The Devil's Own Crayons

by Theresa Monsour

  Suddenly a man’s voice came on the line. “This is that sleazy rag, isn’t it?”

  In the background, Khoury heard the woman say it was a priest from the Vatican.

  “Bullshit. They were already here. They told us to keep our heads down about it. Who is this?”

  “This is Father Ryan...”

  The phone clicked and all Khoury heard was a dial tone.

  Rossi looked up from her laptop. “Did you get anything?”

  “A basic confirmation. Sort of.”

  “More than I got. While you’re standing there, check on Patrick.”

  The priest called the hospital and got the doctor on the line. Inquired about MacLeod’s condition. Was told the Scot was doing well, and was sleeping. He’d again muttered the strange drink request, however. “This absinthe,” the doctor said impatiently. “We cannot give him such a thing.”

  Why would MacLeod, a whiskey-loving Scot, keep demanding absinthe? The liqueur was a bohemian drink, banned for many years in many countries because it was thought to be a hallucinogenic. Khoury wondered if the doctor had lost something in the translation. “Is that the exact word he used? He specifically asked for absinthe?”

  The doctor paused. “No, but it means the same. Wormwood. Absinthe is made from this plant, si?”

  “Si, si,” Khoury said quickly, wanting to get off the line. “Grazie.”

  Rossi: “How’s Patrick?”

  “Good. Sleeping.”

  “What was the absinthe stuff about?”

  He glanced at the televisions and nodded to the laptop opened in front of her. “Read anything about meteorological disturbances today? Solar flares?”

  “I’m not liking the sound of this.”

  “Patrick didn’t ask for liquor,” said Khoury. “He was trying to tell us about wormwood. That’s the word he used. Not absinthe. Wormwood.”

  “Same thing, isn’t it?”

  “Remember the three sets of seven from Revelation? Seven seals, seven trumpets, seven bowls of...”

  “Yeah, yeah. I remember. Bad news.”

  “When the third trumpet sounded, a star fell from the sky and turned a third of the Earth’s fresh water bitter, killing those who drank it.”

  “I don’t get what that has to do with...”

  “The name of the star is Wormwood.”

  “So Patrick figured something out before he was stabbed,” she said, and started tapping her keyboard. “With all the symbolism in the Bible, the falling star could be anything from the sky, right? Meteor. Satellite. Plane.”

  “The horrific possibilities are endless.”

  “But we’re hunting for miracles, not...”

  “Perhaps the miracle is no one is injured. A plane is saved from crashing. A disaster is averted. If we’re talking about water, perhaps a contaminated well suddenly...I don’t know...”

  “Cures people of cancer?”

  He could hear the doubt in her voice. “It’s a possibility,” he said.

  “Why don’t you search for water-related news,” she said. “I’ll take the sky.”

  Khoury sat down and began pecking away at another laptop.

  Neither of them found Internet reports about disturbances related to the heavens or the water.

  “Maybe we should see who the Vatican has on its list of experts,” said the priest.

  “I’d rather use my own. There’s a guy. Pretty smart, except when it comes to females.” She got up from the table and went to the phone.

  “You’re former husband at the bureau?”

  “My other ex,” she said, punching in a number. “A big shot with the NOAA.”

  “What’s that?”

  “National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration,” she said, putting the phone to her ear. “That means he’s in charge of taking care of the air and water - which left him no time to take care of me.”

  Khoury went to a second wall phone to mine his own sources. He had contacts at universities around the world, including friends who taught in major astronomy departments. If a star or meteor were acting unusually, his colleagues would be on top of it. He’d have to find a way to make inquiries without inciting a riot – or making them think he’d lost his mind. While he scrolled down his cell’s contact list, he couldn’t help but listen to her end of the conversation.

  “I’m good. What about you?...That’s good to hear...No. I’m not in L.A. anymore. They transferred me...Can’t tell you that...Can’t tell you that, either...Yeah, well, you’re one to talk...Listen, babe, I need you to check on something for me...”

  Khoury called a friend at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. He found himself repeating a version of Rossi’s end of the conversation. “How are you?...I’m doing well, thank you...I appreciate that. I’m managing. Each day is a little better...No, no. I’m calling from...Well, long story, my friend. Some other time, over a beer...I have a favor I need to ask you...”

  After hours of phoning and dodging questions from their sources, they were back to where they’d started.

  “Damn,” said Rossi, hanging up her wall phone.

  “Who was that last gentleman?”

  “Not another ex; I stopped at two.”

  Khoury felt his face redden. “I didn’t intend to...”

  “Giving you grief, Ryan.” She sat down at the table and propped her feet on the chair next to her. “That was a NASA guy. Friend of a friend.”

  He sat down across the table from her. “Nothing?”

  “Zip. Who’d you tap?”

  “A friend at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. He works in atmospheric science. Another friend in the Cornell University Department of Astronomy. Yale’s Astronomy Department.”

  “Impressive list of buddies. What’d they say? Any anomalies pointing to a big event?”

  He shook his head. “The Vatican may have experts who...”

  “Stop with the Vatican experts,” she said. “I wouldn’t trust their so-called experts. Hell, I barely trust them.”

  “Am I one of them?” he asked.

  They regarded each other from across the table. “I don’t know,” she said. “Are you?”

  “I am my own man,” he said.

  “You were the Vatican’s pick,” she said.

  “So it comes out. You don’t trust me. Is that why you didn’t want me with you on the bridge?”

  “I didn’t want someone putting a bullet in you,” she said. “I feel responsible for you. You and Patrick.”

  “I’ve seen more gunplay in my life than you ever will,” he said somberly.

  “Is that how your wife died? Was she caught in a firefight in Lebanon?”

  “I don’t know you well enough too talk about it,” he said.

  “We don’t know anything about each other, the three of us. If this is going to work, we’re going to have to open up sometime.”

  “Why can’t you stay married?”

  “That’s none of your damn...” She stopped short.

  “See? Not so easy, is it?”

  There was a long silence between them, neither meeting the other’s eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Forget it.” She checked her watch. “It’s probably happened already and we don’t even know it.”

  Khoury felt as if they were standing in front of a tsunami, waiting for it to make landfall - and they didn’t even know which direction to face to meet it. “There’s got to be something we can do, something preemptive. Patrick’s clue...”

  “We’re hanging too much on Patrick,” she said. “He had to be really out of it when he got to the hospital. Seriously, focusing on one odd word...”

  “Actually we haven’t used that word in our searches. At least I haven’t.”

  “Go for it.” She sat back down and returned to her own typing.

  Khoury Googled Wormwood. All that he came up with were stories about the rise in interest in absinthe. The history of the plant. A recipe for wormwood tea. He wondered if sh
e was right, that they’d put too much stock in the rantings of an injured man. Then he came upon a web listing that gave him pause. “Ever heard of the town of Wormwood.”

  “Where is it?” she asked distractedly.

  “In the United States.”

  “Big country.”

  He clicked on the listing and came up with a barebones website, sponsored by the town’s chamber of commerce. “Illinois.”

  “Is it near Chicago?”

  He scrolled down the page. “They have cows.”

  “Can’t be that close to the city.”

  He continued reading. “On the Wisconsin border.”

  “More livestock than people there.” She closed her laptop and got up from the table. Headed for the door. “I’m going to look at those shadows again. Stand where Patrick was standing. See what he saw that told him Wormwood.”

  He got up to follow her.

  Before looking up, Khoury and Rossi felt compelled to look down. Not a spot of blood stained the ornate marble floor.

  “They sure cleaned up fast,” said Rossi. “You wouldn’t know a guy was stabbed here. As far as Nardini is concerned, it didn’t happen.”

  “Inter arma enim silent leges,” said Khoury.

  “The laws are silent in time of war,” she translated, and added: “Except we’re not at war.”

  “But we are.”

  She pointed up at the ceiling. “Have you noticed how sloppy these hand shadows are, compared to the other shadows?”

  “They are crude.”

  “Worse than that. Like a kid put his hand down and drew around it.” She chewed her bottom lip. “That has to mean something. Maybe...children are involved in the next miracle.”

  “I lost a child,” he blurted, even surprising himself. “Could have used a miracle.”

  She pulled her eyes off the ceiling. “I read about your wife in the files, but I didn’t see...”

  “Her pregnancy wasn’t in the documents,” he said.

  She returned her attention to the fresco. “I don’t get why some people get their prayers answered and others don’t.”

  “Miracles happen every day. We’re just focusing on the ones predicted by the shadows.”

  “Why are they the ones being announced that way? What makes them special? I didn’t see anything in the files that made these people seem special. The girl who was paralyzed – her dad’s an investment banker. Why was her family deserving?”

  “Perhaps they aren’t special or deserving. What if they and their miracles are merely designed to bring attention to all miracles?”

  “Well...you should’ve got yours. You’re a decent human being.”

  “Uh...thank you.”

  She looked into his eyes, and he suddenly realized how close they were standing.

  “How can you keep your faith? Weren’t you madder than hell at God?”

  He opened his mouth and she cut him off. He was relieved he didn’t have to answer.

  “What was your baby’s name? Had you picked out a name?”

  “Durrah. It means Pearl. We told no one that we’d picked that name. It was our secret.”

  “I’m flattered you told me.”

  “Our friend Patrick knew it without being told.”

  “What?”

  “He offered condolences for the death of my wife, and said he was sorry I’d lost my Pearl.”

  “Coincidence.”

  “Hmmm,” said the priest.

  Both returned their attention to the ceiling.

  “Get your heads out of the clouds, comrades!”

  Khoury and Rossi looked toward the bellowing voice.

  MacLeod was slowly making his way across the chapel floor, his right arm bent and tucked into his side. “Hey! Mukkers!”

  “What are you doing out of the hospital?” asked Rossi. She and Khoury ran up to meet him. “Did you go AWOL?”

  “The Italian nurses were driving me bonkers.”

  Rossi eyed his torso. He was wearing yet another loud vest, but it was unbuttoned and his shirt was hanging out. “What’s going on with you?”

  He waved dismissively. “I’m fine.”

  “That’s why you’re holding your guts in,” said Rossi.

  “Patrick...”

  “Save it, your holiness.”

  “Who did it?” she asked.

  “It took the devil himself to knock me down a peg,” said MacLeod. He laughed and then grimaced.

  “So you don’t know who did it,” said Khoury.

  MacLeod shook his head. “When I get my hands on the...”

  “He left a ciphered note, which led us to the mask,” said Rossi.

  “So the Italian version of CSI is hot on the culprit’s trail,” said MacLeod. “Brilliant.”

  “Or not,” said Rossi.

  “The Vatican isn’t pursuing it,” Khoury said.

  MacLeod didn’t seem surprised or angry. “The laws are suspended in wartimes, eh?”

  Rossi and Khoury exchanged looks.

  “Uh...Patrick...What were you doing here all by yourself?” asked Rossi.

  “I wanted to check on the hands, sweetheart.” He waved up at the ceiling. “See how much more they’d faded.”

  “When the guard found you, it was dark in here,” said Rossi, her voice tinged with skepticism.

  “Devil man must have shut off the lights,” MacLeod said.

  “Why were you talking about wormwood?” asked Khoury.

  “Wormwood? When?”

  “In the hospital,” said Khoury. “The doctor said you were talking about wormwood.”

  “You don’t remember?” asked Rossi.

  “What is wormwood?” the Scot asked. “Some kind of medicinal concoction, isn’t it?”

  While the trio walked, Khoury and Rossi caught their colleague up on what they’d been doing. Even while he listened to his partners, MacLeod was secretly anxious to do his own searching. When Khoury mentioned finding a town called Wormwood, MacLeod became particularly interested. Before he was attacked, he’d gotten a glimpse of something. Wormwood wasn’t a gift from the heavens, but a place on earth.

  A place where strange things were happening.

  He wished he knew why something else kept popping into his head. A number: 593. It had no relevance to anything in his life. As far as he knew, it had no significance in the Bible. He wondered if he’d babbled about the digits in the hospital. He decided to wait until his colleagues brought it up. He’d already said too much, prompting them to ask questions. That lassie in particular was a sly one. He could tell she didn’t swallow his excuse for being in the chapel by himself – in the dark.

  When the team got back to the situation room/library/dungeon, they found the cardinal waiting. “Signore MacLeod, you left the hospital without your doctor’s permission. They have been calling my offices.”

  “I’m fine,” said MacLeod, struggling not to grimace as he lowered himself into a chair.

  “Night is here, and the shadow hands have all but disappeared,” Nardini said.

  “We’re aware, Eminence,” said Khoury.

  “What progress have you made?” asked the cardinal, standing at the head of the library table and scanning the scattering of folders. “What is the next occurrence? Where do we meet it?”

  “Eminence,” said Khoury. “I’m afraid we...”

  “We need to hop a plane for the states,” MacLeod said cheerfully.

  Khoury and Rossi stood across the table from their partner and stared at him.

  “A sleepy little hamlet in northern Illinois,” said MacLeod. “That’s where we need to go.”

  “Why?” Nardini asked. “What is happening in this village?”

  Khoury spoke hesitantly while shooting a curious glance at the Scot. “Eminence is aware that a star called Wormwood plays a role in Revelation.”

  “Si, si.”

  Rossi jumped in with her own improvisation. “The next miracle will strike in the town of the same name.”
/>   “Why do you believe this?” asked the cardinal.

  “Eminence,” said Khoury. “Allow us to do our jobs.”

  “Trust us,” said Rossi.

  “Ho fiducia in Dio,” said the cardinal. “I trust in God.”

  “We’re on His team, are we not?” said MacLeod.

  “My office will make the arrangements.” With a rustle of his black cassock, the cardinal was gone.

  “Talk,” Rossi said to MacLeod.

  “I wanted to get out of this dreary cellar, is all. Go on a little holiday courtesy of the Vatican.”

  “Be honest with us,” said Khoury.

  MacLeod nodded to the wall clock. “Time’s running out, mates.”

  “We’re not moving until you tell us what’s going on,” said Rossi.

  “You’re not going to believe it,” said MacLeod. “Pretty fantastic, this. Sometimes I don’t believe it myself.”

  “Try us,” said Khoury.

  MacLeod grinned wickedly. “The devil made me do it.”

  “We don’t have time for your bullshit.” She waved a hand toward the door taken by the cardinal. “You sent the big guy scrambling to buy us plane tickets to the middle of nowhere.”

  “I’m being serious.” MacLeod’s face darkened. “The man who attacked me breathed that word in my face. Wormwood.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us that earlier?” asked Khoury.

  “I enjoy a dramatic pause,” said MacLeod.

  “We still don’t know if that means the town of Wormwood,” she said.

  MacLeod started hammering the keys of his laptop. “Where did you say it is? Illinois? I’m gonna Google the hell out of it, as they say.”

  “Been there, done that,” said Rossi.

  MacLeod called up the town’s website and started reading. “Lord above. They have cows.”

  “Precisely,” said Khoury.

  Said MacLeod, “I guarantee this is at the center of the coming storm.”

  “There’s a lot you’re not telling us,” said Rossi.

  “Trust me, Samantha sweetheart. Something miraculous is afoot in the sleepy village of Wormwood.” He waved her away. “Go on. Pack your bags.”

  Both of them making grumbling noises, Rossi and Khoury disappeared behind the door leading to their quarters.