The Nocturnal Saints

by Rick Jones

  Then in chorus from everyone in this chain, they said: “…And we are many.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  As promised by Darce Earl, Shari received the names of the potential suspects, a group of malcontents whose sum of violations amounted to six counts of vandalism in protest of the church’s changing values, hardly the hardcore assembly of killers that Shari was looking for. So she dismissed them immediately, considering Darce’s intention of providing weak information nothing more than a ruse to get her at Mastro’s for the evening, which turned out to be disastrous. There was no connection or attraction on her part, though she wasn’t looking for one to begin with. Darce tried to drum up a conversation using common interests, such as the job and the case, and tried to build on mutual fascinations. This turned out to be a colossal failure as Darce gave her nothing of value, his invite of providing her with pieces of information regarding the death of the priests nothing but the carrot before the cart, for which she was the ass who was constantly trying to reach the treat that was beyond her.

  As time went by, as a hush finally fell over the table, Shari couldn’t eat her meal fast enough. Then claiming to have eaten more than she could bite off, which was untrue since she only ate half her meal, she thanked Darce and placed her Dutch portion of the meal on the table, three twenty-dollar bills, and thanked him. Darce didn’t say anything. He simply nodded, took a sip from his wine glass, and through the side of his mouth, as he chewed his food, bid her a good night. Even from his standpoint he recognized a disastrous first date, which she deemed was good.

  Walking the streets of Washington, she had ended up at a fast-food restaurant and ordered a burger and a soft drink. Getting away from Darce Earl was a blessing, she thought. In fact, while sitting there as they ate in silence with nothing to share or build on, she was thinking how she would rather have her teeth pulled without Novocain. Then as she got into her vehicle and started for home, she thought of Kimball

  Hayden. As she took the streets and drove down rain-slicked avenues, she could see the stark blues eyes against skin that was the color of tanned leather; could envision one of his rare smiles showing perfect lines of teeth, all white; and the way he carried himself, which was strong and stoic. And as bad as her night had gone with Darce Earl, as Kimball Hayden took up her thoughts, Shari Cohen could recall that she had smiled through all these remembrances.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Kimball Hayden labored through the sand dunes, always eclipsing one mound in order to scale another. The desert landscape appeared endless, and the horizon a distant land where a Biblical beam of light appeared to rise from the surface, a beacon. The Light nothing but a tease.

  At the crest of one sand dune, while the course of a breeze blew his long-coat so

  that the tails flagged behind him, Kimball stood his ground to stare at this beam of Light. Removing his goggles as the windblown sand scoured his face, he continued to look at this solitary ray which seemed so distant and unattainable. Yet he reset his goggles and drove himself through knee-high sand to close the gap between himself and the Light—a gap that he never seemed capable of bridging.

  And he was not alone. He was never alone.

  Behind him were the wails and moans of those he had robbed of their lives. Old men, women and children, anyone who compromised his position in the scheme of his duties, whether they were a part of the mission or happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time—it made no difference to him.

  Looking over his shoulder he could see vague shapes behind a wall of dust.

  My past is stalking me, he thought, and then he tried to move on.

  But the shapes remained, moaning and wailing, some even pleading for their lives, the voices heightening to a crescendo, screaming, their cries a damning assault to Kimball’s ears, the land gap between them not gaining, but not diminishing either.

  My past is stalking me, he thought once again.

  And then the sand around his knees seemed to become thicker, denser, his steps becoming much more arduous as he strove for the distant Light.

  …Kiiiiimbaaaall…

  He turned. Even through the veil of dust that was the color of desert sand, he could see shapes with spindly limbs the size of broomsticks reach for him, the extending fingers as long and thin as the tines of a pitchfork.

  …Kiiiiimbaaaall…

  Kimball turned to look at the distant Light that was impossible to reach, the Vatican Knight extending his own hand, reaching, his fingers wanting so badly to touch this Biblical beam that was so far away.

  “Please,” he said, his fingers stretching. “Please.”

  …Kiiiiimbaaaall…

  And then the distant Light began to fade, the beam diminishing, the once burning brightness smoldering to a dim glow.

  Pleeeease. He extended his arm, wiggled his fingers.

  And then the Light was gone, the sky within this desert realm as black as pitch.

  No stars. Nothing but a blackness that was complete and absolute.

  …Kiiiiimbaaaall…

  And in his mind this dreamscape segued to other images, to sweeter scenes. He was a boy, maybe ten, sitting in a chair at a wedding or a ball, watching his mother and father dancing, a slow and graceful ballet along the floor, two bodies embracing each other so tightly they appeared as one. And that’s how he learned about true love, when two became one.

  Then the ballroom started to morph and change, the background altering as the sets changed to more modern scenes. He was surrounded by friends who were cheering, clapping, and smiling. And in the center of the room and alone on the floor he was dancing like a skilled artist, though he had never danced before.

  Shari Cohen was in his arms and they danced with hand in hand, smiling, whereas the gleam in their eyes said it all, that they couldn’t have been any happier.

  More clapping.

  More cheering.

  It was Kimball’s new life, a new dream. His visualization a wonderful departure from the nightmares of the dead who followed and called his name, a dream that had plagued him nightly for years.

  They danced.

  They smiled.

  People applauded along the sidelines.

  .…Kiiiiimbaaaall…

  And in this particular dream segment Kimball’s smile began to fade.

  …Kiiiiimbaaaall…

  Kimball’s head began to roll against the pillow.

  …Kiiiiimbaaaall…

  The dreamlike atmosphere began to change. It became darker, gloomier, the light beginning to fade as those standing along the edges, those who were applauding, were swallowed by the shadows and disappeared.

  …Kiiiiimbaaaall…

  The darkness began to close in, taking new ground. And Shari’s smile dwindled into a grim line, the gleam in her eye suddenly gone. Then she started to drift away…

  …Kiiiiimbaaaall…

  …with her arm extended towards him.

  …Kiiiiimbaaaall…

  Her eyes were imploring, as her outstretched arm begged him to grab it and haul her back in and to be close. But she continued to drift away, into darkness, her form consumed by the shadows, now gone.

  …Kiiiiimbaaaall…

  He was with the dead once again, those he had killed, those who would follow him to the gates of hell.

  …Kiiiiimba—

  The Vatican Knight opened his eyes to see Isaiah standing over him with a hand to Kimball’s shoulder, stirring him awake.

  The sun was shining through the window.

  “What time is it?” Kimball asked.

  “A little after nine.”

  “In the morning? I told you to spell me at three.”

  “You looked like you needed the rest,” Isaiah told him. “Besides, we’re good. No disturbing reports from any of the parishes.”

  Kimball, when he sat along the edge of the bed, realized that he was far more fatigued than he first realized. He needed the sleep.

  “It sounded like you were
having a nightmare,” Isaiah told him.

  Kimball shrugged. “Yes and no.” And with sleep still in his eyes, Kimball turned to his second lieutenant and thanked him.

  When Isaiah left Kimball’s chamber, the Vatican Knight inhaled deeply through his nostrils and exhaled with an equally long sigh, also through his nostrils. For years he had been troubled by the nightmares of his own making, his conscience in near ruin. He had killed with impunity—men, women and children. The faces of the dead trailing and haunting him, until the images segued into a most wonderful dream filled with light and friends and aspirations. He saw Shari Cohen, smiling. He could sense a wealth of happiness. And then it all slipped away into blackness, the images of the dead, his sour conscience, eventually trumping his desires. Bending over to cradle his head into his hands, Kimball began to rock back and forth along the edge of his bed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  The Archdiocese

  Temple Hills Section, Washington, D.C.

  By the time Kimball joined the rest of his team inside the master den along with Cardinal Bishop and Sister Godwin (who had been informed about Sister Elefante’s role), Kimball’s cellphone went off. It was Father Auciello of the SIV, so Kimball excused himself to take the call.

  “Did you find Sister Elefante?”

  “We did,” he answered. “Unfortunately for us, she was apparently the subject of a targeted killing.”

  “She was assassinated?”

  “Three shots to center mass. She was discovered inside a café in Rome.” Kimball nodded in disgust. “The Nocturnal Saints are sanitizing their trails, which tells me that they have members in Rome.”

  “That was our concern as well. So we’ve placed the pontiff under the strictest security. But Kimball—”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s hard to know who to trust. Right now we’re doing a background check on everyone, including those who’ve gone through the process before, something we may have missed that wasn’t pertinent to the background check then, but may be now.”

  “Understood. And the location of Sister Elefante’s call?”

  “We attempted to trace it,” Father Auciello told him, “but the trail went cold. The location could not be pinpointed because there was no traceable number.”

  “No traceable number? A burner maybe?”

  “No. Before we lost trajectory of our investigation, surviving data suggested that it was a landline. But the number we were tracking, the number called from Sister Elefante’s apartment, disappeared completely from radar. Before we could zero in on the exact location, everything had been erased as if the number had never existed in the phone company’s records—no payment history, no data, nothing that we could trace in order to confirm an account. The file from the company’s data base was completely scrubbed. But the location is somewhere in Anacostia. We can verify that much.”

  “They knew you’d be tracking the call,” Kimball commented.

  “That’s right. And that’s why they terminated Sister Elefante; before we could get our hands on her.”

  “Sister Elefante made a sophomoric mistake and ended up paying for it.”

  “But we still have options, Kimball.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “We know the time that Sister Elefante made the call to Anacostia. That’s recorded on our phone records, though the number does not appear to exist on the opposite end, we know it did at one time. So we’re looking into new phone numbers that were created in the area on the date Sister Elefante made the call. And assuming that the organization subsequently cancelled the number immediately, then eradicated the account within the company’s files, they most likely created a new account, a new number.”

  “And?”

  “We’ve come up with eight numbers. Four of the numbers happened before the call.”

  “Which takes it down to four numbers to check into,” said Kimball.

  “Two of the numbers belonged to teenagers. One belonged to an eighty-four year-old woman in an assisted living home. And the last belonged to a tavern called The Senate House.”

  “None of them exactly shines like a beacon.”

  “No. But the number belonging to The Senate House was created fifteen minutes after the call from Sister Elefante. The other three people on the list, hours later.”

  Kimball knew The Senate House. It was in an upscale tavern with classy décor and high-end alcohol served by bartenders wearing white shirts and vests.

  “Any information on the bar, such as ownership?” Kimball asked Auciello.

  “Purchased by a woman who goes by the name of Jennifer Antle, in 2002. Age fifty-four. A Democrat. Often volunteers with the church. No record. Nothing to indicate any improprieties, whatsoever.”

  “Sounds like a sweet woman. One that’s too perfect,” Kimball commented.

  “We could be looking at another block wall here,” said Father Auciello.

  “Yeah. Maybe. But I need you to keep looking.”

  After the call was terminated, Kimball sighed. “It’s not easy chasing down a phantom that doesn’t want to be caught,” he whispered.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Washington, D.C.

  As Shari Cohen poured over documents at the J. Edgar Hoover Building, she remained in constant contact with the forensics team throughout the day, and though they had nothing to offer her regarding any trace elements collected at the murder scenes, she nevertheless continued to look for that needle in a haystack. No priests showed up at the archdiocese, either—those who would be willing to admit their sins—but instead chose to take their chances with fate and put their trust in God.

  As the day continued and the sky eventually turned from the color of slategray to midnight black, Cardinal Bishop settled in for the evening and went to his chambers. Sister Godwin did the same.

  Kimball, however, took first watch with Isaiah. Jeremiah and Elijah were to spell them at o-three-hundred hours.

  Together they walked the darkened halls of the archdiocese as everyone else slept, with the only illumination in the hallways coming from the street lights that filtered through the large windows. The only weapons they carried were their Ka-Bars.

  “The archdiocese is locked up tight,” Isaiah said. “Doors, windows, all cameras are functional.”

  Kimball gave an abbreviated nod in affirmation.

  Then from Isaiah: “Kimball, if the Nocturnal Saints eventually go underground, they might not surface again for months. And you know our services will eventually be needed elsewhere.”

  “I hear you,” said Kimball.

  “Maybe all their targeted killings were made.”

  Kimball thought otherwise given that Cardinal Bishop was a prime candidate for the Nocturnal Saints, with his admission of guilt regarding My Lai kept in confidence. “Maybe,” was all that Kimball said, though he highly doubted it. “I don’t believe their mission is over yet,” he added. “Three killings doesn’t make for a crusade.”

  They continued to walk the corridors and checked doors, looked out windows, and watched the monitors of the surrounding landscape. Everything was quiet.

  “What bothers me,” Isaiah said, “is that they’re Christians.”

  “They’re Christians with intolerable viewpoints, Isaiah. Their answer to everything is to put down a threat with the absolute eradication of it. They may be a Catholic faction, but they’re no different than terrorists. Same mindset. Same lack of intolerance outside their circle. And using the same means to make things right in their mind; through killing.”

  “Still, it’s hard to grasp that devotional Catholics would do such things.”

  “I don’t know why you’re so surprised,” Kimball told him. “During the Crusades Catholics promoted Catholicism by the edge of the sword. And the church at one time killed in the name of God, which the Nocturnal Saints are still doing to this day. And it’s something we’re going to stop.”

  As they continued to monitor the corridors, they eventua
lly parted so that Isaiah could man the monitors.

  Outside, as the rain poured down, pooling shadows began to come alive.

  * * *

  A team of heavily armed militants skirted the exterior of the archdiocese and moved quietly towards anything that provided cover.

  When they reached the power unit, one of the militants directed the point of his suppressed weapon to the padlock that secured the box, and set off a silenced round.

  …Phftttt…

  The lock came undone. Inside the box was a series of switches which were turned off in quick succession to kill all power. This fight was going to take place inside the shadows.

  Then the team leader relayed a battery of commands through fist and finger gestures, telling his unit to divide and then converge from two separate points to pinch the enemy in a flank maneuver. The group separated with one team going to the west side of the archdiocese, whereas the others went to the east side. The Nocturnal Saints were on the move.

  * * *

  Cardinal Bishop was propped up in bed reading the book when the lights went off in his room. Beyond his window a celestial staircase of lightning broke through the clouds and lit his room with staccato effect. A clap of thunder soon followed, one that was loud and ear-shattering.

  Tossing the cover aside and slipping into a pair of slippers, the cardinal went to the door and opened it. The hallway was lit by the casting glows of the street lamps that streamed through the windows, yet everything looked so cold.