by Nic Widhalm
Steadying his hand and taking a deep breath, the priest continued to cut the soaked shirt off the stranger’s torso. The mark could wait.
After the stranger was scrubbed and covered in towels, Valdis stumbled to the bed and collapsed onto the hard mattress. The clock said it was nearing dawn. He groaned inwardly. Only a few hours until Mass. He wasn’t expected to perform the sacrament—Father Gregory, a Dominican, handled that duty—but Valdis was required to attend. The priest sighed, and closed his eyes. Oh well. It won’t be the first time I’ve dozed off during Gregory’s sermon.
Valdis had almost drifted to sleep when he heard stirring next to him. His eyes snapped open and he sat up, turning to meet the stranger’s eyes.
“Uh, hello,” the priest said, his voice thick and clumsy.
“Hello,” the man replied. He stripped away the towels and stared at his bare flesh. “I don’t suppose you have my clothes?”
“Sorry,” Valdis smiled sheepishly. “They were a mess. Had to toss them.”
The man blinked, then shrugged.
And in that blink Valdis couldn’t help noticing what magnificent eyes the stranger possessed. Now that the man was awake it was impossible to ignore how strikingly handsome he was. Tall and muscled, his hair fell in perfect waves down his graceful neck, curling just a bit at the shoulders. His face was hard, chiseled, and his eyes—his eyes were a deep, shadowy gray that seemed to drain all color from the room.
After a moment Valdis realized he was staring, and blushed. The man laughed and shook his head. “It’s okay,” he said. “I’m sure I look awful after that…after what happened.”
Why didn’t I see it, Valdis thought, still blushing. He was so bruised, so broken when I found him. And now…
And now the stranger looked like he had a mild sunburn. His skin was red and splotchy in a few places, but the bruises and broken bones the priest had seen in the alley, and again when he had dragged the man inside, were gone.
“Your skin—” Valdis motioned helplessly at the stranger’s torso.
The man looked down at his bare body. “Yeah?”
Valdis’ mouth hung open, at a loss for words. “You…healed,” he finally said.
“Did I?” The man looked at his reddish skin, the rash fading even as Valdis watched, and shrugged again. “I’ve always been a fast healer.”
Now isn’t the time. You can ask about the symbol and the bruises later.
“I’m Father Valdis” the priest leaned over, extending his hand. “Anthony to my friends.”
The man grasped Valdis’ hand. “Hunter Friskin. Thanks for saving my life, Father. I guess ‘pleased to meet you’ doesn’t cut it.”
Valdis blushed again—why do I keep doing that?—and smiled. “Just doing God’s work. Or, well, trying at least. My room’s been adjacent to that alley for sixteen years, and you’re the first person I’ve managed to help.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“No, it’s true.” Valdis sat up straighter, warming to the conversation. He felt like a kid at a sleepover, sitting here in his bed with the blankets pulled to his chest. “I’ve never been good at confrontation, and the kind of things that go on out there are—well, you know.”
Hunter gave Valdis another shining smile, and the priest felt himself grin in return. The man’s infectious.
“Well, whatever you are, thank you.”
Valdis nodded. “Happy to help.” He pushed aside the covers, sparing a brief, forlorn look at the clock reading four A.M, and climbed to his feet. “Let’s get you some clothes, my friend. Then you can tell me what brought you to an alley in the middle of the night wearing hospital scrubs.
It was Hunter’s turn to blush. “I—”
Valdis held up a finger. “Wait. Clothes first. Afterward, we can talk somewhere more comfortable than a stone floor.”
“Thanks.”
Valdis smiled, then walked to his closet and rifled through his clothes. The priest was a short man, but the church had been cutting its budget over the past few years and its officers could no longer afford tailored robes. Consequently, each member of the clergy found themselves with garments of all shapes and sizes. Valdis, smaller than most men, had discovered he was pretty good with a needle.
“This should do,” he removed a long black robe from the wooden closet. “It’ll be short, but I think it’s closer than anything else we’ll find. At least at this time of night.”
Valdis tossed the robe to Hunter, and turned as the man dressed. The priest was lucky that, tired as he was, he’d forgotten to change before falling into bed; he didn’t think he’d have the energy right now to pull on a new set of clothes.
Valdis turned after a minute, and almost burst out in laughter. Hunter, long-limbed and broad-shouldered, was literally bulging at the seams of the cotton robe. The outfit squeezed him at the shoulder, bulged awkwardly in the middle, and was a foot short at the end.
He looked like a gawky fourteen-year-old.
“You look great,” Valdis lied.
Hunter flashed a humorless smile. “Thanks. Never felt better.”
Valdis led the way to the door, and opened it to the corridor beyond. “So, would you like the grand tour?”
Hunter hunched over for a moment, then straightened. “That would be great. I’ve always wanted to look inside one of these old beauties.”
“Oh Lord, forgive me. You must be exhausted.”
Hunter shook his head, but the priest could see the slump in the large man’s shoulders, and his eyes were having trouble focusing. Valdis beckoned him through the door. “Let’s postpone the tour. Why don’t I show you the library?”
“So, what brings a man in hospital scrubs to this part of town?” Asked Valdis, easing himself into a large, overstuffed brown chair. Reaching to the side table, he opened a small bottle of brandy and poured two fingers into a pair of dusty glasses. Technically he was supposed to receive communion on an empty stomach, but Valdis didn’t think Jesus would mind. It was only one glass, after all. He took a small sip and passed the other snifter to the large stranger.
Hunter took the glass without looking down, his eyes wide as he scanned the massive array of surrounding bookshelves. Valdis couldn’t help but feel a rush of pride as he watched Hunter take in the library. The priest had spent most of his fifteen years at Saint Catherine’s in the library, and the results were apparent. The gigantic room sprawled several hundred feet, and was filled top to bottom with both new and ancient books. They covered a wide range of subjects, from religion to taxidermy, and Valdis nursed a secret ambition to one day open the library to the general public and convert the church from an ancient ruin to a center for discussion and education. In many ways the work had already begun.
Already the walls had transitioned from rotted dry wall to a deep, wooden finish. It hadn’t been easy. Valdis had to pull a few strings, including a threat to stop publishing anymore of his articles, the most popular of which—his unorthodox translation of Revelation—had appeared in Time, Newsweek, and Playboy.
Consequently, Valdis had procured a large sum of money from the Diocese, and had spent it on his beloved library. Importing rare books, building new shelves, knocking out walls to expand the floor, and acquiring several large, plush reading chairs.
Hunter, who was still looking around the large room with an expression of delight and amusement, turned back to Valdis. “Sorry, what was that?”
“We don’t see many medical workers out here. If you don’t mind my asking, what hospital are you affiliated with?”
Hunter’s look of delight faded, and he started to fidget with his priest’s robes. “To be honest, the clothes weren’t mine,” he said sheepishly.
Valdis smiled inwardly, not really surprised, but only said, “Really?”
Hunter laughed. “I know, probably not a shock. I’m not sure what the hospital did with my clothes, but I just wanted to get out, so I—” Hunter stopped, his eyes narrowing. “You really want me to con
tinue? You don’t want me to leave?”
“What?” Valdis sat back. “Why on Earth would I want you to leave? I just saved your life, didn’t I?”
Hunter eyed the priest warily. “Normally people are…normally they want me to leave by now. I can, if you want,” he pushed back the chair and made to stand. “I don’t mind.”
Valdis held up his hand. “No! Absolutely not, I insist you stay. Besides, you never really answered my question.”
Hunter looked like he still might leave, but after a moment settled back into his chair. He looked around the empty library, then back at Valdis. “Do we have that priest-confession-secrecy thing going on here?”
“If you’d like to make a confession we can retire to the sanctuary.”
“No, I just…I’m not sure how much I should say.”
Valdis took another sip of brandy, giving himself time to think. The wrong words could drive this man away, and Valdis would never get to ask his real questions, like “Where did you get that symbol?” Or, “How did you stumble on the one place in Denver where you’d find a priest who knew your secret?”
“Hunter, you can say whatever you’d like. We’ll keep this between the two of us,” Valdis finally said. Keep it simple. Let him come to you.
Hunter relaxed, and took his first drink of brandy. He raised the glass to his lips, then spluttered and coughed as the rich burgundy liquid reached his throat. “Sorry, I’m not much of a drinker.”
Now that’s a surprise, Valdis thought. I would have pegged a man like this to spend half his nights in bars.
“Swirl it behind your front teeth, then let it slide down your throat. Slowly.” Valdis nodded approvingly as Hunter took another sip, this time making it all the way down.
“See,” the priest said. “Not bad when you get used to it.”
“Yeah. Thank you.” Hunter lowered the glass to his lap, cradling it with both hands. “I mean, thank you for everything, Father. The clothes, bringing me inside, the brandy…” He trailed off.
Now, Valdis thought. Bring him in gently.
“What’s on your mind?” Valdis asked—and really, how many times had he phrased that question before? How many confessions started just this way? Like a stray cat. Give him some milk, then step back. When he realizes it’s warm inside he’ll come in on his own.
“It’s just this day. You absolutely wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.”
“Tell me,” Valdis said. And Hunter did. After he finished Valdis sat quietly while the large man took another swig of brandy. He coughed quietly, then looked at Valdis like a guilty man awaiting a verdict.
“Well,” Valdis finally said. “It sounds like you’re one unlucky man, Mr. Friskin.”
“I didn’t think priests believed in luck.”
Valdis snorted. “I think you’ll find I’m more of a scholar than a priest. That’s what originally attracted me to the clergy, at any rate.”
“So you think that’s it? Bad luck? Because I’ll tell you Father, I feel more like a man cursed than some schmuck who broke a mirror a few years back.”
Valdis tried not to show his excitement. “I don’t follow. Cursed?”
The nervous, caged look came back into Hunter’s eyes, and he shot another quick glance around the room. He looked back at Valdis, and suddenly the priest’s excitement evaporated. The inviting, gray wells of Hunter’s eyes had filled with a dark menace. A veil of predatory fervor that made Valdis suddenly wish it was daytime.
“Father, I left a few things out.”
Valdis swallowed a large gulp of brandy and averted his gaze. “Oh? Like what?”
“The hospital said I tried to kill myself. That they were restraining me for my own good. But I’ve never thought about suicide. I may not be the happiest man to walk the Earth, but I’m pretty attached to my life and I’m not planning on ending it anytime soon.”
Valdis nodded sagely, trying to shake off his impeding sense of doom. “Well, if it wasn’t suicide—”
“They said I did things to that corpse. Father, that corpse did things to me!”
“I’m sorry, the corpse—”
“The corpse attacked me.”
Valdis knew he should be surprised, even a bit worried. A strange man, obviously escaped from some hospital, was telling Valdis a corpse attacked him. But he wasn’t surprised. The priest kept thinking about the symbol decorating Hunter’s arm, and the bruises that had miraculously faded in only a few hours. “Alright,” said Valdis. “I’m listening.”
Hunter’s eyes widened. “You don’t think I’m crazy?”
“I didn’t say that. Let’s assume I’m withholding judgment for a moment. Tell me why a dead woman—a Sunday school teacher, right?—would attack you?”
“I think it has something to do with the visions,” Hunter said.
“Come again?”
“I’ve been having these dreams kinda off and on for the past few months. Real weird shit—er, sorry Father—where I’m fighting…things. All medieval. There are swords and spears, and it looks like the whole world is covered in blood. Like some kind of fucked up movie, pardon the language.
“Well, dreams aren’t that un—”
“That’s just it,” Hunter interrupted. “They started out as dreams, and that was alright I guess, but this last week I’ve been seeing them in the daylight. When I’m awake.”
God, be with me. “I see.” Valdis took a sip from his brandy.
“I get these headaches,” Hunter continued. “Bad ones, like my brain’s trying to leap out of my skull, and then every time, just a few minutes after I start to feel the pain, I see these figures. The sky turns red, and everything seems hazy and twisted together, like a Dali painting. And I hear these words.”
Valdis put down his drink and leaned closer. The priest was obsessed with words, always had been, and had made most of his life’s work translating obscure and dead languages. “Words?”
“Well, not in the beginning. At first it’s just buzzing. Or sometimes it’s a person, but what’s coming from their lips sounds like a bad radio signal. You know what white noise sounds like?”
“Hunter, I’m a priest, not an idiot.”
“Yeah, alright. It sounds like static at first, and then some kind of language comes out, only the words aren’t matching anyone’s lips. And then, just when it feels like I’m watching some foreign flick, I hear a phrase or two I understand.”
Valdis was at the edge of his chair. “What words, Hunter?”
“Well, that’s the strange part.” Hunter looked off in the distance, his eyes wide and unfocused. “They don’t make any sense.”
“Words like ‘Legion?’”
Hunter’s eyes snapped to Valdis, and the priest realized he’d made a mistake.
“How do you know that,” Hunter whispered, his eyes taking on the predatory gleam again.
“It was…it was something you said. Earlier. In the alley.” Valdis leaned back, suddenly anxious to put distance between him and this large, dangerous stranger.
God almighty, am I nuts? I don’t have a clue about this guy, he could be a serial killer for all I know. Those men passed out in the alley, they’re probably there because of him…and I brought him inside. A bead of sweat slid down Valdis’ cheek.
As the silence lengthened and Hunter’s gaze intensified, Valdis tried to think of ways to leave the room. He could scream, but it was still too early for Lauds and most of his brothers were asleep in their cells. The priest would be dead before he had a chance to cry for help. Valdis looked nervously around the room, trying to spy a way out, when Hunter suddenly stood. A small gasp escaped the priest’s lips, and he flinched as Hunter moved past his chair.
“Thanks for the clothes, Father, but if it’s all the same to you I’ll be on my way.”
Valdis cowered in his chair, eyes lowered. “Well…if you think it’s…”
“I do.” Hunter said, turning and striding into the corridor. As the door closed Valdis looked up, but
he was too late to stop the fleeing figure. Idiot. He cursed himself. You had one chance to get your answers—ONE—and you piss it away because you got scared?
The priest squared his shoulders, swallowed the rest of the brandy, and hurried out the door. Running into the large stone hallway, he could just make out the large man’s back as he exited the steel entranceway to the alley.
“Hunter!” Valdis yelled, but the door was already closing. Rushing to the entranceway, Valdis threw his weight against the metal door and flung it open to the alley. He could see Hunter making his way across the garbage strewn street, brightening in the first rays of dawn.
Valdis hurried after him, shouting “Hunter,” again, but to no avail. The man had already turned a corner, and by the time Valdis reached the intersection he had disappeared.
“Great,” the priest muttered. Turning, he made his way back to the door, but stopped when he reached the two jumbled figures he’d seen the night before. In the budding daylight he was able to make out more details. First, the men weren’t breathing. And second, the bruises on their necks were darkening into…
“God be with me,” the priest whispered, and ran back to the cathedral.
CHAPTER FOUR
Detective Jackie Riese arrived at Denver Memorial to a sweaty Chief of Medicine and a bad case of indigestion.
Wincing, she tried not to rub her stomach as the Chief of Medicine, a man with the unfortunate name “Dr. Moss,” told her once again the details of the case she was already calling “The Mortician Murder.” She had a thing for alliteration, and didn’t much care that Friskin was technically a beautician and not a mortician.
“We didn’t think the man was violent,” the doctor said for what must have been the hundredth time. He kept repeating it like it might provide some measure of protection against a law suit.
