up to a volume that felt like it was going to bust open Trey’s eardrums. That was it. He was sick of this.

  “Show your face, and I’ll send you on the express, first-class, nonstop train to hell!”

  The laughter again. Janey’s bpm skyrocketed.

  “I want nothing with hell.”

  Darc swiveled his head about, looking at the walls and their bloody symbols. He had the thousand-yard stare. Somehow, in this setting, that was comforting to Trey. The killer had no idea what was about to hit him. Darc raised his voice, his tone certain.

  “You want purgatory.”

  Then, from out of the sacristy, up close to where the choir would have been, strode Father John. He now wore full black robes that swirled around his feet, but his collar, instead of the standard white, was blood red. Trey backed away in disbelief. This could not be happening.

  “What the—?” Trey sputtered. “I saw your head. It was boiling. Rolling around and stuff.”

  Darc answered his question for him. “A wax replica. It would melt like flesh.”

  Trey reached into his armpit for the gun in its holster. He lifted it up, pointing it in the pastor’s face.

  “Had your last rites, buddy?”

  “You can’t.” Darc spoke, his tone insistent.

  “Why the hell not? I really, really, really, really want to kill him.”

  “Ah. So eloquent, my poor, misguided little lamb.” The reverend sneered at him.

  “Hey. Hey!” Trey pushed the gun a little closer to the fallen holy man. “I want it on the record that I have no problem whatsoever killing a man of the cloth that set rattlers on me!”

  “Trey.” The word was quiet. Almost a whisper. But Trey glanced at his partner, who was pointing toward the girl on the altar with the beeping clock behind her. The counter was still speeding down…3:11, 3:10, 3:09.

  Father John strode down the staircase that led to the chancel and the altar. His robes whirled about his legs, bleeding into the darkness that surrounded them. His eyes were glued on Darc.

  “I knew you were the one. You understand.”

  Wait. What? Trey goggled at the pastor. “He does?” He spun around and glared at his partner. “You do?” Man, this was not the time to get left in the dark.

  The pastor didn’t even glance at him. It was like Trey didn’t even exist. He was used to Darc’s getting all the attention, but this was ridiculous. He had a gun pointed in the guy’s face, for cryin’ out loud. You’d think that would get him at least a nod. Father John moved toward Darc.

  “I looked into your eyes. I saw that you peered beyond this reality. You penetrate into the quantum. To the plane only angels dare to tread.” The priest’s face, which had seemed so gentle before, was twisted beyond all recognition. He leered. “One fallen angel in particular.”

  “What the hell is he talking about?” Trey asked his partner.

  “Are you through with him yet?” The pastor scowled. “May I dispose of him for you as Zeus might a gnat?”

  “Hey!” Trey knew he was a serial killer and all, but that was just harsh.

  “He should have died in the ninth circle,” Father John said, not sounding all that fatherly right about now.

  “Um. Again. Hey!” Okay, that was even harsher.

  Darc lifted a single eyebrow, his tone drier than the Sahara. “I think you have a little liquid nitrogen left over.”

  “Hey, not you, too.” Now Trey was getting it from both sides. And Darc had made a joke. Right now, his partner had decided to go for the laugh?

  The pastor smiled, showing his even white teeth. “You jest, but he is a betrayer.”

  Trey’s heart fell out of him. There was no way the reverend could know about Maggie. No possible way. No one knew. Not even Trey’s mom.

  But Darc was unfazed. “He has done me no harm.”

  Father John cackled again, his laughter ringing at them from every angle. “No?” The priest pouted and made a tsk-tsk sound with his tongue while shaking his head. “He lays with your wife.”

  He couldn’t know, but he did. Somehow, impossibly, the pastor knew. Trey sputtered, trying to voice all of the million things he had wanted to say to his partner from the moment Trey had first looked into Maggie’s eyes and realized that things had changed. But it was too late. Someone else had already told him. Trey couldn’t even bring himself to look over at his partner.

  “I know.” Darc’s words were no more than a breath. A stirring of dead leaves in a forest of bare trees.

  “What?”

  Apparently, he wasn’t the only one. Father John’s face was a mask of surprise. “He shamed your marriage bed.”

  “She made her decision.” Darc spoke without inflection, his words falling flat out of his mouth.

  “Darc. Man. Please listen.” He had to make Darc understand how sorry he was. “I can explain. I swear it—”

  Darc looked straight into Trey’s eyes, the gaze soft, without
judgment. “We were walking along the marina. Maggie was holding my hand. You were eating an ice-cream cone. She found a baby bird that fell out of the nest. You helped her put it back while I kept walking.” He looked down for a moment, then back up at Trey. “She didn’t pick my hand back up.”

  “He betrayed you!” the priest screamed at Darc.

  “Dude,” Trey said. “That was, like, over six months—”

  “Seven months, fifteen days, and a handful of hours.”

  “He lied! He lied to you!” Father John was practically frothing at the mouth.

  That wasn’t right. Maggie and he had only really started dating just a few weeks ago. He still needed to explain things to his partner.

  “I swear to you, man, we didn’t—”

  But Darc seemed to be several steps in front of him, as always. “She left me that day. She just didn’t have the courage to tell me until last month.”

  “Why do you let him live!?” The pastor’s face was as red as the white patch at his neck, his veins bursting out all over his forehead.

  “I am so sorry, Darc. I wanted to tell—”

  And then Father John pulled something out of his robes. A remote. He pressed a button on its side, and there was a loud rattling sound from above. Trey craned his neck back to see what was going on, when he saw one of the hanging bodies rushing right toward his head.

  It was the last thing he remembered seeing.

  CHAPTER 18

  Darc stared at his fallen partner. The angle of his neck, the location of the bloody cut on Trey’s forehead, and the rate of the rise and fall of his chest all became ciphers that danced into Darc’s awareness, filling in the blank space with an answer. Trey would be all right. As long as Darc managed to take care of the explosives, that was.

  Now it was time to deal with the killer.

  “He was forgiven,” Darc said. He began circling around the pastor, angling around him, forcing Father John to change his positioning or risk having Darc behind him, where the pastor could not see.

  “Not by me.” The priest had recovered from his apoplexy and was mirroring Darc’s movements, but was now biting off his words. A sign of defensiveness…or possible constipation.