The Parker Trilogy

by Tony Faggioli

  Yet. That is correct. But you will. You have to. Or what you’ve done to Marisol and David is just another tragedy that will be buried in the sorrows of those they love, who will now forever be changed by what you’ve done. So much pain and evil can now spread. And trust me, that’s what the other side wants, Hector. They want you to fail in your mission, so that the bitterness and rage that will come from this night will spread, like a virus, to other lives.

  “How? What can I possibly do?”

  First, we’re going to teach you how to see, Hector. Not just with your mom, but with some others. And then you’ll have your mission.

  “What mission?”

  You are one in a million, Hector. One soul tasked with stopping another that’s about to commit the same sin you have. If you succeed, a million other souls on this planet who have committed this same, grievous error of taking a life, will be touched with the urge to repent. You may not help save any or even most of them, but some will see, and some will turn to God.

  The night around them teetered on the edge of some distant memory before it finally came to him as Hector looked all around them one more time. “First and Gage?”

  Yes. This is where it all began.

  “Where what began?”

  The slow death of the person you could’ve become.

  Chapter Four

  The sirens sounded like they were far, far away as Father Soltera lay bleeding, face down, with sidewalk grit digging into his cheek, hopelessly alone in the middle of the night. Felix and his henchmen had slithered off into the darkness after what they’d done to him, like they did it every day or something. Like it was a business.

  His breathing was labored and his eyes were growing heavy when he saw a dim light go on in one of the windows across the street. A woman’s head peered out and then was gone again. After that, it was all nighttime quiet. Despair overcame him when he realized that the sirens he’d heard had not been coming for him but were fading away toward somewhere or someone else.

  No sirens, no cars. Just him and his little spot on the sidewalk, his church—he could actually feel his church—a half block away. If he was going to die, he wanted it to be there, but he knew that he had no hope of getting to it. Blood was leaking out of him in too many places.

  He tried to sigh but coughed, the action bringing up the iron-tasting syrup of his own blood over his tongue and lips.

  So, this is my ending. Tears filled his eyes. Then, his conscious being riddled, as always, by the enemy, he thought, This is what you deserve. And after going to visit her no less.

  There was the sound of a door opening and then many sets of footfall, three, maybe four, running toward him.

  “Madre mía!” a woman screamed. A man yelled at her in Spanish to go back inside and call 911 before he and two boys approached, one of them barefoot, first at a jog and then at a full run.

  “Padre!” the man yelled in Father Soltera’s face after partially turning him over. But he did not recognize the man, and he knew all his parishioners. One of the boys leaned over him and said, “He’s still alive.”

  “Dad,” the other boy said, “look at all—”

  The man shushed him, but Father Soltera could already guess at what the boy was going to say. Look at all the blood.

  He blinked against a fading sense of time and place. His eyes were heavy, like they always described it in the movies, and his fingers were ice cold. Time came and went between each labored breath. The woman had returned and was clutching her hands tightly in his, praying in Spanish over him, and before long he heard sirens coming.

  Sometime later, he had no idea how long, he awoke inside an ambulance, an IV bag swaying overhead as two EMTs worked on him feverishly. They were plugging parts of him with cotton and calling out stab wound locations and severity, evidently relaying information to the hospital he was headed to.

  “Father?” one of the EMTs said. “Hang in there!”

  Father Soltera tried to nod, may have even pulled it off, but he wasn’t sure because then everything went dark again.

  This time the darkness was deeper, and he could feel the hands of death tugging at him relentlessly. But what about Luisa? What would happen to her now that Felix had done what he did? Frustration churned in his chest. There was nothing he could do to help her anymore. Nobody could.

  No. Wait. There had to be somebody that could still help her. Somehow. He thought of Maggie Kincaid as the darkness grew even deeper. What if he . . .

  The next time he awoke was when the ambulance screeched to a halt and rocked his stretcher back and forth. His chest hurt and there were paddles in the hands of one of the EMTs, the ones that shock your heart. The EMT was putting them away as the back doors of the ambulance flew open and a doctor and some nurses appeared. Father Soltera was suddenly filled with an all-consuming terror that it was all too late. He was done for.

  “Luisa,” he mumbled. “Dear Lord, what about Luisa?”

  A woman’s voice with a Japanese accent spoke inside his head. You already asked for her to be helped, tomodachi. And you have asked well. She has been blessed with a good protector.

  “What?”

  The doctor was yelling commands and the nurses were scrambling. Father Soltera heard monitors screaming and felt his heart slowing way down. Someone stuck a needle in him and he felt a brief spurt of energy before his body seemed to be slipping against his skin, slipping and sliding.

  He had a flash of memory; he was a boy; his mother had taken him to the Japanese Gardens for the day. She’d made him stand on a bridge.

  “I want to take your picture,” she said, with her pretty smile. His mother always had a smile that seemed to say she couldn’t possibly love him more.

  The voice was suddenly in his head again, breaking the memory. I want to help you. So be calm now.

  He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Sir. Just be quiet now. Stay calm,” the doctor said.

  “I’m not talking to you,” Father Soltera shouted, but not really, as the words barely came out in a whisper.

  As they rolled him through the ER doors, he saw her: a lean woman in a Japanese robe, her arms muscular and wrapped in bands of leather, her black hair pulled up and back. Then, thinking for sure that he was losing his mind entirely, he thought he saw that she was also wearing two swords, one long and one short.

  He chuckled. Oh, how God was a comedian at times. Loving. And funny. Really? At the time of his death it was going to be some sort of samurai who ushered him to the Pearly Gates? Not St. Peter or even C.S. Lewis?

  His chuckle became a laugh and they were telling him to stop. His mouth was filling with blood again—from a punctured lung or two, or a punctured heart—so he understood their concern. One of the nurses was frantic about him stopping, and when he looked to her he saw so much concern in her eyes that it stilled him. Swaying, back and forth from her neck, was a beautiful crucifix. Ah. There he was. Jesus. His Christ and Savior.

  It was time to die.

  But the Japanese woman, the samurai, was having none of it. No. It is not your time, she said.

  “It isn’t?”

  No, tomodachi. You do have to leave for a while, though. So be ready.

  Then the world became all pain and bright lights and then a resonating kind of silence.

  When he opened his eyes next, the first thing he saw was a forest full of skinny trees with wavy, white trunks all surrounded by moss, dense vegetation and scattered patches of fern. Occasionally, the landscape offered up a tree with a thick trunk, which was more visible by contrast with the thick mist that carpeted the forest floor and dampened Father Soltera’s face and head.

  Nearby, standing next to one of the thick trees, was the samurai woman, staring at him with soft, almond-shaped eyes. Able to see her more clearly now, he could make out that she was also wearing a black cloak over a beige shirt that hung down to her baggy cotton pants. The short blade at her hip had a black handle with a red diamond wov
en into the waxy fabric. He’d never seen a sword like it before.

  When her voice came alive now, soft but real, he jumped.

  “It’s called a tanto.”

  After a second or two, he asked, “A what?”

  “A tanto blade. This one,” she said, motioning to the longer blade strapped to her other hip, “is my katana. It’s a bit more . . . conspicuous.”

  “Oh?” he replied with a chuckle. As if the rest of her was not already conspicuous enough. He sighed and shook his head.

  “You think you’re losing your mind, don’t you?”

  Father Soltera nodded. “First, the visits from Mr. Napoleon Villa in my sanctuary, then those men with no faces who attacked me and Luisa, then . . .” He stopped himself from bringing up The Woman with the Girls.

  “Don’t forget about her, tomodachi. She has ‘imprinted’ already with your soul.”

  “She’s what?”

  “Attached. Bonded. The Woman, as a demon, is a bigger threat now. But not the biggest.”

  “Who, then?”

  “The man you know as Güero Martinez. He serves a master you have been fighting against your whole life.”

  A heavy darkness seemed to be present with them. “You mean . . .”

  She tightened her lips and nodded, then a look of sadness came over her. “I have just returned from his master’s lands. From hell.”

  Now, Father Soltera was alarmed.

  “I’m not here to hurt you.”

  “But you just said you’ve come from hell . . .”

  “No, I said I had returned from hell.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a long story. For another day. My name is Michiko. I was asked by a friend of Mr. Villa’s to help out a bit by watching over you.”

  “Where is Mr. Villa?”

  “Busy helping someone else right now.”

  Father Soltera took a moment to gather his thoughts before deciding that this was all too much. “I don’t understand what you all expect me to do here.”

  “You are already doing what you can.”

  “Look. I’m only human.”

  “Precisely.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The forces of the spiritual realm concern themselves primarily with those of the physical realm, your realm. But reality, as you call it, is subject to a whole host of influences, over the consciousness of the individual and the collective consciousness as well.”

  “But, those faceless men, or The Woman, or Güero, they’re too powerful. I’m old. I’m sick.”

  “You mean, you are wise and resilient.”

  “What?”

  “It’s is all—and I mean all—about how you look at things. You say ‘old and sick’ to not be too hard on yourself, but also to give yourself an excuse to avoid the responsibility you’ve been given. I say ‘wise and resilient’ to compliment you in truth and call you to action toward that responsibility.”

  Father Soltera rubbed his weary eyes and said nothing.

  “Perspective, tomodachi. You must grasp it and hold it fast.”

  “Okay, then. What, now?”

  “We need to get you back to your world.”

  Father Soltera looked around. “My world? Where are we now, then?”

  “You are in The Hanging Forest. It is an evil place, full of sadness. We must make our way out of here, to The Whiting Woods. From there we can find The Stairway and get you home.”

  “I’m going crazy. I am. This all sounds insane. Where am I, really? Is this purgatory or something?”

  She shook her head as she helped him up. “We will go this way, along this broken path. It’s really the only one to choose from.” As they turned and began walking, she added, “And, tomodachi?”

  “Yes?”

  “For the record, I do not think you are going crazy.” She paused, as if weighing her thoughts. “And I understand that you love her, Father. I also understand that you love her too much. Regardless of your position in the world, which forbids this love in the first place? You love her too much.”

  Something clicked in Father Soltera’s head. “You sound as if you’re speaking from experience.”

  Michiko nodded sadly. “Yes. I, too, had such a love. That’s why I went to hell and back . . . to try to save it.”

  “And?”

  There was a pause as she looked into the forest. She murmured, “I was too late.”

  Maggie’s dreams of late were frighteningly different. They were heavier, more consuming and harder to get out of.

  Her alarm clock was a harsh testimony to this fact. The alarm jolted Maggie awake, and she sat up in bed with a scream, scrambling to think how she could get to the shelter in the middle of the night before the alarm registered in her consciousness. It was 6:30 a.m.

  “No!” she said as she jumped out of bed, shut off the alarm and began to dress hurriedly in the black tracksuit she’d laid out the night before for her usual morning run.

  It couldn’t be. How? How had she stayed asleep after Father Soltera’s words in her head had been so desperate? She’d told herself to wake up, to pull out, and that had always worked before. But not this time.

  And what if she were too late now?

  “Shit!” she spat out as she put on her Nikes and tied the laces. Running to the bathroom, she put her hair back and splashed water on her face.

  She had a hopeful thought. What if it was just a normal, silly nightmare? The kind that most people have? Maybe that was why she hadn’t woken up.

  Deep down, she knew better. But she had to make sure. After making her way into the living room, she unplugged her cellphone and punched in Father Soltera’s number. It rang and rang, but no one picked up. So she tried it a second time and then a third.

  When the call finally picked up, she was briefly relieved, until she heard the voice on the other end. “Hello?”

  It was not Father Soltera.

  “Who is this?” Maggie said.

  There was a brief pause, then, “This is Detective Hopkins with the Los Angeles Police Department.”

  No! Maggie drifted to the couch and sat down. “What? Where is Father Soltera?”

  “Ma’am, it’s my turn to ask a question: who am I speaking with?”

  “My name is Maggie. Maggie Kincaid. I’m a friend.”

  “Okay. Well, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Father Soltera was assaulted last night and . . .”

  No. Don’t say it. Please don’t say he’s dead.

  “. . . he’s currently in the ICU here at White Memorial Medical Center.”

  She exhaled. “Oh no. How bad is it?”

  “I’d rather not say at this time. From his wallet we were able to identify the church he works at as St. Francis, correct?”

  “Yes. I believe so.”

  “Well. We’ve left a message there for someone to call us, so we can contact his family. Would you know how to reach them?”

  “No. I’m sorry. I don’t.”

  “Well, can you at least come down, so we can talk with you?”

  Luisa. I’ve got to get to Luisa. I’ll need time to swing by the shelter and check on her. “Yes. I can be there in about an hour or so, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  She got up and began looking for a pen and piece of paper. “What room is he in?”

  “It’s the ICU, on the fifth floor. You have to be buzzed in, but we’ll be in the waiting area just outside.”

  “Okay. See you soon.”

  She hung up and stood for a moment with her hands on her hips as her mind raced in a hundred directions at once.

  This had to be Felix. What if Father Soltera told him where Luisa was?

  He would never do that.

  He’s human. What if he tortured him?

  Don’t think like that.

  Or what if he went through his wallet? What if he had a business card or piece of paper with Eden Hill’s information? It wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to put two and two togethe
r and figure out that Luisa might be there.

  Yes. And Luisa did say that Felix was a conniving bastard.

  And his boss is supposedly some scary psycho kind of guy. Shit. This could be bad.

  Because there was at least a fifty-percent chance that Luisa’s location had been compromised and that was exactly fifty percent too high, Maggie had to do something. There were other women at the shelter, too, some with their children, all of whom could be hurt if Felix and his thugs went there to get at Luisa. Not to mention the staff.

  She had to call Tonya, the shelter director, and report this. She dialed her number and left a message. It was early, but Tonya was hard-core, in at 8 a.m. sharp every day and probably in the shower now. She would call back soon.

  In the meantime, Maggie went with her gut, which was telling her that once she found out, Tonya would move Luisa to another location. For sure. And without Father Soltera, Maggie felt a very strong desire to argue the case that she should be Luisa’s chaperone. Because this sad situation could only get worse if Luisa panicked and asked to leave the shelter and go home. Way worse. It was her right, and as a minor, her mother had the right to pull the plug, too. Maggie didn’t want to leave things to chance because she felt . . . no, she knew that Luisa was in real danger.

  If they agreed to let Maggie stay with Luisa, even if only for a few days, Maggie would need to pack a bag. She did so, hurriedly, with a few casual outfits, a hair dryer and some toiletries. She thought of her .22, hidden in the underwear drawer of her dresser, but rejected the idea of it out of hand. It could set off the metal detectors at the shelter, the metro or for sure at the train station downtown. No. Guns were out. But she still had something.

  She went to the hook where here Taekwondo gloves hung, dropped to one knee and opened a gray tennis bag on the floor. Inside were her weight lifting straps and ties, but more importantly, it was also where she kept her Eskrima sticks, which she’d bought for a special series of weekend courses her master’s friend had given. Maggie had loved every minute.

  The weapons were little more than two wooden sticks about one and a half inches in circumference and thirty inches long. But they were light and, when used properly, vicious little weapons that Maggie had grown very adept at using. She had chosen them because they were practical. In the real world, a sai or sword was not likely to be handy in a life-threatening situation. But a broom stick or tree branch? Yes. And all were great substitutes for the Eskrima sticks if you needed them.