by Vince Milam
“Well then, a hippie with lots of guns.”
They both laughed, and then Johnson got back to business. “Maybe he was sent to support the local Catholics after the murders. Not outside the realm of possibility. Good PR. And maybe he wants to go fishing. Whatever it is, just cooperate with this fellow. Make him feel engaged. I would appreciate it, Cole. And don’t forget about the keep me informed part.”
They chatted about mundane matters while they finished their drinks. It evidently created a respite for Cole, this idle story-swapping, and there was no need to rush the time.
Eventually Cole stood and Johnson came over, hand extended. As they shook, Johnson nodded—a brotherhood of lawmen nod.
“Keep me informed, son,” stated Johnson for the third time. The last thing he and the Rangers needed was to be blindsided.
“Will do, sir. The Vatican. Mercy, I hope this won’t get weird.” Cole retrieved his Stetson hat from the adjoining chair.
That was a piss-poor way to end a meeting in Johnson’s book. “Keep any weirdness tamped down, Cole. Tight. At a minimum, keep it between you and that priest.”
“One last thing,” Cole said. “I’ve asked Nadine May for help. To look into a possible accomplice. It’s a stretch, I admit. That funding set-aside may be needed if she decides to bill us. You never know.”
That little bit of information would make any man’s ass tighten. Nadine made him nervous. His Rangers had worked with her over the years. She made all of them nervous. “Is that necessary?”
“Yep. It’s a tenuous connection with a strange man. Maybe nothing. But no stone unturned, etcetera,” said Cole.
“Tight, Cole. Tight,” said Johnson. “You’ve just increased the circle fifty percent. Now it’s you, the priest, and Nadine. And Lord knows what Nadine is liable to get up to.”
Cole started toward the door, looked back, and smiled. “Lord knows.”
Chapter 11
The fishing guide was nonplussed. Over the years, he had seen it all. This round gentleman approached him with the air of a person more than a few fries short of a Happy Meal, but such was the life of a fishing guide.
This client wore white linen peasant pants, rolled to his knees. Sandals covered sockless feet. The ornately embroidered white Mexican shirt offset the bright kelly-green scarf used as a hatband for a plain straw sombrero.
“Welcome aboard. I see you didn’t bring any fishing tackle, but I’ve got plenty,” said the guide, and pointed to several rods and reels standing in rod-holders on the boat.
“Au contraire, Capitaine,” said the client, and pulled from his pockets a new stout oyster knife and a bottle of Tabasco. “In fact, I am well equipped.”
The fishing guide tilted his head, and the client tilted back, at the opposite angle.
“To the place of oysters, mon Capitaine!” exclaimed the client as he moved with an unexpected agility from the dock to the small boat.
“You want me to take you to an oyster bed?”
“But of course.” The client settled in the comfortable passenger seat, lit a cigarette, and added rose-tinted clip-on sunglasses to his frames. “Allez! Let us be gone!”
***
Later that evening, Cole settled into Jimmy’s outdoor bar overlooking the Laguna Madre. The heat had let go and the light had begun to soften. He removed his hat, put his feet on one of the two empty chairs at the table, and ordered a Shiner beer. It arrived icy cold, the bottle sweating. It had been a strange day.
“Bonsoir.” Francois plopped on the remaining empty chair. Attired in all-white pants and embroidered shirt, he wore a bright green scarf around his neck. He appeared sunburned and happy.
Cole took a long pull of the beer and gave himself a bit of time to accept the inevitable. “You look different.”
Francois adjusted his round glasses and looked at himself to inspect and verify Cole’s statement. “Oui. I have made a decision.”
“A decision.”
“Oui. I shall sojourn incognito.”
Cole exhaled and looked past Francois across the three miles of the Laguna. On the other side, the sands of San Jose Island took on a pink hue.
Francois lifted his chin at the young lady who served food and drink to the porch’s patrons—a universal signal that brought her over, smiling.
“You look thirsty. What’ll you have?” she asked.
“Pernod, s’il vous plaît.”
Cole arched his eyebrows. This would be interesting.
The young lady continued to smile, moved alongside Francois, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Honey, you’ve stumped me. You’ll have to tell me what that is.”
“Stumped?”
“Yep. Stumped.”
Francois looked at Cole with an expression suggesting he needed assistance.
“How about a beer, Francois?” said Cole. He looked at the waitress and continued, “Another for me and one for him. Thanks.”
Francois produced a Gauloises, and wafted it to and fro in front of Cole.
“Yes. You can smoke here.”
Francois fired the cigarette, leaned back, crossed one sandal-clad foot over a knee, exhaled smoke and looked at the sky. An osprey glided from the shore side over the water, then dived. It broke the water surface with extended talons, and flew back to altitude, grasping a small mullet.
Head still lifted skyward, Francois asked, “And the communiqué from Austin?”
“The Vatican made a call to our government. It passed downhill to me. I’m to provide assistance. Now that you’re incognito, maybe I shouldn’t share that.”
Francois gave a shrug and waved one hand, expressing, “Oh, well.”
“If we agree to cooperate, we should return to the question of what you want from me,” said Cole as he took another sip of beer.
Francois used his free hand to stroke his mustache. “A serious question, to be sure. Allow me to answer. But first, shall we dine?”
Life had an overarching pace, individual events had their own pace, and clearly this priest had his own unique set of timing and priorities. They ordered the flounder, rolled in a batter of egg, cornmeal, and very cold beer, then deep-fried. Slices of onion received the same treatment, and the meal was served on a large platter with two separate plates. Francois asked for the wine menu, glanced at it, and gave the laminated wine list a light slap on the table. The waitress took this as a sign he wanted to order and approached.
Preemptively, Francois stated, “You may decide, Mademoiselle, for I am unfamiliar with such a selection. The wines of France would seem to be unavailable at this establishment.” This was accompanied by a look of deep pain and resignation.
“We have a nice Texas albariño. Would you like to try that?” she asked.
“One must make do. Oui. S’il vous plaît.”
The food proved excellent, the wine bright and crisp. They ate, exchanging small talk and backgrounds. Cole told of growing up in Corpus Christi, how his father had owned a small furniture store and they’d lived a solid middle-class life. Raised by a loving mother, his childhood filled him with good memories.
At eighteen, he joined the US Marine Corps. Honorably discharged, he headed for the oilfields of West Texas and made good money as a roughneck on the rigs. In the oil town of Odessa he met Martha. They got married six months later and Martha became pregnant. They both saw the oil patch as a poor place to start a family, so they moved back to Corpus.
Sheriff John Nash—a fishing buddy of Cole’s dad—hired him as one of the deputies for Aransas County, so Martha and Cole moved to Rockport. A short ten years later, Nash retired and the people of Aransas County elected Cole sheriff. Martha had been very proud of him. They had two children; Lisa, now a student at the University of Texas, and Jeri Ann, who worked at a Lubbock insurance company and, in Cole’s view, shacked up with some full-time professional student at Texas Tech.
He touched on Martha’s murder. Francois wrinkled his brow and muttered a soft, “Mon Dieu!”
Francois spoke of his childhood, his calling, and his background within the church’s more esoteric arenas. Cole absorbed it all and seldom asked for clarification, knowing this was information from the heart. It told him a lot about the Frenchman. Francois explained that he saw God in everything—the first crocus blooms of spring, the laughter of a pretty girl, the death of a friend. God was all and everywhere. “Perhaps I should have been a Buddhist,” he stated between bites of flounder, then clarified that unlike Buddhism, he saw the power of an active God in our lives. He conveyed that since a very young age, he had been tuned to power, and it had become a sixth sense.
Francois explained his belief that it was a denial of faith to see evil as a metaphor for bad things. Satan and his kingdom were real. And as a reality, one must understand the enemy’s power as well as the enemy’s limitations. He claimed there existed limitations, although he couldn’t state their boundaries when Cole enquired.
The priest gave it a shot to differentiate between demonic possession and other physical manifestations. It had to come to this, but it didn’t make it any less weird for Cole. Apparently, Satan and his acolytes walked among us. Francois had no doubt about this. This fell into a spiritual gray area for Cole, but there wasn’t much point in arguing with the priest’s declarative belief.
For Cole, the entire ecumenical conversation was uncomfortable. Personal belief systems were best kept private and the whole spill-your-guts thing on God and Satan dang sure didn’t fall under the job responsibility of Aransas County Sheriff. There would be no faith-based reciprocating on his part. On the other hand, Francois was a priest and it should probably be expected from him. Besides, the beer and wine helped smooth the prickly edges of his discomfort.
“And so. To the question, what do I want?” said Francois, as he emitted a light burp and leaned back to light a cigarette. “It is not what I want, mon ami. It is what God wants.”
How nice to be so sure, thought Cole as he nodded back.
“I am on a path. This path requires me to confront evil as evidenced on earth. I am to seek it, recognize it, and address it. To what exact end has yet to be revealed. But it is my path. This I know.” Francois paused and leaned forward. “I shall tell you what I do not want. I do not wish for you to participate in my pursuit. My quest. It will be most dangerous. I, alone, am called. Yet, I do need your cooperation. Information. Sentiments. Observations. This is—to answer your question—what I want, Sheriff.”
Cole sat back, lifted his arms, and stretched. His shoulder joints popped. A week ago, priest, I would have written you off as a wingnut, he thought, although the jury’s still out on that one.
“Alright. Some ground rules. And call me Cole.”
Francois nodded.
“This must remain very private. I need your word that this will not leak, nor do you intend to write a book, nor—God forbid—make some kind of dang movie. If I see your ass on TV, there will be hell to pay.”
Francois opened his eyes wide, offended. “This should not be considered a trivial pursuit. This involves no notoriety. All of this has nothing to do with the credit or the fame. This is a most serious business, Sheriff.”
“Cole.”
“Oui. Cole. I am shocked at such an assertion. Shocked!”
Cole displayed two fingers as the waitress passed by. She returned with the beers. Cole continued. He saw no point in responding to the priest’s indignant reaction. Most serious business, for damn sure—there had been a mass murder in his town. Getting to the bottom of that event took precedence over any other consideration, including hurt feelings.
“You and I need crystal clarity on that. Very private. What you report to your superiors in Rome is your business. I understand those folks are very discreet. I’m talking about here, now, in Texas. Discretion.”
“But of course!” exclaimed Francois. “You may wish to recall my vocation as a priest!”
“Right. The whole incognito thing threw me off.”
Francois adjusted his scarf, muttering in French.
Cole had no idea where all this would lead, but secular matters such as how to keep his job and not have the head Ranger on his butt needed addressing. It could all possibly fit a plan formulated on the drive back from Austin. When Nadine located Moloch—and she would—this whole “help the Vatican” thing could provide administrative cover to hunt Moloch. It just might work out. The priest needed to understand the discretion aspect in no uncertain terms. The two stared at each other, eyeballing a mutual pact.
The slight smell of creosote floated from the pilings that supported the outdoor deck. A laughing young boy dashed from the main restaurant. Mom, calling him “jelly bean,” hurried hot on his tail and scooped him up. Both laughed and giggled as Mom carried him back inside.
“Do you believe in your heart that this madman acted alone?” asked Francois.
Here was the big question. Cole knew that once that bridge was crossed there was no turning back. A strong belief in justice, however delivered, stirred inside him, and if he revealed his gut feeling to the priest then they would be yoked together. What he had seen so far pointed to positive traits from the Frenchman. The man had focus, determination, and it would appear no small amount of courage. Trust remained the bigger issue. But Cole wanted justice and, deep inside, some spiritual answers. This priest could help. So he crossed the bridge.
“No, I don’t feel he acted alone,” said Cole. “There was another man.”
“Yes! Describe him if you please.” Francois shoved plates and beer bottles aside and leaned his forearms on the table, eyes piercing. “Such as strange habits, actions that seemed out of place? A feeling, a sense?”
Cole began to dump. If it had to be him and Francois, then they’d best get some answers. He filled Francois in on details and perceptions. He told of the stranger and Burt Hall at the honky-tonk the night before the murders, his peculiar uneasy reaction when he met the stranger at Shorty’s diner, how he responded with nausea to the stranger’s hand gesture, and the look on Burt Hall’s face when Cole shot him—the exact same expression his wife’s killer had worn, years before.
At all of this, Francois sat and absorbed. His lack of incredulity or questions proved a measure of comfort and Cole began to feel a sense of building trust.
“We’re driving to Houston tomorrow. I have a name of the stranger and I have a friend who can help us find the man behind the name. If anyone can, it’s Nadine,” said Cole.
“Yes? The name?”
“Moloch. Adal Moloch.”
Francois sat back, stroked his mustache and paused long enough to light another smoke. “I know this name. Most ancient.”
Cole hesitated for a moment before he continued, digesting Francois’s acknowledgment of the name. “One more, Francois.” The priest tilted his head, focused on Cole’s face. “A very old and very peculiar man. He had powerful athletic movements. Like some Special Forces guy. But old. Very old. I have nothing on him. I saw him for less than two seconds, but he appeared to pursue Moloch. I sensed that. Deadly serious pursuit.”
Francois drummed his fingers on the table. “Most interesting. I shall store that for further consideration.” Francois drained the remains of his beer. “And so, one more thing for you as well.”
Cole waited.
“This I must ask. Moloch. Are you so sure he was a man?”
The muted conversation of two sport anglers as they compared the day’s fishing drifted from parked boats at the nearby marina. Laughter came from inside the restaurant. Life went on, in so many ways, simple and pure. Cole yearned for that feeling.
“I’m not going there, Francois. Something bad wrong with Moloch, for sure. Something out of the ordinary. But he walks, talks, and breathes. Let’s find the sumbitch. And if it comes down to it, I’ll bet he bleeds.”
Chapter 12
The two-hundred-mile drive to Houston took four hours. They hit congestion thirty miles from Nadine’s place, and ground through the traffic of
America’s fourth largest city. The air conditioner stayed on max the entire time. The trip had not started well. Cole would not let Francois smoke in the car with the windows up.
“And so I shall lower this window,” said Francois after they departed.
“Fine. Enjoy the weather.”
The window rolled down and allowed the fetid heat of a Gulf Coast summer afternoon to fill the car. Francois immediately started to sweat and closed the window.
“Mon Dieu!”
“Yep.”
Francois dressed in khakis, huaraches, and an orchid-pink dress shirt. He rolled up the shirtsleeves and raised the collar to surround his thick neck. A pack of Gauloises showed through the thin material of the shirt pocket. His socks, visible through the huaraches, matched the shirt. Cole wondered where the heck he got those socks. A rattlesnake-skin belt purchased in Rockport supported his ample midsection. He had told Cole it filled a rare hole in his sartorial arsenal.
Cole called Nadine a second time soon after the first call. He was concerned that bringing a priest would be met with her disapproval.
“He’s here to find something about the murders,” said Cole. “It’s a bit undefined, but Jeeter Johnson asked me to cooperate. So I’m dragging him along to Houston if that’s okay.”
“No worries,” said Nadine. “I just hope he won’t inhibit our intercourse. But bring him. Hope he doesn’t mind my little Buddha statue. Mule likes that tiny fat guy.”
He chewed on that, unclear as was often the case with her overall meaning, then said, “Well, anyway. He’s a good guy. A little different, but a good guy. I’ll see you day after tomorrow.”
The two men drove in silence while NPR interviewed authors on the radio. Cole contemplated Francois’s attempted introduction of a new reality. Life experiences had led him to a worldview of good people versus bad people, with gradations of both. Evil as a tangible item stayed contained in the individual—some folks were bad and their actions evil. There was not much need for more analysis than that.
