Judas (The Iscariot Warrior Series Book 1)

by Roy Bright

  The door bursts open and Judas almost falls in.

  “Fucking door, I must’ve pulled it shut too tight,” he says examining it up and down then kicking it shut.

  Charlotte erupts from between the bed and the nightstand, Mr. Tumble performing his usual routine across the floor. She races towards him and flings herself into his midsection wrapping her arms around him.

  He looks around. He is carrying plastic bags full of junk food and attempts to spot somewhere to place them. He tries to soothe her; unable to place a comforting hand on her although he would struggle to do so even if he weren’t in this predicament as comforting children was not his forte. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. I told you I was coming back. I’ve got the food. It’s alright, kiddo.”

  She is repeating the words ‘you came back’ over and over.

  He hasn’t felt this kind of need from a child in a very, very long time. His mind wanders back for the briefest of moments then he wonders just what in the hell has happened to this girl - not just today, but in her life - to have her clinging to a stranger in utter relief at their returning presence. They stay like that for a moment, then he attempts to walk over to the bed, bags raised in the air, trying to shake the girl off, careful not to cause any harm.

  She lets go and sits on the bed. “I’m sick of getting left alone, that’s all. Sister Marie never left me alone. I hate being left alone. I don’t want to be left alone again.”

  “Okay, okay,” he says, “I won’t leave you alone again, I promise.” She looks at him and starts to smile.

  “Except, just one more time,” he says, holding up his right index finger and scrunching up his nose and face.

  The smile cut short midway, she sighs and, like an adolescent dabbling in their teenage years, sneers, “Whatever!”

  He lets out a sharp laugh and shakes his head then stands and leaves the room, heading off towards the car.

  She looks away at the wall, still in a huff with him.

  He returns not half a minute later, hauling two huge black duffel bags and places them with care onto the floor.

  One of the bags makes a metallic clunking sound as things shift around inside it, finding their natural place amongst the other items within. He moves that bag to the side of the bed, out of her view he sits back down next to her and reaches out for the bags of food. “Quarter pound cheeseburger for you and some fries, plus a nice big tasty, ice-cold cola drink of some variety.”

  She takes the food and places it on the bed beside her, then removes the drink from his hands, placing it on the bedside table where the Bible once resided.

  “Aaaand a three quarter pound triple cheeseburger with double fries and a mountainous diet cola, of some variety, for me.” He grins.

  She looks at the gargantuan meal and then at the diet drink and bursts into laughter.

  Judas laughs also and then takes a huge bite out of his burger smiling all the while, chewing his food as his mouth bursts at the seams, stuffed to capacity.

  She giggles.

  He likes this mood. It feels, normal.

  They sit this way for a time, saying nothing, enjoying the moment, the normality of it all, Charlotte with her back to him, rocking from side to side as children do whilst enjoying treats.

  He watches her, smiling. She seems to be free from her troubles for the time being, although knowing that in a short while he will have to break this mood and explain the true nature of the next three days; explain who she is and what he understands her role in all this to be. That’s a lot to heap onto the shoulders of a six-year-old child. He breaks off from pondering and stands up, grabbing hold of one of the black bags. “I won’t be a minute,” he says.

  “Where are you going?” She asks, nervous, her eyes searching.

  “It’s okay. I’m just going into the bathroom. I need to make myself look, well, presentable if we are to travel incognito.”

  “What does in-cog-nito mean?” She asks, cocking her head to the right a little.

  He whispers, “It means, err, to not draw attention to ourselves.” He smiles.

  “Okay,” she says, smiling back as he sets off once again towards the bathroom. “Judas?”

  “Yes, Charlotte?”

  He stops and turns to face her.

  “Why did your parents name you after the man who betrayed Jesus?”

  He stares at her.

  A long silence befalls them and she shifts in her position, feeling slightly uneasy.

  Sighing, he declares, “They didn’t name me after the man who betrayed Jesus, Charlotte,” he pauses once again, “I am the man who betrayed Jesus.” He turns and walks into the bathroom.

  Charlotte sits at the edge of the bed, stunned.

  Seven

  Detective Gary Cross turns his silver Chevrolet Impala off Arnold Avenue and onto Albin and flashing blue and red lights ahead of him signal he has arrived at his destination.

  A uniformed officer stationed outside the entrance, controlling the small crowd of residents that has gathered outside, intrigued at the commotion, recognizes him and waves, motioning for him to go on in through the orphanage gates. He brings the car round to the left and drives through.

  Parked ahead, in the area leading up to the main steps of the old building, are a host of West Babylon P.D. squad cars, along with another dark blue Impala belonging to Detectives Pete Stillman and Martin Dowd; the homicide detectives already inside, getting their investigation underway. On the opposite side of the Impala is a grey Ford Focus belonging to his old partner, Detective Sergeant Paul Keenan.

  He pulls up behind the other detective’s cars, bringing his to a halt, kills the ignition and removes his keys. Reaching over to the glove compartment, he opens it and pulls out his .40 Smith and Wesson Sigma, then gets out of the car and places the weapon in its holster on his belt, whilst pulling out his badge from his inside left breast pocket and placing it across from his sidearm. Closing the door, he pauses a moment to scan the area; at the old building and tree-filled areas eighty feet from the edge of each wing that sit in front of the orphanage main wall. He takes in every detail of the location.

  Gary looks like a detective in every sense of the word, in a dark grey suit with a light blue and silver striped tie and immaculate black shoes. He is dressed the same as most of the other detectives in homicide, the only exception being different colored suits and ties depending on the day of the week. With high standards in everything he wears and does, he is meticulous in his approach to detective work; one of the Department’s finest. However, since the death of his son two and a half years ago, he has worked alone, favoring solitude on cases. His colleagues and friends had decided to let him work that way, all agreeing that whatever Gary felt was best for him was also the right course of action for them. He had been devastated at the death of his six-year-old son that had come not long after the breakdown of his marriage. His dedication to his work had, like many other cops, put paid to his relationship with Emily over three years ago and losing her to another man was bad enough, but having Jacob taken away from him, first in residence and then in life, was too much for him. He had withdrawn, succumbing to the comforts of the bottle whilst replaying in his mind over and over, the moment of his death as he had come to understand it; how his son’s side of the car had borne the full force of the drunk driver’s vehicle; how he had never stood a chance. Of course, the crash investigation team, doctors and subsequent counsellors would all tell him that Jacob would not have suffered, that his death would have been instant. It was of no comfort to him at all, but the bottle was.

  It was three months after the funeral when Paul had rung his doorbell and reeled at the sight of him.

  He had answered the door unshaven, in a dressing gown that was half-open and a bottle of Scotch in his right hand, swaying in the doorframe and it was his partner who had dragged him into the living room and sat him down in anger, berating him in a way only a best friend could. A best friend who had attended the same schools, played on th
e same teams and shared the same social circles. Paul was the one who had smacked the bottle out of his hand and told him Jacob would not want to see him like this.

  The scene was like a dream to Gary as he sat there, observing his friend screaming at him through alcohol-blurred vision, the shouting coming through in unintelligible muffled waves. But as this rude awakening unfolded before him, something stirred inside. He would later thank Paul for being the one to bring him out of the darkness and back into the light, that day. That day he had worked his way around the house, collecting bottles of booze and emptying them into the kitchen sink. That day he had stood in the shower for an hour, contemplating, before shaving. That day he got himself dressed and stared at himself in the mirror, marking the start of bringing his life back to a semblance of normality. He never drank again… after that day.

  He had attempted to work with Paul again but it just hadn’t felt right. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t share the same conversations, jokes or breakfast mornings with him.

  Paul understood; he always understood, and so had left him to his own recovery from that point, assuring that he would be there as always when he was ready to ‘put the band back together’.

  Gary had smiled at that joke.

  It had all been for the best, as he had felt much more comfortable getting his life back together in solitude and had once again, thrown himself into his work.

  As a result, and relying on his own keen skills, he had seen himself become an exceptional detective and now, as his inquisitive mind once again worked overtime, assessing the orphanage building and surrounding areas, he was able to immerse himself in the job and keep any thoughts of Jacob at bay, for the time being at least.

  Having satisfied himself with the exterior of the building, he makes his way to the stairs leading up to the main entrance. Another uniformed officer nods at him as he passes by. He nods back and smiles, heading in through the door, into the hallway.

  The large reception hall is a hive of activity. Uniformed officers cross his path in both directions. Crime scene investigators wearing white elastic banded surgical caps and boiler suits, blue surgical gloves and overshoes seem to be everywhere. Their slow and methodical approach to searching for evidence giving them the appearance of emotionless zombies fixated on finding victims to eat.

  He grabs one of the officers and asks him where the body is.

  The officer points towards a grand staircase that starts wide at the bottom and narrows at the top. “Up the stairs, through the door at the top, turn right and just follow the commotion around to the east wing, detective.”

  “Thanks,” he says and sets off as advised.

  The officer stares at him for a second and then carries on with his assigned task.

  He follows the officer’s instructions and sure enough, finds himself turning into the corridor where the body is located.

  The crime scene presents itself: Gary observes the body of a woman, a Sister, crumpled up against the left hand wall, a streak of blood marking her trajectory from the classroom opposite. Little yellow inverted and numbered V-shaped marker boards surround her, pointing out areas of investigative interest. The Sister’s head hangs in a strange and awkward position, towards him, almost facing the wall. Her expression preserved in a grimace of pure fear; tongue hanging out of the right side of her mouth, neck rumpled, her legs pointing towards the classroom, crooked and feet apart.

  He shakes his head. Who in the hell would do this to a sweet old lady?

  The crime scene photographer is positioning himself around the body taking shots at various angles, focusing on the obvious strangeness surrounding its placement.

  To Gary, the body looks as though it had been thrown against the wall with massive force and he frowns. He stares at it for a minute as a machine fires up within him and tiny cogs begin to turn in his mind, deciphering the picture, attempting to play back the violence like a videotape. He is so wrapped up in his thought process, that he doesn’t notice Paul approaching from behind.

  He taps Gary on the shoulder, jumping him out of his trance. “Hey, bro, you just got here?” he says, his attention focused on the body, his hand outstretched to greet Gary’s.

  “Hey, Paul,” he says, reaching out and shaking his hand. “Yeah, well, I got the call about an hour ago. I was headed on over to Emily’s in Southampton, taking some stuff for Jacob, you know, his birthday coming up an’ all that. So, it took me a little while to get back here.”

  “She okay? Haven’t seen her in ages.”

  He shrugs, glancing at him. “Yeah, she’s fine, I guess. Her and Tony are trying for a baby, y’know, suppose it’s the right time for them now, I dunno, I think that’s the case anyway.”

  Paul glances back at his former partner, “You still not up to taking stuff over to Jacob’s grave yourself?”

  Gary stares straight ahead, saying nothing, then shrugs once again. He starts to say something but is unable to think of any meaningful response to the question so he decides against it.

  Paul lets it go.

  He shakes his head, “Didn’t make it over there though, no doubt she will be pissed that I didn’t arrive. I’ll go tomorrow.”

  “Dude, Emily was always pissed that you never showed up when you were supposed to. I think she’s gotten used to it by now.”

  He manages a small wry smile as he looks at him and Paul grins back. Both men turn to face the body.

  “What happened here? What kind of person would do this to a Sister?”

  “Well, my friend, it seems as though there is more to this than just a murdered nun. A child is missing as well.”

  “A child?”

  “Yeah, man, a six-year-old girl,” he says, pulling out a notepad from his left inside jacket pocket, “Charlotte Hope. Not her real surname, they gave that to her when she was brought here after being abandoned by her mother. Father Mallory over there, found the body, one Sister Marie Anesta. He’d been looking for her and the girl when they hadn’t shown for dinner. Says he panicked and hit the fire alarm when he saw the body, first thing he could think of. According to him there was no sign of the girl when he got here, just… this.”

  Father Mallory stands a short distance away on the other side of the body, speaking to Detective Stillman. He is having difficulty keeping his attention on the detective, switching his gaze to that of the Sister, evident that he finds this all very disturbing.

  Gary places his right hand on Paul’s left shoulder and taps it, “Thanks, man, I’ll get down to it then.”

  “It’s your case, brother; I’m giving it to you.” He half salutes then turns to walk away. Pausing, he turns back, “I’m just gonna finish interviewing some of the other staff members and kids, see if they know or saw anything. You sure you got this?”

  “Yeah, you go. I got this, no problem.”

  Paul nods, smiles then walks off back down the corridor and turns the corner.

  Gary walks around and past the body of Sister Marie Anesta and over to Father Mallory and Detective Stillman.

  Pete greets him and then turns to the Father. “Father Mallory, this is Detective Gary Cross, he’s the lead investigator on the case.” He raises his eyebrows seeking confirmation that what he said is correct. Gary nods.

  Pete acknowledges, “And he’s gonna want to ask you a few questions so, why don’t you just start at the beginning and tell him what you told me.”

  Gary reaches out and shakes the Father’s hand, “I’m terribly sorry for your loss Father. I can tell that you and Sister Marie were close friends.”

  Father Mallory nods. He looks at the body of Sister Marie then closes his eyes.

  “Father, can I take you just a little further down the corridor, away from this for now?” he says, sympathizing with the priest.

  The Father manages a faint smile and nods, “Thank you, detective, that is most kind of you.”

  “Aggh I’m sorry, Father,” apologizes Pete, “I should’ve been a little more conside
rate.”

  “Oh, it’s okay, detective, you are just doing your job,” the Father says, waving a hand at him.

  “Hey, thanks, Pete,” interjects Gary. “Why don’t you get all the points of interest down and I’ll be back in a sec and you can bring me up to speed, yeah?”

  “Sure thing, Gary, I’ll be in the classroom, there’s something you’ll wanna see in there.”

  Father Mallory looks towards the classroom. The faintest hint of recognition, of understanding flickers in his eyes as Detective Stillman mentions it and its mysterious content.

  Gary doesn’t miss it; he never misses a thing.

  “Okay, Pete, no problem, I’ll be by in a minute. This way, Father.” He motions to the priest and leads him down the corridor, away from the scene. He calls over a uniformed officer and instructs him to get a chair for the Father.

  The priest thanks him.

  Seconds later, the officer returns with a chair and Gary takes and sets it down, facing away from the crime scene.

  Father Mallory sits, breathing a little sigh of relief, welcoming the chance to take the weight off his old feet.

  Gary kneels beside him. “Okay, Father, as my colleague said, could you start at the very beginning please and tell me everything.”

  “Well, detective, Sister Marie and Charlotte hadn’t shown for dinner. I mean they weren’t overly late or anything but we usually say prayers before Cook would serve the evening meal and Sister Marie never misses prayers…” He falters for a second, drifting off.

  Gary eases him back into the conversation, “I know this must be hard for you, Father, but it’s very important that I get as full and accurate a picture as possible. Please, go on.”

  He nods. “Well, I decided to go look for them. I knew Sister Marie was helping Charlotte with some English work here in classroom C,” he motions back with his head, “so I headed up here to check on them.”