by J. R. Mabry
“That’s the one, I’ll wager,” Richard said.
“I used the online reverse directory and got an address. It’s in San Francisco, on Haight Street.”
“One of mah favorite neighborhoods!” Dylan announced to no one in particular.
“Not the Upper Haight; this is nowhere near Ashbury. It’s in the Lower Haight—”
“That’s not nearly as cool,” said Dylan darkly. “Ah always imagine magickians doin’ their thing in really cool places.”
“I texted the address to Mikael about an hour ago. He should be there now,” Susan continued. “Mikael should have checked in about fifteen minutes ago.” She checked her cell phone for messages. There were none. She checked the log for missed calls. None. “I’ll give him a call now.” She punched the numbers with her thumb. “Maybe he just fell asleep.”
“He’s on a stakeout,” said Richard, imploring Heaven with exaggerated arm movements. “Of course he fell asleep.”
Susan held her hand up for silence, and they all watched her with mounting anxiety in spite of the good sense of Susan’s assessment of the situation. He probably had dozed off. Still…
A gruff voice answered the cell phone. “What the fuck??” the voice barked. Susan’s eyes widened, and she hit the button for speakerphone. “Who the fuck is this?” the gruff voice came again, but this time they could all hear it.
“Who the fuck is this?” Richard yelled in the direction of the phone. “Where’s Mikael?”
“Fuck Mikael. Don’t call me again, asshole.” And with a click, the strange voice was gone.
25
BISHOP TOM WAS BEGINNING to worry when lunch came and went and he had not yet heard back from the friars. He had no doubt that Susan had passed on his message, and he wondered what might be going on that was so important that they neglected to call him. He gave his friends the benefit of the doubt, and resolved to keep them updated whether they had time to speak to him or not.
Tom had no trouble that day keeping the afternoon sleepies at bay. Everything in him dreaded the completion of the day’s agenda, when the synod would once again take up the matter of the order’s excommunication.
But to his great relief, that moment never came. The afternoon’s business had been tied up with an argument about liturgy and local variation, which Tom would have found engaging anyway even if he had not been on needles and pins. But by the end of business that day, the argument was still raging, and the matter of the order’s expulsion would have to wait another day.
“Let us rise and bless our meal before adjourning to the dining hall,” announced Bishop Mellert. The blessing was mercifully brief, and in moments the gathered bishops were stretching their atrophied episcopal limbs and shuffling toward the cafeteria.
Tom was quiet as he picked up a tray and helped himself to what was really quite a sumptuous spread. The Sisters of Mercy apparently took no vows of epicurean chastity, because the meals were uniformly well prepared, healthy, and attractively presented. Tom helped himself to rather more lasagna than his wife would have approved and made his way to a table with a few empty places. He was glad to see that one of people already there was Bishop Jeffers. He took a spot next to him, saying, “Is this taken?”
Jeffers looked up and smiled to see Tom. “Not at all. Please.” He motioned toward the empty place. Tom slid his tray into place and pulled up to the table. Bishop Van Patton cocked her head, intending to say something, but waited to swallow first. “Tom,” she finally managed, “I was so sorry about what Hammet tried to pull yesterday.”
Jeffers bobbed his head in agreement. “That was low. I’m sorry I wasn’t more forceful, but coming on the heels of the gay clergy motion—I was a bit shell-shocked already.”
“Thanks, Andy, and thank you, Leslie. I quite understand. It certainly took me by surprise.” Tom noted that the presiding bishop had taken a seat at the next table, and resolved to keep his voice down. “The thing is, I know my boys,” he said in a near-whisper. Jeffers and Van Patton leaned in conspiratorially. “I know what they’re capable of, and I know what they’ve been up to. This whole thing just smacks of another one of Hammet’s witch hunts.”
“The man certainly needs to have someone to hate,” Jeffers agreed.
“More like he has to make someone else out to be wrong so that he can feel like he is right,” Van Patton interjected.
“That’s just sad,” said Tom, remembering to pay attention to the truly excellent lasagna.
Just then one of the sisters made her way across the cafeteria and tapped Presiding Bishop Mellert on the shoulder. Tom watched as he leaned back and spoke to her. A moment later he was folding his napkin and making apologetic gestures. He then followed the nun out of the hall.
“What do you think?” Jeffers caught his eye. Tom realized he had tuned out the conversation.
“I’m sorry. I’m a bit distracted today. What was that, Andy?”
“Is there something else bothering you, Tom?” Van Patton inquired.
“No. Well, maybe. The order…the order in question…should have called me last night after I left a message about what was going on here.” He took a drink of apple cider. “I figured they should know what’s happening. But they haven’t called back.”
“That does seem strange,” Jeffers agreed. “What do you think it means?”
“I think it probably means they’re too busy doing God’s work to give much weight to the blowhard speculations of old men in funny hats—and I do mean the men, Leslie.”
She gave him a wry smile, and Jeffers chuckled. “Knowing what I do about that order of yours, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if that’s exactly on the money.” Jeffers slapped Tom on the shoulder.
There was free time after dinner, and Tom considered his options as they filed out of the cafeteria. Several of the bishops were carpooling into Houston for a concert of sacred choral works at the Episcopal cathedral, while some were planning to gather in one of the common rooms to watch a DVD and, no doubt, consume more port than was good for them.
Tom was leaning toward the concert when one of the local clergy, a deacon, approached him. Tom fumbled in his addled brain for his name. What was it? Ah, yes, there it was. Eldritch, of all things. “Reverend Eldritch, nice to see you again.” He shook the man’s hand.
“Bishop Müeller, the presiding bishop requests a meeting with you. It’s urgent.”
What now? Tom thought, then he wondered if he had said it aloud. Just in case, he said it again, changing the emphasis. “What? Now?”
“Right now, please. I’ll show you to his room.” With that, the deacon turned and made his way toward the dormitory. Tom had no choice but to follow. Within a few minutes, he found himself outside one of the doors, exactly like the hundreds of others on the three floors of dorm rooms the convent made available for retreatants and conference attendees.
Bishop Mellert opened the door and waved Tom inside. “Thank you, Eldritch,” he said to the deacon. “I won’t be needing you for the rest of the evening. Thank you for all your hard work today.” He shook the young man’s hand and scanned the hallway suspiciously before closing the door and turning to his guest.
Tom was quite impressed with the room. His own could reasonably be described as a cell. It was hardly large enough to turn around in and contained nothing more than a small single bed, a sink, a desk, and a small wardrobe, all in a mere five-by-eight-foot area. But this room was much larger—obviously designed for married couples, the room sported a full-size bed, a bookcase, and enough room to dress oneself in comfortably. Lucky bastard, Tom thought.
“Tom, have a seat.” Tom did, appreciating the fact that the room also contained chairs, which had never seemed such a luxury before.
Bishop Mellert sat on the bed and sighed.
“What’s going on?” Tom asked.
Mellert picked up a FedEx package and handed it to him. Tom took it and peered inside.
“I just picked this up at the front desk, halfway
through dinner. I warn you, Tom, it’s disturbing.”
Tom shook the contents out onto his lap and swallowed. They were an assortment of papers and photos, he noted, all of them either mentioning or showing members of the Order of Saint Raphael—none of them in a good light.
As Tom turned page after page, his face lost color, and he felt a cold sweat begin to break out on his forehead. By the time he turned the last one over, he felt faint.
“It’s pretty damning stuff, Tom,” Mellert said, though he didn’t need to say it. It was painfully obvious.
“Yes. Yes, it is.” Tom wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “What…what do you plan to do with this?”
Mellert scowled at him. “That’s a very good question. Bishop Hammet would be champing at the bit to get hold of these,” he said. “It would prove his case.”
“I’m not sure it proves anything,” Tom noted.
“It might be all he needs to stack the deck in his favor, though,” Mellert said. “But that’s not my problem. My problem is, what do I do with these?”
Tom’s head was spinning. “You can’t give them to Hammet! Andrus, promise me you’re not even considering that!”
“Why not? I don’t have a stake in this one way or the other. It is the business of the House of Bishops to weigh the evidence and make decisions. How can we do that if I deliberately withhold evidence? And why shouldn’t Hammet have it for his arguments? For that matter, isn’t it equally fair that I give you fair warning, like I’m doing now?”
“You haven’t already shown this to Hammet!?”
“No. But should I? That’s the question.” Mellert looked at his shoes and brooded. “What do you think I should do, Tom?”
Tom chewed on his lip and willed himself to relax. “First of all, these pictures don’t actually prove anything. They are circumstantial, and nothing more.”
“And the documents?”
“They don’t prove any of Hammet’s charges, either.”
“So?”
“So, they’re not relevant. I think you should shred them.”
Mellert’s brow furrowed. “I doubt Casey Hammet would see it that way.”
“I’m sure you’re right about that.” He looked Mellert in the eye. “What are you going to do?”
“What any bishop worth his salt would do in my position,” Mellert said. “Pray.”
Tom turned the FedEx package over, and in a moment of clarity, took note of the sender. Committing it to memory, he handed the envelope back to Mellert.
“That sounds like an excellent plan,” he said.
26
“WHO THE HELL WAS THAT?” asked Terry.
“Ah didn’t recognize ’im,” Dylan offered. “Did any of y’all?” No one had. The voice had been low, gruff, and hard.
“I don’t think we can waste any time,” Richard announced. “I’m not going to believe that Mikael is dead until I see it. Until then, we have one lead. Let’s follow it up.”
“What do you propose?” asked Terry.
“I say we go to this address, knock on the door, and ask for our friar back,” Richard answered testily.
“It’s not a subtle plan,” noted Terry.
“Fuck subtle. For all we know, Mikael’s in danger. Even if he hasn’t been physically harmed, he’s probably not in a warded environment, which means that whatever happened to Kat’s brother—”
“Is happening to him,” finished Kat. “Oh God!”
“Dylan, Terry, let’s go,” said Richard, grabbing a coat.
Dylan gave Susan a peck, and in moments the friars were winding their way through the Berkeley neighborhoods toward I-80. It was a grim and quiet ride, but it passed quickly, and within three-quarters of an hour they were pulling into the Lower Haight.
Terry looked up from the address on the scrap of paper. “It’s 2620…” he mused aloud. “Next block.” Dylan drove slowly, passing numerous liquor stores, sleeping winos, trendy coffee bistros. “That’s it, there.” Almost rolling to a stop, the three looked up from the driver’s side windows at a criminally neglected Victorian. Its paint—which had probably been a salmon color in the distant past—was peeling, and black cloth adorned the inside of its windows.
“Okay, let’s park,” said Richard, feeling his heart rate pick up the pace. Dylan jabbed the accelerator to circle the block, when Terry squealed.
“If you must be such a sissy, can you please do it at farther remove from my ear?” Richard complained, shaking his ear canal with his finger.
“It’s Mikael’s car, look!”
Plainly, it was his battered Tercel. Dylan turned to look both of them in the face, his eyes registering concern. “Don’t panic. Just park,” Richard said. “Let’s check it out.”
“There’s a place, half a block up, on the left. Quick!”
“Ah, see it,” said Dylan, speeding up and whipping an illegal U in the middle of the street. “Thank you, Jesus.”
“No,” corrected Terry impishly, “Thank you, Baby Jesus.”
Dylan parked in the narrow space in one try, and Richard silently marveled at his prowess as they jogged to Mikael’s car. Terry peered in and squinted. Then he tried the doors, but they were locked. “Holy Christ,” he muttered.
“What?”
“Well, the doors are locked, but the keys are inside. See?” Dylan leaned over and peered through the glass. Sure enough, the keys were hanging from the ignition.
“What do you think happened?” asked Richard.
“Well, knowing Mikael”—Terry straightened up and made a face—“I’d say he went to the john and accidentally locked his keys in the car. Then, when he ran out of fish gall, he went into a dissociative state—”
“From the demon activity,” added Dylan.
“Exactly. He probably fainted, and, well, my guess is that someone called an ambulance.”
“Right.” Richard snapped open his cell phone and speed dialed the friary. Susan picked up the phone. “Susan, we found Mikael’s car. It’s empty. We think he succumbed to the demon, and fainted. Our best guess is that he’s in a coma in some hospital. Can you call the emergency rooms in the vicinity of the Lower Haight? Atta girl.” He snapped the phone closed and replaced it in his pocket. “She and Kat are gonna cover the whole city.”
“Good move,” nodded Dylan, still peering into the car. “Terry, these wards still in effect?”
Terry ran a hand along the side of the car, perambulating it with his eyes closed. “They’re fading now, but they’re intact.”
Richard was standing on the edge of the sidewalk, staring across the street at the moldy Victorian. Terry noticed and went to stand by him, taking his arm. “You doin’ okay?”
Richard looked down at him and nodded. He returned his gaze to the house, and his eyes narrowed. “We gotta go in.”
Dylan joined them, placing his own hand on Richard’s shoulder. “Hey, dude, whatcha thinking?”
“I’m thinking of doing some serious hurt to someone.”
“Waal, let’s find out what we’re dealing with first. Maybe we oughta—”
Without another word, Richard strode off across the street toward the Victorian. His long strides had Terry nearly jogging, and Dylan puffing a few steps behind. In a few moments, however, they were all standing on the porch, rotted timber beneath their feet groaning slightly, exposed nails threatening tetanus.
Richard pounded on the door and hopped up and down on the balls of his feet.
“Dude, maybe we oughta think this through a little, first?” Dylan continued. “We can still ditch—”
But then they couldn’t. The door swung open, and a young man roughly their own age stuck his head out. His hair was midnight black and as unruly as Mikael’s typically was. A scar split his cheek, and his eyes widened at the sight of three tonsured friars in black habit. “I’m sorry,” he said, “we don’t give to religious institutions.” He made to close the door.
Richard thrust his foot in the door, blocking its cl
osure. “We’re not an institution,” he said, his eyes steely and hard. “We’re a motherfucking force of nature, and you would do well to fear us.”
The young man froze, uncertain. Richard took advantage of his surprise and leveled a shoulder into the door, knocking the man backward. Richard didn’t hesitate for a moment, but forced his way in, kneeling on the steps by the young man’s head, taking his collar in his fists. Dylan and Terry edged themselves inside and closed the door behind them to avoid curious onlookers.
“Dude,” Dylan began, but Richard was hearing none of it.
He knocked the young man’s head against the painted wooden steps, not hard enough to hurt him but plenty hard enough to get his attention. “I wanna know where my friar is, shit-fucker.”
“What?” the young man wailed, clearly scared now.
“We got a novice friar who’s been watching your house. He’s gone missing. I wanna know where…he…is.” He punctuated each the final three words by slamming the young man’s head against the step in succession.
“Please, I don’t know what—who—”
A voice called from the top of the stairs. “You’re Richard Kinney.”
Richard stopped and looked up. At the top of the steep and narrow staircase, a lone figure hovered. “Who wants to know?”
“I…I never thought I’d meet you. I’m so pleased.”
Richard looked at Dylan and Terry. Dylan shrugged. “I didn’t know you had fans, dude.”
The voice called down again. “If you can find it within yourself to leave off assaulting my fritter there, please come up and have a drink. I’ve been dying to talk to you for the longest time.”
Richard released the shirt, and the young man curled into the fetal position to protect himself. Standing up, Richard nodded at Dylan and Terry and took to the stairs.
At the top of the stairs, Richard held the rail and stood still to let his eyes adjust. Gradually, the room came into focus: A motley assembly of threadbare couches and overstuffed Victorian-era chairs stood against the walls, while opposite him stood a tall antique desk, the kind that was raised up about two feet higher than regular desks and required a barstool to sit at it properly. Near the desk, the blacked-out window was adorned with velvet curtains, dusty and faded pink with age.
