by C. M. Palov
The jackal bleated, instantly crashing to his knees.
He kicked the towel rack out of his opponent’s hands, the metal length clattering against the shower stall. Then, for good measure, he struck his foe in the kidneys, causing the man to bleat even louder.
His demons barely restrained, Caedmon grabbed the man by the head and – straddling his shoulders – slammed his face into the toilet bowl. Water sloshed liberally in every direction. An obstinate brute, the man braced his hands on the porcelain rim, endeavoring to heave upwards, trying to hurl Caedmon off him.
In an uncharitable mood, Caedmon pushed down that much harder. Refusing to waver.
‘If you don’t cease and desist, I will send you to a watery grave,’ he grated. Ultimatum issued, he shoved his kneecap against the man’s tenderized kidney and applied painful pressure.
Burbling into the water, the other man – finally! – sagged against the porcelain bowl.
Caedmon released his grip and stepped back, giving the man enough room to rise to his feet. Worried that the surrender might be short-lived, he menacingly raised the tire iron, ready to pummel his adversary into full submission.
To his surprise, the other man suddenly lurched back towards the toilet, retching violently.
‘Which merely proves that there are no swans in the cesspool,’ Caedmon muttered dispassionately.
A few moments later, panting, barely able to draw breath, his conquered foe glared at him. A wet rodent put to rout, water sluiced off his temples, ears, nose and chin.
‘Condenado!’ he hissed in a strained whisper. Raising a hand, he rubbed his bruised windpipe.
Caedmon didn’t bother pointing out that he’d already been consigned to the ranks of the damned. Years ago, in a dark alley in Belfast, when he pulled the trigger and killed the Irish terrorist who’d masterminded a bomb attack on a London tube station. A soul-sucking ‘eye for an eye’.
Instead, he snarled, ‘Be grateful that you still have a voice.’ Snatching hold of the man’s right wrist, Caedmon twisted it. Hard. Like his cohort, the man had a Chi-Rho cross branded in middle of his palm. In hoc signo vinces. In this sign, you shall conquer.
Like bloody hell!
Cuffing a hand on his adversary’s upper arm, Caedmon yanked the man out of the bathroom.
‘I’m not alone,’ his prisoner insisted. ‘The others will be back . . . soon!’
‘You’re not the only one who’s engaged in surveillance activities,’ Caedmon informed him. With his free hand, he grabbed one of the wooden chairs from the scarred table and dragged it to the middle of the room. He then shoved his hostage on to it.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, you pasty-faced pendejo!’
Ignoring the insult, Caedmon said matter-of-factly, ‘I happen to know that your cohort Hector is at the local bordello with his trousers, presumably, around his ankles. Pity the poor prostitute,’ he added, jabbing the end of the tire iron into the man’s chest. A silent warning to remain seated. ‘As for the third member of your triad, he’s more than likely sitting outside of Gita Patel’s house, keeping an eye on her comings and goings.’
Eyes narrowing, the man opened his mouth to protest, only to think better of it at the last. Clamping his jaw closed, he sullenly folded his arms over his chest.
Hostage subdued, Caedmon snatched the duffel bag that the Bête Noire had earlier rummaged through. Tucking the iron under his arm, he unzipped the bag and unceremoniously dumped the contents on to the table. Keen to uncover actionable intelligence, he rifled through the various articles of clothing and sundry toiletries. Popping the lid on the aspirin bottle, he shook three tablets loose, his shoulder and ankle aching from the earlier fracas at the spice bazaar. Not about drink the tap water, he chomped down with his teeth, mashing the pills into a paste before swallowing.
The other man stared, bug-eyed. ‘You crazy motherfucker!’
‘Yes, unfortunately for you, they gave me a day pass from the asylum.’
‘You’re such a sick fuck, I actually believe it.’
Tuning out the litany of foul-mouthed complaints that ensued, Caedmon removed a US passport and airline ticket from the interior pocket of the duffel bag. He flipped open the blue cover and quickly scanned the particulars. Name: Hector Calzada. Age: 21. Place of birth: New York City. Tossing it on to the pile, he next examined the airline ticket. Also issued to Hector Calzada, it was an open ticket from Mumbai to Newark International Airport in New Jersey.
It made him wonder if Anala had been taken to the US.
Christ! Could the situation get any worse?
Shoving that dread thought to the wayside, he grabbed the next piece of luggage from off the floor. A dog-eared Bible thumped on to the table, the initials RSV-CE stamped on the leather cover. The Revised Standard Version Catholic Edition. Beneath that was the Latin phrase Sanguis Christi. The Blood of Christ. Disinterested, he shoved it aside and reached for the blue US passport. It was in the name of one Javier Esteban Aveles who, like Calzada, had been born in New York City.
He cast a glance at his seated captive. ‘I take it that you’re Javier.’
‘Hah-vee-air!’ the man spat out, pronouncing his name with a soft ‘h’ instead of a hard ‘j’.
Caedmon smiled insincerely, having purposefully butchered the name. ‘Please accept my apologies.’ He snatched the third and last duffel bag, upending its contents. This one belonged to a 22-year-old New Yorker named Roberto Diaz. The last man in the unholy trinity.
‘Hey, man, just take my wallet and get the hell out of here.’
Caedmon spared Javier a quick glance. ‘I don’t want your money. I do, however, wish to have a little chat. But not with you.’
He’d already determined that the three banditos were simply hired muscle, the reason why Hector refused to speak to him at the spice bazaar. If he was to convey his message, he had to converse with their handler, G-Dog. To that end, he dragged the other chair over to the bureau and sat down in front of the laptop computer. Taking it out of sleep mode, he accessed the Skype feature and clicked on the phone directory, dismayed to see that there were no contact numbers listed.
Hefting the computer in his left hand, he walked over to Aveles and set it on his lap. ‘Call G-Dog.’
‘Go to hell!’ Aveles retorted, quick-fire. ‘I don’t know his phone number.’
As he considered his options, Caedmon lightly smacked the tire iron against his left palm. Clearly, the man had drawn a line in the sand; one that he refused to cross. So be it. He would be only too happy to usher Javier Aveles over the great divide. To inflict enough bodily harm to ensure full cooperation.
Intending to decimate Aveles’ slavish devotion to his master, he said, ‘Make the fucking Skype call or I will crack your skull wide open.’
Muttering in Spanish, Aveles clicked out a long string of digits on the keypad. As he committed the number to memory, Caedmon recognized the international calling code for the United States. The number dialed, Caedmon grabbed the laptop and strode back to the bureau. Reseating himself, he waited as the computer beeped and chirped, noisily processing the connection.
Several moments later, a face materialized on the screen – a middle-aged man with even features, thick pewter-colored hair and an olive complexion. Visible from the chest up, Caedmon could clearly see that he wore a black shirt and clerical collar.
‘Yes?’ the other man intoned, a quizzical expression on his face.
Not altogether surprised that G-Dog was a Catholic priest, he spoke in a clear, concise tone of voice. ‘My name is Caedmon Aisquith and I’m calling in regards to my daughter, Anala Patel.’
The man on the other side of the world was clearly horrorstruck. ‘Ay, Dios mío!’
‘Let’s leave God out of this, shall we?’ Not giving the other man a chance to respond, Caedmon continued and said, ‘Do you prefer to be called G-Dog or Irenaeus?’
‘Wh-who’s Irenaeus?’ the priest stammered.
Caedm
on hid his surprise. ‘He’s the author of the third-century classic Adversus Haereses. But it matters not. We can’t all be biblical scholars. That, of course, is the reason why you kidnapped Anala; so that someone more knowledgeable could unearth the Evangelium Gaspar. Since I’m a Templar scholar, I am that person.’
The priest shook his head, the confusion having yet to clear from his eyes. ‘No one has mentioned a father. We were informed that . . . that there is only the mother.’
The remarks caused a dull ache to settle behind Caedmon’s breastbone. He wanted very much to reach through the computer screen and strangle the iniquitous priest. He didn’t want to engage in this sham civility.
‘Being a priest, you may not have great experience in these matters, but I can assure you that it does take both a man and a woman to produce a child. Barring, of course, the one notable exception,’ he added sarcastically. ‘As I stated already, I will meet your ransom demand, but I want you to call off your three watchdogs. And one last thing . . . is it possible to get an extension on the deadline?’
Vehemently shaking his head, the priest said, ‘The deadline has been set and cannot be changed.’
Caedmon frowned. The man had to know that finding the Evangelium Gaspar would prove a daunting task.
‘And what happens if I can’t find the Evangelium Gaspar?’
Unable to meet his pixilated gaze, the priest bent his head and muttered, ‘You’ll never see your daughter again.’
Hearing the threat verbalized caused Caedmon to suffer a pain so precise, it nearly cleaved him in two.
‘Rest assured. I will find your blasted gospel,’ he said in an even enough tone, refusing to let any doubt or uncertainty creep into his voice.
‘I’m pleased to hear it.’
The bill of particulars delivered, he disconnected the call. Getting to his feet, Caedmon strode toward the French doors, intending to exit the guestroom the same way he entered.
‘Shit, man! Are you telling me that you shoved my head in the john just so you could make a fucking phone call?’ Aveles screeched.
Caedmon shot the young thug a disparaging glance. ‘Count your blessings, Javier . . . I very much wanted to kill you.’
25
Sanguis Christi Fellowship, Dutchess County, New York
Unnerved by the silence, Father Gracián Santos got up from his desk, walked over and turned on the radio. It was set to a pop music station, his secretary, Bernadette Dombrowski, a fan of ‘the oldies’.
Since Bernadette wasn’t there and Gracián couldn’t stomach the syrupy sounds of the Beach Boys, he turned the dial to a Spanish language station. While the banda music was far from soothing, the Mexican-style polka tune helped ameliorate the palpable silence, the music drowning out the sound of his ragged breathing.
He didn’t like being alone. Never had. It caused him to think dark thoughts. Made the old memories resurface.
And was there anything lonelier than being the only person inside sprawling Mercy Hall?
Like a man condemned to a strange, surreal sort of hell, Gracián had spent the last couple of days rambling aimlessly in the empty two-hundred-room mansion. Peering into unoccupied classrooms. Peeking into vacant dormitories. As with any father who missed his children, he was anxious for the tour buses to return to the Fellowship grounds and unload the boisterous passengers.
It would, however, be another week and half before the student body returned to the Fellowship. Bernadette and several other staff members had taken everyone on a two-week Catholic retreat in the Catskills Mountains, Cardinal Fiorio having used his influence to arrange for the all-expenses-paid trip.
With the students’ departure, the only souls now prowling the three-hundred-acre estate were Gracián and the three Diablos who were guarding the Patel girl. Gracián implicitly trusted the three former gang-bangers. Although much younger than him, they were ‘blood brothers’, the bond extending across the generations. Forged on the dark and dangerous streets of New York City’s El Barrio.
Uncertain what to make of the latest development, Gracián walked over to the Tudor-style window. Seeing his own worried reflection, he frowned. The fear that the Englishman wouldn’t be able to find the ancient gospel caused the muscles in his belly to instantly cramp.
No! It WILL happen, he was quick to assure himself. I am the living proof that insurmountable odds can be beaten. Certainly, no one would have ever dared to think that a blooded member of the notorious Los Diablos de Santa Muerte gang could become a Roman Catholic priest. At least no one in his Spanish Harlem neighborhood would have thought it possible.
Born in the Puebla region of Mexico, Gracián immigrated to New York City with his family in the early 1980s. The Santos quickly settled into one of the block-style tenements that housed so many of the Spanish-speaking immigrants who’d crossed the border in search of a better life. Although many native-born Americans might question how good a life could be with a family of six crammed into a small two-bedroom apartment.
To help with the family coffers, Gracián had taken a part-time job after school at the corner bodega. A decision that would change the course of his life.
While many youths joined a gang because they mistakenly thought that it was a thrilling, even glamorous, way to live one’s life, Gracián accidentally wandered into it. It happened late one afternoon when he was on bended knee stocking the shelves. Three swaggering tattooed males entered the bodega; at which point, the owner, an older man from Guadalajara, became visibly nervous. Without uttering a word, the owner opened the cash register and handed one of the teens a wad of cash. A second teen strolled over to Gracián.
‘Do you want to make some real money?’ the belligerent youth had asked.
Thinking the question asinine – as though any intelligent person would ever say ‘No’ – Gracián had shrugged and said, ‘Who doesn’t?’
With that reply, Gracián Santos was recruited into Los Diablos de Santa Muerte. No application required. However, as he quickly learned, there was an unwritten handbook full of rules that had to be strictly obeyed. On pain of death.
To an outsider, those rules harkened to a patriarchal Latin culture that idealized the notion of machismo. And Gracián admitted that you couldn’t get more macho than the Diablos initiation, one common to all Latino gangs – ‘jumping in’. It was a savage rite of passage, with new members forced to endure a brutal beating administered by three to six gang members. Vicious kicks. Full-face punches. A merciless barrage of flesh pounding on flesh. After which, if you survived the ordeal without crying out, the gang members would help the bloodied piñata to his feet and offer him a warm and hearty congratulation. ‘Now you’re a homeboy! One of us. A real man.’
At first, Gracián enjoyed the back-slapping camaraderie and partying with his homies. Like all of the Diablos, Gracián never backed away from a stare or backed down from a challenge. And though he felt guilty about dealing drugs and extorting cash from hard-working Latinos, he never raised an objection for fear of crossing Felipe Torres, his crew leader. Unquestioning obedience was the Diablos’ first unwritten rule.
Which is why, when Felipe handed Gracián a serrated knife and ordered him to ‘silence’ a rival gang member – and bring back the proof – Gracián was forced to commit the most gruesome act he could have ever imagined. When he’d first joined the Diablos, he knew that the gang motto ‘Blood in, blood out’ wasn’t an empty expression. He’d always accepted that the day would come when he’d be forced to kill someone to prove his unswerving fidelity. He’d just assumed that his initiation kill would be something impersonal, like a drive-by shooting. A murderous act that happened in a speeding blur and could be easily forgotten.
Terrified that he wouldn’t be able to follow through on Felipe’s order, an act of cowardice that would lead to his own execution, Gracián smoked enough crack cocaine to desensitize him to what he was about to do.
But, as he’d discovered, nothing can desensitize a man to hearing a
victim’s hideous shrieks. Or to feeling the warm blood that splattered on to his cheeks as he ‘silenced’ the rival gang member by severing his head from his neck.
The guilt that ensued in the weeks and months that followed was like a festering wound that wouldn’t heal, Gracián plagued by nightmares and night sweats. He desperately wanted to quit the gang, but couldn’t. Membership was for life. Blood in, blood out. The only way to leave was in a pine box.
Too late, he realized that he’d thrown in his lot with a pack of maladaptive psychopaths who collectively suffered from a dangerous sense of entitlement, the homies all bloodthirsty maniacs who would beat, maim or kill with a disturbing lack of remorse. While they proudly considered themselves ‘warriors’, the Diablos were little more than feral animals.
A few months after his grisly initiation kill, Gracián was arrested and charged with being an accessory in an armed robbery. Although he was only sixteen years of age, he was tried as an adult and sentenced to five years at Sing Sing, the maximum security prison in Ossining, New York.
It was there – behind the high concrete walls and razor-wire fences – that his life would again change dramatically in an unforeseen way.
‘She says that she doesn’t eat meat because she’s a Hindu. What do you want me to do, G-Dog?’
‘Hmm?’ Hurled out of his dark reverie, Gracián turned away from the window, surprised to see Jacko Maciel standing in the doorway of his office.
Jacko was one of the six former Diablo gang members who worked in the Fellowship’s maintenance department. Because of their criminal records, no other employer would hire them, but Gracián was unable to turn his back on the young men. Despite their protestations to the contrary, he suspected that the only reason the Diablos remained at Sanguis Christi Fellowship was because they’d been placed on some crew leader’s hit list and sought safe haven in Dutchess County.
Having taken on the role of father figure, Gracián was hopeful that, in time, the Diablos would repent their heinous sins and open their hearts to the Lord.
