The Nocturnal Saints

by Rick Jones

  “Did you hurt them?”

  “Maybe one guy. But I didn’t know who they were. They carried no ID, no CCW for the weapons they carried. There was no registration in the vehicle. Nothing. I simply found it odd that officers of the law would sanitize themselves.”

  “They shouldn’t.”

  “I know they shouldn’t. Those who sanitize themselves do so for a reason, which raises a red flag with me. The only ones who do such things are assassins before a hit, should things go wrong.”

  “You think they were assassins?” Father Auciello asked.

  “No. I’m just making comparisons regarding sanitation procedures. But I do want to know everything there is to know about these men. And I mean everything. I want to know their political and religious affiliations. I want to know where they live. Who they sleep with. Kids. Wife. Military background. I want it all.”

  “You have their names, I presume?” asked Father Essex.

  Kimball did, giving him the names of Daniel ‘Danny’ Parcells and Cecil Cooper, detectives of the Washington Metropolitan Police Division in D.C.

  “How long to collect the data?” Kimball asked them.

  “A precise biographical record…within twenty-four hours,” Father Essex estimated.

  “Good enough.”

  “And, Kimball,” this coming from Father Auciello.

  “Yeah.”

  “Be careful. We’re getting reports on our end about the gruesomeness of the finds.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” he told them. “If someone inside the Vatican informed outside sources about our arrival in Washington, then that means there’s a leak. Question is: from who? I’d hate to think that the reach of the Nocturnal Saints extends all the way to the halls of the Vatican. If that’s the case, then you have much greater worries. Find out how the message got out and by whom. That may be the break we’re looking for.”

  “Understood,” said Father Auciello.

  “Until you call with what I need, then,” said Kimball. Then he severed the call.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Just as Kimball set his cellphone aside, there was a light wrapping against his door. It was Father Agenta who informed Kimball that he was wanted by Cardinal Bishop inside his quarters for dialogue.

  Having been escorted by the priest in a black robe to the cardinal’s chamber, Father Agenta gave the same light rapping against Cardinal Bishop’s door.

  “Come in.”

  Father Agenta opened the door and gestured Kimball inside with a smile.

  Once the door closed softly behind him, Kimball took it upon himself to take the chair before the cardinal’s desk.

  “You wanted to see me, Cardinal?”

  Cardinal Bishop eased back into his seat. “Thank you for coming, Kimball. But I wanted to keep you abreast of what’s been going on.” The cardinal seemed to study Kimball for a long moment, as if he was mulling something of huge importance to share with him. And then: “When I look into your eyes, Kimball. I see a man capable of great violence. But when you look into my eyes, what do you see?”

  “I see gray eyes.”

  “You know what I’m talking about. What do you see?”

  Kimball sighed, he wasn’t afraid to convey to the cardinal that he thought this was a foolish moment in time.

  “What do you see, Kimball? Tell me.”

  “I see a virtuous man who loves God,” he said simply.

  “Is that all you see?”

  “Am I supposed to see something different?”

  The cardinal paused. More mulling over a matter that only he knew at the moment. Then: “Your observation of the human soul, given your station as an elite soldier within the Vatican who has a sixth sense about him, should have a much greater insight.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Kimball said.

  “When you look at me you see an aged old man who wears the cloth of a cardinal, a pious man who could be no more than what he is.”

  Kimball appeared baffled by this statement.

  “I wasn’t always a cleric, you know. People do have lives before their calling.”

  “No disrespect intended, but is there a point to all of this?”

  “Of course.” The cardinal continued to sit in his chair in comfortable repose.

  “What I’m trying to imply, Kimball, is that the veneer of some men is just that. A veneer.” Then the cardinal’s eyes started to gravitate towards the ceiling as if some type of memory was etched there. “Long ago,” he began, “I served in Vietnam when I was nineteen. I was scared and half out of my mind. Terrified and paranoid. We didn’t know who we were fighting. We couldn’t tell the Viet Cong from the villagers, since the enemy had no real face to choose from. Then one day in March— March sixteenth, to be exact—1968, my platoon came upon a small village called

  My Lai.” The cardinal’s sight slowly began to drift as if he was locking onto a landscape of a distant realm that only he could see, a time and place that no longer existed. “There was nobody there but old men, women and children. People who couldn’t defend themselves. But that didn’t matter to my platoon leader who wanted answers and fast. He wanted to know where the Viet Cong were. And when the answers didn’t come quick enough, or if they were not the answers he wanted to hear, he shot an old man to get his point across.”

  Suddenly the cardinal’s head started to shake back and forth, the man gesturing ‘no’ to only what he could see in his mind’s eye, an obvious and terrible nightmare.

  “People started to scream,” he continued. “Children started to cry. And I remember the bullets cutting across the old man’s chest.” Then the cardinal indicated three points across his own chest with his finger, the impact points of the gunshots. “I saw his flesh open up like the petals of a rose, the red mist exploding outward from the wounds. And for a brief moment I saw the shock of the old man’s face as he died slowly, even with three gunshot wounds.”

  Kimball sat unmoving as he continued to listen to this confession.

  “And the screaming, the crying. It was awful. But what followed was something I don’t think I could ever forgive myself for, no matter how hard I chase forgiveness.”

  This was sounding all too familiar to Kimball.

  “Then the gang-rapes began. The mutilations. And I stood there, Kimball. Watching. A kid of nineteen who was witnessing something so awful to comprehend. And then came the butchering, the indiscriminate killing.”

  And then the cardinal closed his eyes with the afterimages still burning behind the folds of his lids.

  “And then the platoon leader ordered me to kill the three people kneeling on the ground before me. A mother and her two children, both less than ten years of age. He kept yelling at me to point my M-16 at them and pull the trigger. His screaming became intolerable. Over and over I kept hearing him yelling at me to ‘pull the trigger, pull the trigger.’”

  Kimball knew what was coming next.

  “So this scared nineteen-year-old,” the cardinal went on, “did just that. I raised the weapon and directed it at the mother and her children. The platoon leader was shouting and goading, telling me to do the right thing because they were less than human.” The cardinal opened his eyes and sighed. “I’ll never forget the look in the mother’s eyes as she pleaded for her life and the life of her children. She had one hand out to me like this.” The cardinal extended his hand and began to pat the air. “And in Vietnamese she begged me not to do it, crying as she did so. But the platoon leader kept screaming, kept yelling, and I couldn’t stand it anymore.” He let his hand fall in defeat. “So I shot them. A mother and her two children. I killed them so that the screaming would stop.” The cardinal looked at Kimball until their eyes met. “And it did,” he told him. “The screaming finally stopped. And since that trigger-pull, I’ve been chasing salvation ever since.”

  Kimball was feeling a sense of kinship here, the cardinal’s admission of chasing the Light somewhat familiar. “Can I ask
you something?” Kimball asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  The cardinal hesitated a moment before answering. “For a couple of reasons,” he finally said. “I did reach out to every priest within the District regarding the Nocturnal Saints informing them that the archdiocese would provide a refuge to those who believe that they might be within the crosshairs. But I know that no one will answer the call and will only reflect as to whether or not they have sinned in the eyes of God. For them to take refuge in the archdiocese only admits their guilt on some level, and possible retaliation by the church to be defrocked.”

  “And for this they would rather surrender their lives instead of err on the side of caution?”

  “They keep their sins personal, if not sacred, like I did for decades.”

  “Are you telling me that this is your first confession since My Lai?”

  “A heavy burden upon shoulders which has yet to be lifted, yes.”

  Kimball fell back into his seat, the man astonished.

  “And for the sins that I have kept to myself out of shame will be the same reasons that the priests will keep their shame to themselves, praying that God will understand and forgive them for their trespasses.” The cardinal sighed, then shook his head as if he was disapproving of something. “I’m afraid that I’m a pious man only because I was forced to become one, rather than it being a calling. Right after My Lai I puked my guts up until I became hollow inside—still am, believing that the greatest lessons are learned through pain and that someday mine will come to an end because I wear the robe of a cardinal.”

  “And the Light you seek?” asked Kimball.

  “Far from my touch, I’m afraid.”

  Kimball absolutely understood the man’s position.

  “And do you know what else I’m afraid of, Kimball?”

  Kimball took a stab. “That you’ll never find it?”

  “That and something else,” said Cardinal Bishop. “What happened on that fateful day in 1968 is a matter of public record. Everyone involved was listed as a defendant, including myself. Of course we were released to deal with our own conscience, but those involved became vilified, nonetheless. My fear, Kimball, since the Nocturnal Saints appear to have a keen eye as to what goes on within the church, is that they may discover my past and target me. That is a possibility, yes?” “If that was the case, Cardinal, then the target would be on my back as well.” The cardinal nodded. “I figured you’d understand since we both seek the same thing. That of the Light.”

  “You read my biographical record?” Kimball asked him.

  “I asked for it,” he answered. “And when I read it, Kimball, I knew I finally had someone I could open up to that would understand. And for that I thank God, who no longer has to carry my secret alone. Two very different people we may be. However, the burdens we carry and the redemption of the Light is something we share together, don’t you think?”

  Kimball thought: very much so.

  “So, the message is out there, Kimball, to those who want to take salvation by coming to the archdiocese, where they’ll be protected by the Vatican Knights. But priests are also human with human conditions that plague them, such as shame and regret. If they do come, then I will accept them with open arms and without judgment. But I won’t hold my breath for any length of time waiting, since I believe their shame will hold them back as they put their faith behind God. And pray for His protection rather than that of the Vatican Knights.”

  “A mistake,” Kimball told him.

  “Perhaps. But never give up on the power of prayer.”

  “Never tried it. Never believed in it.”

  “Perhaps you should give it a shot,” said the cardinal.

  Maybe someday, thought Kimball.

  When the discussion was over, Kimball left the cardinal’s chamber.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Anacostia, Washington, D.C.

  With the single bulb of the lamp with barely enough light to shed its illumination to the edges of the table, those who sat beyond the circle of the light remained within the shadows.

  Another manila folder was tossed into the mix of the other three files, all targets.

  “Kimball Hayden,” said the male voice. “Our sources were not able to access any data from the Vatican regarding the Vatican Knight. However, we were able to pull information about him from the data banks of the CIA.”

  “The CIA?” the woman asked with the raspy voice.

  In the shadows, the man bobbed his head up and down. “Mr. Hayden was some kind of covert operator for the black-ops arm of the CIA who was committed to missions that were strictly off the books and without Congressional approval. In other words, he was an assassin for the United States government.”

  “A killer,” she said.

  “And quite vicious at what he did,” said the male. “According to findings that had not been redacted in the files, not only did he kill men, but he did away with women and children as well. Nothing was off limits to this guy.”

  “Women and children,” she whispered.

  “Then while on a mission to Iraq, he simply disappeared. The Pentagon brass believed he was killed in the course of his mission.”

  “Obviously that wasn’t so.”

  “No. In fact, he shows up a decade later working as a covert operator of the Vatican Knights, when it finally came to light that he was an elite commando during the time when terrorists invaded Vatican City and assassinated the pope.”

  “Working for the CIA in the position means that he has unique operative skills, yes?”

  The man in the shadows nodded. “Master of many forms of martial arts. And perhaps one of the best in the world when it comes to using double-edged weaponry.”

  “A demon under the employ of the Vatican,” stated the husky-voiced woman, her voice sounding so smoky it was dreamy. “And the others within the team?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he told her. “The Vatican appears to be hiding their files well.”

  In the darkness she waved her hand dismissively. “It matters not,” she said.

  “We will gather a local team who’ll be able to manage them.”

  “We cannot take them lightly,” he returned.

  “We won’t,” she said. “We’ll match them skill for skill. If the Vatican Knights get too close to our agenda, then we’ll have our team make an example of them.” Then she reached into the cone of light, grabbed Kimball’s file, peeled back the folder, and began to read. After she read all that she needed to read about him, she tossed the file back into the pile to make him target number four. And then:

  “Who’s next on the list.”

  Reaching into the light and stabbing a finger against a manila folder to pin it to the tabletop, the man said, “This one.” Then he slid the file toward the woman who had the raspy voice. When she picked it up she peeled back the flap. After a moment of scrutiny, she tossed the file to the center of the table with the photo of Cardinal Bishop staring back at them. “Put together the local team from the best talent,” she told him. “And I do mean the best of the best. When they take down Cardinal Bishop for his hypocrisy, make sure Kimball Hayden is in that mix as well. I want two birds killed with a single stone.”

  “And the Vatican Knights?”

  “They’re doing God’s work by protecting those who cannot protect themselves. However, should they interfere with the mission, then we have no choice but to chalk them up as collateral damage. God will understand since we work on His behalf.”

  “Amen.”

  “Now,” she said, holding her hands to her side so that others could clutch them, “take hands.”

  As everyone around the table held the hands with the one next to them to form a circle, the woman with the smoky tone said: ““For I am Hydra…”

  Then in chorus from everyone else: “…And we are many.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Office of the SIV (Vatican In
telligence)

  Vatican City

  “I have something,” said an in-house operator of the SIV. The man was neither athletic in appearance nor wispy thin, but somewhere in the middle. His skin was olive in color, his eyes a deep shade of brown, and he was perhaps in his early thirties. After handing off the data to co-Director Father Auciello, who examined it a moment before dismissing the tech, he brought the sheet of paper to Father Essex, who also examined the information.

  Father Essex held the sheet up. “This has been confirmed?” he asked. “The phone call to Anacostia in Washington, D.C.?”

  “Just after midnight,” said Father Auciello. “Right after the departure of Sister Godwin.” Then father Auciello pointed to particular data on the paper. “The call lasted for two minutes, meaning a short discussion took place.”

  “Why would Sister Elefante call Anacostia? I don’t believe she has family there. She only has family in Spain.”

  “You’re right about that. As far as we know she has no known connections in Washington.”

  “Well, apparently she does.”

  Father Auciello nodded in agreement. “I believe Sister Maria Elefante has some explaining to do.”

  “I’ll have security bring her in right away,” said father Essex.

  Within five minutes, a team consisting of two members from Vatican Security were on their way to pick up Sister Maria Elefante from her apartment.

  * * *

  When Vatican Security arrived at Sister Elefante’s door and she didn’t answer, they were granted permission to force the door open, which was done from the hammer-like foot of a guard with a single thrust of his leg. As the door swung wide the guard called out her name. “Sister Elefante?”

  No response.

  “Sister Elefante?”

  Still no response.

  As soon as they reached Sister Elefante’s bedroom, they saw her uniform folded neatly on her bed. When a nun left the order, the abandonment was simple. All she had to do was remove her garments, fold them carefully, and place them on the bed.