by Hadena James
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen or heard of anything like this. She might be fine, but not on top of her game. She might be a disaster waiting to happen. Or she might only be impaired in the sense that she won’t have as much adrenaline as normal so she might not be able to pick the priest up and throw him through a window,” Xavier told Gabriel. “We’ll have more issues if it is scar tissue than a benign tumor.”
“What about a malignant tumor?” Gabriel asked.
“It’s fast growing, but aside from a change in migraines and lowered adrenaline level, I find no evidence that she is ill,” Xavier said. “I honestly think it is either scar tissue or a benign tumor.”
“Is there any chance that I’m going to be able to convince her to go home without ordering her to do so?” Gabriel asked.
“Are you asking me as a friend, colleague, or medical doctor?” Xavier countered.
“I’ll take whatever you give me.”
“Meh, not a chance,” Xavier answered. “I don’t think she is a danger to herself or others.” Considering I still had a bruise at the start of my hairline, I wondered if that was his actual professional opinion. I was always a danger to others. Now it was possible that I was a danger to myself. For a moment, I second guessed my instincts to go with them in the morning. Would I be a help or a hindrance? They could do the job without me, especially with Malachi and the VCU here. Schneider didn’t seem dangerous; he seemed determined. Sometimes that was worse, but in this case, I wasn’t so sure. Of course, I had something wrong with my brain, so perhaps I shouldn’t be making any decisions.
“Okay, we go in, make the arrest, Malachi is going to do the interrogations. If you are involved in the arrest, you go home afterwards. No waiting around for confessions, no hanging out at the scene looking for evidence, that isn’t your strong suit anyway. And you will stick very close to Lucas or myself. Is that understood?” Gabriel looked at me.
“What about Malachi?” I asked.
“You can’t tell him, not until afterwards. As for using him as your buddy on this, the answer is no. You two feed off each other’s insanity and he is going to know there is something wrong if you are too close to him,” Gabriel told me.
“He didn’t tonight,” I answered.
“Yeah, he did,” Gabriel told me. “He is thinking it is the remnants of migraines and concussions.”
“All right, terms agreed upon,” I told him. “Thanks, Gabriel.”
They left me alone in my room. I stared at the wall, engulfed in my own thoughts. I always figured it would be a serial killer that got me, but I didn’t think they would have help from my own body. It wasn’t death that scared me, everyone died, it was a part of life. It was the condition my brain might be in when I finally arrived at the final scene of my life. Would I be trapped inside my own head, scrutinizing my every decision? Would I lose my sense of self and not know who or what I was? Would removing the tumor make me more human? There were a lot of unanswered questions.
I dialed a number on my phone. It rang twice before a man’s voice answered.
“This is US Marshal Aislinn Cain,” I told the man. “How are you this evening, Marshal Truett?”
“Not bad, what can I do for you Marshal Cain?”
“I need a personal favor, Marshal. If you don’t want to do it, I understand. I know that it isn’t exactly within procedure,” I told him.
“What’s the favor?” He didn’t sound put out, he sounded interested.
“I need you to tell Patterson Clachan that I forgive him,” I told him. “I want him to know that. I’ll write a letter, but just in case.”
“Is everything okay?” He sounded concerned. Marshal Michael Truett was an older US Marshal. In his younger days, he had been the US Marshal with the cowboy hat and the sawed off shotgun, the type of man who was a badass because he was. It had nothing to do with psychopaths, sociopaths or genetics. When I had to visit The Fortress, he was always nice to me. He currently ran the supermax and would until he retired. It was his fate and he liked it. I respected that about him.
“Maybe,” I answered honestly. “I don’t know at the moment, Marshal. I just know that if it isn’t and I don’t have a chance to mail the letter or come to the prison, I would like for Patterson to know.”
“I will pass your message along,” Truett told me. “If you need anything, you let me know.” He lived one block away from me on the same street.
“Thanks, Marshal,” I said.
“And Aislinn, I think it really shows what you are made of that you can reconcile with your brother and grandfather. I don’t know what’s going on yet, but whatever has made this call important, I hope it ends well.”
“Thanks,” I hung up and cried.
Twenty-Six
Morning found me outside the cottage of Father Schneider. Malachi had a plan for figuring out whether the padre was a serial killer or not. I hadn’t been told what it was, but I trusted Malachi and I was being allowed to tag along. The day was already going well.
This wasn’t the typical serial killer. He wasn’t keeping trophies. He wasn’t killing just because he wanted to do so. He was working towards a greater good. I had spent a good deal of the evening, after my pity party, looking over the interview notes Lucas had taken. The pieces had fallen into place as I had stared at them.
Bellamy Schneider was attempting to summon a demon to Detroit to unite the city against a greater evil. There was also the possibility that he had hoped to control it to do his bidding. The girl in Denver had provided us with some interesting information, like his feeling that he needed a vessel for the demon to inhabit. He had figured a broken mind like hers would be more susceptible to demonic possession and control.
I still wasn’t buying the whole thing. I was sure he believed it, but it took a little more than belief to conjure the demonic. Human sacrifice would help, if the demonic cared enough to answer the call. However, if demons were real, I was convinced they were intentionally avoiding earth. They would look like failures next to the tortures humans could inflict on others. Or that our own bodies could inflict upon themselves.
The worst people on earth were not possessed by demons. They were not being controlled by the legions of evil. They simply did not care for their fellow humans. The human condition made it possible for these people to prey on their fellow man like big game hunters. It was about the sport and the conquest. Death was their victory. How they killed was their passion.
Even if Bellamy Schneider had succeeded, it wouldn’t have helped Detroit. Nothing short of a nuclear bomb would permanently fix the city. Small inlets could be made and would be made, but not by vigilantes summoning demons. It would require teams of people like us being summoned to the city. We were the exorcists of Detroit.
Fiona had surprised us all by agreeing to come along. She had actually volunteered to accompany us. The bruise on her forehead was nearly gone. Maybe we had bonded over our mutual inability to understand each other. Weirder things had happened. Some of them had happened this week.
Lucas and I moved to the front door. He gave the door a good hit with his boot. The door shot open and slammed against the wall. My gun was drawn as I entered, moving around his large body.
Bellamy Schneider was sitting in a chair, facing the door. He had a gun in his hands. It wasn’t really aimed at anything, but Lucas was a big target.
“Drop the gun, Father,” I told him.
“No,” he answered. “I prayed for a miracle and I got it. But now you are leaving and the killers and pushers will return to the streets and make life miserable for everyone again.”
“No, they won’t,” I told him. “The DEA and ATF are setting up headquarters here to combat the tide of guns with armor piercing bullets and the flesh-destroying Krokodil from entering the streets. This place has become the front line, thanks to you.”
Father Schneider fired the gun. The bullet struck the wall. Lucas dove back behind the doorframe, hiding his bulk. I stood up. He wasn’t
going to shoot us. He wanted us to shoot him. Catholics couldn’t commit suicide, but if they were murdered, it helped their chances of getting into heaven. Even the ones that were summoning demons on the sidelines could be forgiven for every sin, except suicide.
“You and I both know that you aren’t going to shoot me, Father,” I told him and the rest of the team. “We both know that each of us has a purpose. I can’t fulfill mine if I’m dead and you want me to fulfill mine. The SCTU caught seven serial killers. The VCU is going to hang around for a while and catch the others. Special Agent Malachi Blake leads an excellent team of FBI agents that do exactly what we do.”
“Malachi,” he thought aloud about the name. “It’s a good name. Did you know it means ‘Messenger of God’?”
“I do,” I answered him. “It’s a good biblical name. Malachi was a prophet. He went to the people of Israel and reminded them to uphold the laws of God. He was so damning, he even accused them of questioning the judgment of God. It is Malachi who reminded the Israelites that God punishes the wicked and rewards the faithful. Several passages in the New Testament echo the prophet’s words, but none so important as in Revelation. For it was Malachi who said, ‘But who can endure the day of his coming, and who can stand when he appears?’ This is repeated in Revelation 6:17 after the sixth seal has been broken by the Lamb.”
“Perhaps your Malachi will be the new prophet,” Father Schneider told me.
“Malachi is more like the sword of the Lord than the voice,” I told him. “His job is to bring about justice and restore order. Sometimes, that takes more than mere words.”
“We are past the time of mere words, my child. We are just waiting for the Lamb to break the first seal. Even the Lord had to arm his angels and send them down upon the heretics and heathens that filled the lands. Sometimes, it takes a sword to bring the wayward back into the arms of their creator.”
“And would you die now to prove it?” I asked. “Right now, you are not dying for the Lord. You are not dying for the greater good or to undermine evil. It is an act of vanity. Your sacrifice and death splashed across the front pages of newspapers and the highlights of newsreels do not serve God. They serve only your ego. A priest who cares enough to kill does not allow his vanity to dictate his death. Because if you die while being taken into custody, the headlines will read, ‘SCTU kills serial killing priest.’ If you come quietly, the headlines will read, ‘Priest defends his decision to follow the Lord by killing the wicked’. That is the message you want to get across.”
“I am a priest. What will I do in prison?” He asked.
“Even The Fortress needs a good priest. There are some souls that need saving within the walls. I can give you two names right now,” I told him.
“Who would you ask I save?” He sounded confused and intrigued.
“Eric and Patterson Clachan. They are a grandson and grandfather both confined to a special cellblock. Both are Catholic and confession would be good for them. However, you can understand their motives. They killed for the greater good and to alleviate the pain brought upon them by other killers.”
“Men you put behind bars?” He asked.
“No,” I shook my head. “Eric is my brother. Patterson is my grandfather. I chose this path. They chose the other. The same goals, different outcomes.”
“Do you feel guilt, Aislinn?”
“No, Father, I am incapable of such an emotion. I feel though. They are my family and no matter what they have done, I love them. When we first met, you offered to help me find my lost faith. It was never lost, Father. It is just as strong today as it was when I was eight years old. The same cannot be said of my brother and grandfather. They have lost more than just their faith. They have lost their way. We can make a recommendation to the Marshals to allow you to continue to practice your duties as a priest and minister to those in The Fortress who would take the blessings of the Church. I do not believe you would be a danger to the other prisoners. You might not agree with all of them, but I believe you to be a man of principle with a deep love of your faith and its teachings. That would mean that within The Fortress, you would not be a danger to others.”
“You would do that?” Father Schneider asked.
“I would,” I answered him. “But in order to do so, I need you to put down the gun and come with us quietly.”
Father Schneider dropped the gun to the floor. He stood up, put his hands behind his back and turned to allow me to cuff him. His head was still held high.
“And Father, remember when you are with Malachi in a few minutes that confession is good for the soul. He may not be a priest or a deacon, but he is a good listener and he too, has a path that he follows. Confessing to Malachi might not clear the air with God, but it will be a step in the right direction, especially since he was named after the prophet who so acutely prodded the Israelites into becoming faithful servants of the Lord.”
“Was he really named after the prophet?”
“He was. His mother was a good Catholic. She felt Malachi was destined to do great things. She believed he would live up to the prophet’s commands and follow in the steps the Lord had set forth for him. Like me, this is the path the Lord chose for him.”
“The Lord is mysterious, bringing us all together at this critical time to reunite the city of Detroit and close the Gates of Hell against the advancing legions.” Father Schneider nodded a few times. “Very mysterious ways.”
Carefully, I took hold of Father Schneider’s wrists and applied the handcuffs. If he continued his cooperation, things would work out for him. He wasn’t a bad priest, just misguided. He could administer his brand of fire and brimstone at The Fortress. They didn’t get many good priests inside.
Malachi walked up and introduced himself. The priest nodded as they talked. After a few minutes, he instructed Malachi and me to look for evidence in the mausoleum outside the church. I wasn’t big on graveyards, but I was getting better around dead things.
Gabriel gave me the “come here” gesture with his whole hand. I followed him outdoors. He stared into the rays of the rising sun. Since he wasn’t talking, I decided to do the same. The sunshine was warm in the chilly breeze that blew. For the first time in ages, I just enjoyed the sun.
“You can’t go with us,” Gabriel said. “We had a deal. You talked our priest into giving up. Your job is done.”
“But...” I stopped.
“We had a deal. I don’t want you traipsing through graveyards. You could trip over something and hit that sensitive head of yours. And the worst part is that you don’t even understand why I am making such a big deal out of this, do you?”
“No,” I admitted.
“You are more than just a member of this team, Ace. You’re my friend. You’re Lucas’s friend and Xavier’s friend, and even Fiona is warming up to you and I think you are warming up to her. As far as a Marshal goes, you are one of the best and a valuable asset to my team. I want to keep you around for it. We’re better with you. But mostly, I want you to go get this dealt with so that I can have my friend back. You’ve changed in the last few months. You are still the big bad wolf, but it’s like the big bad wolf suddenly decided eating grandma was a bad idea. You may be feeling more or expressing those feelings more, I don’t know, but it isn’t you. You’re wild and unpredictable when you’re healthy, but now you’re self-destructive. We’ve all noticed the change. We thought it was because of Patterson and your unwillingness to deal with it. Now, I think the stumbling blocks are a physical manifestation of that white spot.” Gabriel lit a cigarette and handed it to me. “Essentially, I don’t want you dead, Aislinn Cain, and if you don’t get that spot figured out, that is exactly what is going to happen. You are going to take point and some jerk is going to make sure that you are exactly that.”
“Everyone dies,” I told him.
“That’s true, but I don’t want it to be over something that we could have fixed. You’re still good, even without the full function of your special skil
ls, but I’m used to the unstoppable you. And you aren’t that person.” Gabriel took a drag off the cigarette he had lit and handed it back to me. “If treatment works and your emotional increase continues, that’s fine. But I’d rather have you healthy and emotionally distant than unhealthy and emotional.”
“You prefer the sociopathic version of me?” I asked, surprised.
“No, I prefer you, just you, in whatever form that takes, whether you are feeling emotionally distant at a barbecue or crying into your soup because the world is overwhelming when you feel, as long as I know that you aren’t going to be putting a gun to your own head again or doing something that will get you killed. As a team, we can deal with your newfound emotions, but we can’t deal with you dying.”
“You keep saying that,” I told him.
“You are unconventional. Serial killers flock to you like ducks flock to water. We get that and understand it. Your responses keep you alive. I worry you will get to a point where you hesitate for that half-second.” Gabriel looked at me finally. “You failed to notice a window. You have never failed to notice everything about a serial killer’s lair. This time, it ended fine. You didn’t go out with him, but what about next time? Or the time after that?”
“You are right. I did not notice the window,” I agreed with him. “I could have easily gone out with him, if he had grabbed hold of me. That’s the only thing that stopped it from happening. I caught him off guard and he didn’t react fast enough to pull me out with him.”
“That is not the Aislinn Cain we know and love,” Gabriel told me. “That’s why this is so important to me. To Xavier. To Lucas. If you don’t tell Nyleena, that’s fine. If you don’t tell your mom, I can live with that. But I do want it fixed, if it can be fixed, because I need you to be who you really are and not some version that doesn’t notice the important parts of the world around her. And I know that sounds like it is just about work, but it isn’t. Your life is too dangerous for that. What happens when we go to dinner and some serial killer jumps out of the shadows and gets you because you didn’t notice him there? These are real problems.”
