Heinous Habits!

by Anna Celeste Burke

  Motivated by my desire to distance myself from that rat and hoping to keep up with Bede, I almost flew up those steps behind him. Brien and I were on his heels as he sped into another corridor. Suddenly, we came to an abrupt halt when we reached what appeared to be a barrier in our path. Tiny slits of light escaped at the top and on one side where thin gaps revealed the obstacle was something apart from the corridor it blocked. When Father Bede pushed against it with his hands, he had no luck getting it to move. I could hear the murmur of voices. One low and calm. The other loud and angry.

  “Where is it?”

  “Please, I’ve already told you many times, I don’t have it.”

  “Brother Thaddeus,” I whispered recognizing the quiet, restrained voice that had responded to that question. I began pushing on the stone obelisk in our way. Brien joined me, leaning his back into it and shoving with all his might as the muscles in his thighs bulged. A scraping sound echoed down the corridor as that stone moved but only slightly. A cackle came from inside. Then a shriek followed by words spat out with venom.

  God is not pleased. We have enemies of the faith in the Kingdom.

  My desperation mounted as I used my flashlight beam to search that obelisk. Clearly, it had been formed to fit snuggly into that space. That thin sliver of light indicated the chamber within was lit. What was going on in there? Father Bede had begun to probe that stone block with his hands as Brien and I illuminated it with our flashlights.

  “Here,” he said. A chink in one side of the stone had a peculiar shape as though fitted for a key. As Brien and Father Bede peered at it more closely, I scanned the corridor behind us. A lock must have a key—unless that thing had taken it with him inside the room.

  I willed there to be a key as I searched hurriedly. Then I saw it. I caught a glint of light as the beam of my flashlight found something up against the ceiling. When I looked more closely, I could see a narrow slot that had been cut into the wall above me. A long iron rod fit into that slot. I couldn’t reach it.

  “Brien. Here!” I whispered. He ran and easily pulled it from the slot. At one end, the iron bar was shaped to fit that keyhole. In a surge of strength and speed, Brien used that lever to open the thick stone door that pivoted as he pressed the key into the slot and pushed.

  Father Bede and I slipped inside and found ourselves in the cavern of forgotten dreams. The cavern was lit by four lanterns placed midway up the walls around the room. The movements of the flame in those lanterns made the garish images on the walls appear to dance. On the far wall opposite us, a skeleton dangled from an arm held in irons. Another lay on the floor at its feet.

  The floor gleamed with the sheen of crystal. On the ground was Brother Thaddeus, his hands and feet bound. Above him, pointing a dagger at his heart was that screaming creature in a monk’s robe and hood. When he turned toward us, I took a step back as the light revealed a malformed face and demented eyes.

  Off in the distance, I heard shouts and feet running. Growing closer but below us, not in that corridor we had used.

  “Vengeance is mine saith the Lord!” that creature cried in voice distorted by rage as he stood pointing that blade our way.

  “Uh, that’s not you,” Brien said as he raised that iron bar above his head and took a step toward him. He lunged at Brien, a scream issuing from its gaping mouth. Brien struck the blade, breaking it. Father Bede leaped in front of Brien and that thing stopped and stared at its mirror image. Father Bede had donned that mask again and two mad monks stood still, staring at each other.

  A voice called out from below. “Police! Come down here, now!”

  That command broke the spell. Enraged, he ran to the opening, screamed incoherently, and hurled that broken dagger into the hole.

  “What the heck is that?” I recognized Mitchum’s incredulous tone speaking loudly from the monastery ruins.

  That mad monk stomped in rage and spun around toward us. As he did that, the edge near the opening gave way. He lost his footing and plunged backward into the passageway below making a sound as he landed that could not have been good. The sound that followed was worse. More rocks fell. A crack spread from the edge of that hole that had grown larger when the madman fell through it.

  “Time to go,” I said. “Stay where you are. I weigh less.” I stepped quickly to where Brother Thaddeus lay on the floor—the crack making its way toward us. The cavern shuddered and a bony hand hit my face.

  “Oh, ick,” I said as I shook away the arm of that skeleton, and opened a Swiss Army knife I had pulled from a pocket in my wettie. I cut furiously at the ties that bound Brother Thaddeus. Before he could even try to stand, I gave the enormous man a shove. With near superhuman strength from the adrenalin pumping through my veins, I rolled him toward Brien. Then I followed, leaping over a widening crack. Brien had Brother Thaddeus on his feet instantly and the four of us dashed from that room just as the floor fell. The whole area shook as we ran for it, as if we were experiencing an earthquake.

  “This way,” Father Bede said when we got back to those stairs. He led us up, not down.

  “I hope he knows what he’s doing,” I shouted to Brien, not hesitating to follow.

  “The path of the righteous one is uprightness. Maybe upwardness, too,” Brother Thaddeus quipped.

  “Uh, is upwardness a real word?”

  “Not now!” I said as I shoved Brien up toward a pinpoint of sunlight above us. He scampered up those steps as fast as he could, trying to support Brother Thaddeus who was struggling to stay ahead of him.

  When we reached the top, Father Bede and then Brother Thaddeus squeezed out through an opening in the cliffs. Brien was about to follow when I slipped and felt myself leaning backward. Before I could fall, Brien reached behind him and with one arm, grabbed me. My feet dangled into air. When I contacted those stairs again, I was finally able to speak.

  “Do you know what I hate about those caves?”

  “What?”

  “Everything!”

  17 Bernie’s Update

  We sat on the beach taking a break from surfing. Teams of locals, volunteers who typically help at the St. Albinus monastery, were moving in and out of Sanctuary Grove. They were cleaning up, removing the ugly graffiti on the cliffs in the preserve area and on those surfer shacks. Brien was eating.

  “That was a close call yesterday, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it was. I’m glad we lived to tell about it. A great story to tell the kids or grandkids someday.”

  “Kids? Grandkids? You want rug rats?”

  “Someday, Brien. I saw you helping those kids get their cupcakes, and you’d make a great dad. Not right away, of course. We’ve got some big changes ahead. A move and new jobs, and I need much more practice surfing!”

  In the split-second I had hung suspended in the air yesterday, I realized how fleeting life is—especially our youth. Brien had mentioned his age and aging several times since he first worried about that courier calling him "Sir." When I asked him about it for about the tenth time, he came clean. My Brien apparently has a clock ticking in his head.

  Not the so-called biological clock that haunts some women who don’t marry or have children according to a rule book I’ve never seen. One of the few virtues, I suppose, of having grown up in chaos. To be honest, I would have welcomed a few rules, especially if the people making them followed them. Who knows? That could be why I like the law and tracking down dirty rotten scoundrels who break it.

  “I don’t want to be like my dad. He seemed like a nice enough guy, but he never got it together. What if I’m like him? He's lost even when I know where he is, Gidget. I gave myself until I’m thirty, so I still have time. Sometimes I worry about me, that’s all.”

  Brien’s always deeper and more thoughtful than I ever imagine. He had stirred up similar feelings I shared but hadn’t heeded. It was time to escape the limbo we were in and make a decision about our future. When we returned to the resort yesterday, we’d accepted those job offers.

/>   Today we sat, hand in hand, visualizing Corsario Cove as our home. Even with all the murder and mayhem, the place held sway over us. Maybe it is a sanctuary of some kind. We’d surfed for a couple of hours before taking a break to watch the waves and were about ready to head back to our suite, when Detective Mitchum appeared looming awkwardly above us. In yet another wrinkled suit, in a darker shade of beige, he could not have looked more out of place on the beach. I didn’t think so, anyway, until Mitchum sat down on the sand. That was awkward, too, since in one hand he held an enormous cup of coffee.

  “Can you two knuckleheads spare a few minutes from your busy itinerary for updates?” That mustache twitched—above a smile.

  “Sure, Bernie. I’d tell you to take a seat, but you already did.” Brien smiled back at the detective. I smirked at Bernie.

  “Thanks,” he said as he swigged coffee from that cup. “I figured you’d be happy to know that we had no trouble rounding up the guy holding onto those flyers in that picture you sent me. That license plate number you gave us made it a breeze to locate Mister Gifford and his lovely wife. So, thanks.”

  “That was Mick’s doing. We’ll tell him you said thanks. What was Gifford doing at that restaurant?” I asked.

  “When you ran into him at El Conquistador, he was angry and scared. He wasn’t lying when he said that trouble on the highway caused him to miss his flight. He and his wife had checked into a hotel near the airport when the news got out that a homeless man, Monroe Daniels, had turned up dead. The fact that they found him dressed as a monk is probably why that story hit the news right away. Anyway, that’s why the Giffords came back to our lovely town. Jerry Gifford was sure Daniels’ sudden demise was way too convenient to have been an accident. He’d had contact with the dead guy on a regular basis over the past couple of months and feared someone had seen them together. He didn’t want to take the fall for murder.”

  “Well, if he was in that shuttle all morning and then checked in at a hotel, he had an alibi.”

  “True, Kim. I don’t think he knew for sure when Daniels died. For all he knew, someone had murdered the guy the night before while Gifford was still in town.”

  “Was it murder?” I asked.

  “Yes. There was enough Fentanyl in Daniels’ system to have killed a dozen addicts. It was overkill even without being mixed with heroin. Only one of the mistakes the killer made. The second was leaving him in that monk getup. If he’d taken a minute to strip him down, we might not have ever made a connection between a homeless, dead addict and the other trouble in town. That stupidity was one of the points Gifford made when he confronted his confederate, Mark Jenkins, who claimed he had left the body that way deliberately. To his disturbed mind, a dead, mad monk was even more scandalous than a live one roaming around annoying people. Not that Daniels was a monk—he was a down and out addict hired to play a part.”

  “That’s cold! Neither one of them sounded upset about the dead guy. They both have some heavy-duty payback coming.” Brien rarely gets angry, but it was evident he was royally ticked off about the injustice of the situation.

  “I agree, Brien. Jenkins is a cold-hearted killer. Daniels had outlived his usefulness once Jenkins had achieved his primary objective to get the Conservancy Group to go after the surfers in Sanctuary Grove. By turning the community against them and wreaking havoc down there, the surfers fled. All the stuff that worked on your friend Willow—scary figures raiding the camp at night, making strange sounds, destroying or stealing their stuff. The graffiti and mummy parts, too. The mummy parts aren’t from around here, by the way. Brother Thaddeus was right about that. They were stolen from a Native American burial ground somewhere. Mark Jenkins’ handiwork I suppose. Anyway, Gifford admits that he made up those flyers and trained Daniels on that ‘end of world’ spiel. He even helped Daniels ‘make a little mischief to harass the beach bums,’ as he put it, but claims he didn’t know why emptying Sanctuary Grove mattered to Mark Jenkins.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Jenkins is the Aussie gentleman who also happens to be the fake professor who telephoned Brother Thaddeus. That caller had treasure hunting on his mind, didn’t he?”

  “Yes. I’m not sure why hearing Mark Jenkins' voice at El Conquistador made you suspicious enough to contact me about it. One of those hunches of yours that paid off. Jenkins didn’t even bother to make that phone call from a burner phone. The number for the monastery was right there on his cell phone. A smug, self-assured fellow.”

  “Why not? He was rubbing elbows with the local bigwigs.”

  “Yeah, part of the ‘in crowd’ for sure, Mitchum. How did that happen?” Brien asked.

  “The Aussie gentleman—the one who’s still alive—came to town throwing enough money around to convince members of the Conservancy Group that he’d invest much more. One condition—that they had to clean up the place. Mark Jenkins made big promises that he never intended to keep. In the meantime, he created more mess he wanted cleaned up by paying Gifford and Daniels to spook people. Not just money, Jenkins kept Daniels supplied with drugs. It was a smart strategy to use the mad monk to make locals warier of the monastery as well Sanctuary Grove.”

  “Daniels was a sitting duck when Jenkins decided to take him out,” Brien said with anger welling up in him again.

  “Was Jenkins close enough to wrapping up his scheme that he no longer needed Daniels?”

  “Given the timing, I’d say Daniels’ murder had more to do with the fact we were trying to locate the elusive mad monk for questioning about the vandalism and fire in the area. I’m sure Jenkins became convinced the jig would be up as soon as we managed to find him. Daniels would have had plenty to say about his role in the campaign to make San Albinus an inhospitable place for tourists.”

  “What a loser!” Brien said. “That Jenkins dirt bag, not the dead fake monk.”

  “Jenkins is a skilled con artist. That’s how he fooled Brother Thaddeus about having been referred to him by a friend. He didn’t have to name the friend, just let him infer it was one or both of you. Then you inferred it was me. Happens all the time.” He shrugged.

  “So, if he’s the Aussie who’s still alive, I take it the dead diver must be another newcomer from Australia?”

  “He’s down under now, isn’t he? A good six feet at least!”

  “Stop it, Brien. I bet that body hasn’t even been laid to rest yet. Mitchum’s probably got to jump through a bunch of hoops to get that guy shipped home.”

  “Not me,” Mitchum said. “I handed off that crime scene to the county, remember? That body’s their problem now. Mark Jenkins might be able to do something about his dead brother’s body. He’s got his hands full now with his problems.” He paused to take another swig from that cup.

  “The diver who turned up dead was the guy your friends spoke to at Nonesuch Nautical—Jenkins’ brother, Carter. When Carter arrived in San Albinus a month or so before his brother, Mark, he took that job in the shop under an assumed name—Roger Simpson. Apparently, he asked plenty of questions about Opie and the discovery of that treasure. Not only the shop owner but just about any local who walked into Nonesuch Nautical got pulled into a game of 20 questions.”

  “How did he know to ask those questions?” I wondered out loud.

  “Opie’s feat was big news around the world. Google it and you’ll see. Retrieving a king’s ransom in gold from a shipwreck is like the Holy Grail among treasure hunters. That poor dead fool, Owen Taylor, wasn’t lying, either, when he tried to save his neck by claiming there was more contraband onboard. Not just drugs, but artifacts from a theft at a Miami museum.”

  “Treasure hunters! Just what you were saying, Kim!”

  “The Jenkins brothers were on it like hungry dogs on a juicy T-bone!” Mitchum shook his head.

  I could have sworn I heard Brien’s stomach growl at the mention of a T-bone. I reached down and pulled snacks from our little stash of treasures. In a state of deep reflection, Mitchum took one of the protein ba
rs from that bag. He didn’t open it. Instead, he picked up his story about the treasure-hunting brothers.

  “From what I can tell about their past, most of their ill-gotten gains came from selling fake antiquities or trading in stolen ones, so they had a good idea about what the missing items were worth. Then your friends walked in asking about how to locate a particular spot in the cove using marine coordinates. Mick says they gave the guy at the counter some story about trying to find a great fishing spot. Nice try!”

  “Not that nice. Mick told us he said he didn’t own a boat a few minutes later. Some fisherman! That guy needs a few lessons on prevarication.” Brien beamed the happy smile that goes with the opportunity to use a newfound big word.

  “Now, now,” I cautioned. “Don’t forget what Brother Thaddeus said about avoiding the near occasion of sin. Mick doesn’t need to be encouraged to be less trustworthy.”

  “Are you through?” Mitchum asked and then picked up his story without waiting for a reply. “Carter had done his homework by then, so he recognized Mick and Willow from the news stories about the murder of Owen Taylor, Bob Goddard, and the recovery of those Krugerrands. Willow’s harrowing escape got plenty of play in the local media, too.” Mitchum turned that protein bar over a couple of times but still didn’t open it.

  “Okay, so Mark and Carter came to town hoping to find those missing artifacts. I presume they decided that would be easier to do without the prying eyes of surfers lazing around in Sanctuary Grove and that's why they were so keen on getting them out of there—with or without the help of the Conservancy Group, correct?” I asked.

  “Yes. A few weeks ago, they had begun to search the caves and the rocky cove area below, hoping Opie might have found the artifacts and hidden them nearby.”