The Third Hour

by Richard Devin

  “Hi.” Dominic’s voice was raspy.

  Tonita took a deep breath and let it out in long sigh. “I must have fallen asleep.” She rubbed her hands on her face.

  “You did,” he said, struggling to sit up. “Ouch.”

  “Ouch?” Tonita rested a hand on his chest. “I’d be swearing my head off.”

  “I am, all in my head, where only God and I can hear it,” Dominic said, and turned his head, looking around the room. He caught sight of Celent in the chair. “Is he...” he struggled with the words, “alive?”

  Tonita laughed. “Yes.”

  “Well, you can’t be too sure around here.” Dominic’s laugh turned into a bout of coughing. He brought his hands up to his chest, holding the muscles in place. “Boy, that hurts.”

  Tonita pushed herself up from the chair using the sides to steady herself. The day had taken a toll on her. “Here take these,” Tonita said, handing him a glass of water and a handful of pills that she had set aside earlier. “They should help the pain. But what you really need is antibiotics. I looked around for some, but didn’t find any. I don’t suppose you have any lying around?”

  “Sorry,” Dominic replied between swallows of the water and the pills.

  “I can get all the antibiotics and pain medication you need,” Celent spoke from his assumed slumber on the brown leather chair.

  “You’re awake?” Dominic sat up.

  “Don’t assume that just because an old man closes his eyes, he isn’t still paying attention. You will learn my son, that you learn most, when those around you forget that you are there.”

  “Okay, that’s a little heavy for me.” Tonita did not try to hide the sarcasm.

  “Perhaps, but true none the less,” Celent said, as he opened his eyes. He stood up using the wide leather covered arms of the chair as support. “If you are up to it, I say we leave now.”

  “And go where?” Tonita snapped.

  “To a safer place.”

  “Where is that?”

  “The Vatican. More precisely, my flat there,” Celent said.

  “You have an apartment at the Vatican?” Dominic eyed the man. “Why?”

  “And why should we trust you? We don’t know you. You just showed up here. We’ve never met you and...”

  Dominic cut Tonita off. “I think what Tonita means is that we’re a little scared.”

  “Hell, that’s not what I was saying at all!” Tonita gestured with her hands wide apart. “I was saying that I don’t trust your sorry ass. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to go anywhere with you.”

  “You are quite right young lady.” Celent looked directly into Tonita’s eyes. “If you don’t come along with me, and if I don’t get you somewhere safe, you will be damned!”

  HIS SENSES REELED. Bolts of electricity coursed through his veins, feeding his muscles until they were pumped, ready to snap.

  The Novice continued on his course, distracted from his cause by no one. He did not know which direction to take, which block to turn on, or which street to follow. He had no map to guide him. There wasn’t a need for one. God would lead him to the Key.

  People in his path stepped away. Cars and trucks, and those annoying idiots riding bicycles, parted as he approached. His mission was of Divine intent. And God, as he had done for the masses fleeing Egypt thousands of years ago by parting the waters of the Red Sea, had cleared a path for him.

  The intense pain he felt earlier in his shoulder and his rib cage had subsided. His intuition led him to the knowledge that Brother Salvatore was dead and that the Key lived. But that would soon change.

  TWENTY SEVEN

  JULY 3RD, 1947

  Corona, New Mexico

  4:13 A. M.

  The lightning struck the ground with such ferocity that the small boulders and rocks in its path shattered into pieces, spraying out like fireworks.

  Mac Brazel had been sound asleep, until the thunderclap from the nearby strike of lightning jolted him awake. The old timbers of the small ranch house shook, causing mortar, long ago dried out, to fall into the cavity between the ceiling and the roof, scaring the rodents who took refuge there. He jumped out of the bed, quickly making his way to the open window. The frightened bleats from the several hundred sheep on the ranch, now huddled together in a tight undulating circle, assaulted Mac through the open window.

  Water had splashed in, wetting the floor and window casings of the old ranch house. It wasn’t the first time that windows in the house had remained opened during a rainstorm. Storms were so rare and lasted so short a time, that most in the area of the many ranches and few houses, didn’t concern themselves with a bit of rain splashing in. As Mac reached up to pull down on the sash in an attempt to close the warped window, another strike of lightning hit with equal ferocity. He watched as sparks first flared up and then cascaded down to the point of impact.

  Lightning again lit up the sky. This time it failed to reach the earth. Instead, the bolts crisscrossed through the clouds. Flashes of white backlit the dark gray masses of clouds, casting shadows of gray upon darker gray.

  Mac tightened the muscles of his weatherworn, ranch honed shoulders and began to pull down on the old sash, as a breeze swept into the dank room. He hesitated closing the window completely, breathing in the ozone-laden air, and feeling the rain-cooled breeze on his bare skin. It was a rare but appreciated sensation.

  All was momentarily quiet, and it appeared as though the storm was about to blow over. Then, the ranch house shook again. Rocking. Shuddering. An explosion of light and sound hit the ground south of the ranch house. Rock and dirt burst into the sky, fanned out, and settled into a long path. Mac stood, half groggy still from sleep, half frightened to death, mesmerized by the lightning spectacle. For a moment, he considered that he might be dreaming and willed himself awake. A gust of wind pushed the spray of rain into Mac’s face and he knew for certain that he was not dreaming.

  The herd of sheep that would most often be far out in the acres upon acres of desert land, now poured into the nearby corral. Their wails grew in volume. Frightened to the point of panic by the last explosion of lightning, they jostled for position pushing into the small corral near the ranch house.

  In the distance, the ground appeared to be glowing. And Mac surmised that the brush had caught on fire from the lightning strike, as it often did, after having baked in the desert sun for several weeks or months before a storm moved in. He continued to watch the glowing earth, internally debating whether to mount up now and ride out to the fire, or wait until morning. The rain continued to fall in ever increasing cloud bursts making his decision for him. He could safely wait until the storm passed, and for morning light. The fire wouldn’t make it far if the rain continued and the southern pasture could use a good burn anyway, Mac convinced himself, as he pulled the window most of the way closed. He fell back into the bed and restlessly waited for sleep or morning’s light, whichever came first.

  TWENTY EIGHT

  THE DRIVE TO THE VATICAN from Dominic’s apartment was uneventful. One quick call from Celent and a sleek black Mercedes Benz arrived at Dominic’s apartment in little time. Tonita could not help but stare out the window as the driver maneuvered the Mercedes through the now clogged streets of Rome. She watched every passerby and every car that came alongside the vehicle analyzing the situation. She was prepared to scream out at any moment, should anything or anyone appear suspicious to her. But no danger, or presumed danger, presented itself. And she, Celent, Dominic, and the driver all arrived, passing through the gate to the Vatican without incident.

  The driver stopped the car at the doorway to Celent’s apartment, and after climbing the stairs to the second story flat, Dominic fell into the first chair he saw, nearly collapsing. Celent immediately picked up the telephone. It was a gilded and ivory handset with a dark mahogany base, which looked as though it belonged in the mansions of the Vanderbilt’s or the Getty’s or the royal palace of some old Italian aristocrat. Celent spoke in
a direct tone into the telephone, as Tonita wandered about the apartment, she could clearly over hear the call. Just as he had promised, Celent had called the Vatican infirmary for supplies.

  In short time, Tonita had Dominic patched up and resting comfortably. She, however, could not sit still, and kept bouncing from the chair to the settee to the sofa, in an endless migration around the room. She could barely restrain herself any longer. When Celent returned from the small kitchen of the apartment, rolling a serving table topped with tea and biscuits, she pounced. “All right, want a full explanation.”

  “I thought that perhaps you might be hungry after the events of the day and appreciate some tea.” Tonita’s long hard stare convinced Celent to abandon the ploy immediately. “I’m sorry, you’re right, Tonita, you do deserve an explanation,” Celent said, as he pushed the rolling cart to the side of the sofa and sat down. “Some tea?” He picked up the pot and poured a cup. The comforting smell of Earl Grey wafted up, as the steam rose from the cup and pot.

  “No thank you,” Tonita snapped.

  “Dominic? It’s my favorite.” Celent held up a cup by the saucer.

  “Yeah, sure, and Tonita will have a cup.” Dominic shot a quick glance her way.

  Tonita caught the look in Dominic’s expression and reconsidered. “Yes, on second thought I will.”

  “Excellent.” Celent filled two more cups, keeping one for himself and handing the others to Tonita and Dominic. “Sugar or milk?”

  “Straight is fine for me,” Dominic said, as he breathed in the aroma.

  Tonita just shook her head, placing the cup of tea onto a side table.

  “Charles Grey, the British Prime Minister and the 2nd Earl Grey, his father being the first, was given the recipe for this tea by a Chinese mandarin with whom he was friends, and whose life he had saved.” Celent sipped the dark hot liquid. “Much as I am doing for you.” He sipped again.

  Dominic glanced to Tonita. “By bringing us here?”

  “That is part of it. I can assure you that if you did not accompany me and you remained at your flat.” He took another sip from the cup. “You would be dead by now.”

  “Enough of this.” Tonita waved a hand in the air. “Dominic’s injuries may be painful, but they were not life threatening. I could have fixed him up right there at his place. I just needed the supplies. We didn’t need to move him.”

  “You could have applied the proper gauze and bandages to him, Tonita. In that, you’re right. But you could not have saved his life.” Celent paused, waiting for a response. When none came, he continued, “Even as we sit here enjoying the peaceful surroundings of the Vatican and the protection it affords us, you are being stalked.”

  Dominic set his cup of tea down onto the small, elegantly crafted, coffee table positioned in front of the chair, splashing some of the liquid onto the table, as his pectoral muscles pinched from the heavy tape covering the wound. “I’m being stalked?”

  “Hasn’t that been evident?” Celent cocked his head.

  “There definitely have been some strange goings. But stalked?”

  “You deny the obvious, Dominic? Just like you deny your religion?”

  Dominic rose, a little too quickly, and clutched at the gauze-wrapped wound on his chest. “That is not true. And that was out of line.”

  “Dominic, ease up. You don’t want to start bleeding again,” Tonita said moving toward him.

  “A couple of strange occurrences, and I’m being stalked,” Dominic said as he moved away, stepping to the window.

  “Nervous?” Celent spoke softly.

  “No.”

  “Then why the sudden interest in the window?”

  Dominic turned and stared into Celent’s dark eyes. “You misread me. I’m angry. Not concerned.”

  “Well, son, I would advise you to remain concerned, and to come to terms with your anger.”

  “My anger is in control and meant for you.”

  Celent picked up the teapot and filled his cup. “Only because I state the truth.”

  Dominic bit his lip and ran his hand through his hair, pushing it off of his face. “Come on, Tonita. We’re out of here.” He moved toward the door. Tonita was at the door, just as Dominic reached it.

  “Thanks for your help. We’ll manage on our own.” Dominic pulled down on the golden lever of the door handle. The door swung open.

  “Leave if you must. It is your free will. But Dominic, I will not be able to save you a third time.”

  Dominic turned to the Celent.

  “The monk that attacked you in your apartment acted once before. He was stopped. But the priest who saved you then, gave up his own life for yours.”

  Dominic paused reflecting back. “The man...the priest,” he corrected “in my apartment?”

  “He saved you.” Celent struggled a bit as he stood, he took a step toward Dominic, “Imploratio Adiumentum. Ue Bonfjote. Tazor Li.”

  “You know what he said?”

  “Of course.” Cardinal Celent smiled. “I gave him those words. I sent him to watch over you and to warn you.”

  Dominic stood at the door for several minutes. Silent. Then he closed the door and stepped the few feet to where Celent sat. “You’re not a priest?”

  “Of course I am. I have been for quite a long time.”

  “A priest would not have an apartment, on the Vatican grounds,” he glanced around the comfortable living quarters. “Not one like this. He would not have a driver and a car at and he would not be wearing that ring.” He grasped Celent’s hand and brought it up. His anger faded, replaced by resurgence of faith and the comfort it afforded. Dominic looked up from the ring and stared into Celent’s eyes. For the moment he gave himself back to the church and holding Celent’s hand he dropped to his knee. He kept his head down and brought the hand to his face, allowing his lips to lightly brush the rectangular gold ring, which was set with a large sapphire and worn on the fourth finger of the right hand.

  A Cardinal’s ring.

  Cardinal Celent placed his other hand gently onto Dominic’s head. “Stay. I have much to explain.”

  TWENTY NINE

  THERE WAS NOT THE SLIGHTEST hint of hesitation in the Novice’s actions as he pushed the door to Dominic’s apartment open, slamming it against the old interior stucco wall. The doorknob smashed a hole into the wall, splattering the crumbling mortar, sending chunks and pieces of it into the air and onto the floor. He did not care if anyone heard him. He was not concerned with stealth. His task was at hand. And he would fulfill it.

  His momentum never stopping, he stepped inside and boldly began his march down the short hallway, heading toward the interior of the apartment. He reached the living room, coming out of the hallway prepared to do battle, then stopped.

  He listened, cocking his head as a coyote might to pick up the slightest sounds of hidden prey in the grass. There was nothing more than the filtered noises seeping in from the street, and the ever present hum of the electrical motor from the old refrigerator.

  He sniffed the air. It had the heavy odor of the beginnings of sweet decay and blood.

  The smell of death.

  His body shook. Every muscle had been primed to fight. To kill. To do the Lords work. That energy now erupted from him. He tilted his head back, and from deep within a primordial scream welled up and spewed forth.

  In one quick movement, The Novice picked up Brother Salvatore’s limp, now bloating body and slammed it against the wall, shaking the interior of the apartment.

  Brother Salvatore’s head hit hard, denting the wall. The body fell back to the floor, knocking over a small table, sending a lamp to the floor, where it shattered.

  The Novice watched as the body came to a rest against the wall. His rage momentarily quenched. All became quiet.

  Suddenly, the crucifix that Dominic had secured to the wall several months before, gave way and fell, sliding straight down the wall, as though it were connected to a track that controlled its decent. The crucifix cam
e to rest on Brother Salvatore’s back. The figure of Christ nailed to the cross, facing up.

  Brother Salvatore’s body had landed on his stomach. His head however, had twisted, facing backwards, eyes looking over the shoulders of the limp, broken body staring blankly towards the heavens.

  And then he saw.

  Brother Salvatore’s arms, bent slightly, were stretched out to either side of his body. His legs were crossed at the ankles. The body lay in perfect imitation to the crucifix that had just fallen onto his back.

  THIRTY

  JULY 3RD, 1947

  Corona, New Mexico

  8:27 A.M.

  Mac Brazel wasn’t a cowboy out of central casting, even if he looked like he was stepping up to the cameras in a western themed film, as he mounted the blood bay gelding. He was the real thing. Ranching had been his way of life for forty years. He loved the range, the solitude it afforded him, and the people who worked the land with him when he wanted company.

  The storm earlier that night had kept him from sleep. After a quick cup of strong coffee—he had never mastered the art of coffee making, so strong was the only way he could brew it—he dressed, saddled his mount, and planned to follow the fences south, heading in the same direction that he had seen the immense flashes of lighting earlier that morning.

  The herd of sheep that he tended on the ranch had settled down from the previous night’s scare and were now spanning out among the unusually wet range. Puddles and ponds, that would disappear by midday, filled every low lying area attracting flocks of desert grouse and skittish antelope herds that hurried to the puddles taking advantage of the rare abundance of water.