by Brian Rella
October 19, 2015
Beauchamp, Louisiana
The room smelled of stale cigarettes and the walls were stained the color of whiskey in spots, but Frank had slept in worse rooms.
He dropped the room key on the nightstand, his duffel bag on the bed, and walked to the window. He noticed the flowery blue wallpaper covering the far wall was peeling as he approached the window.
He tugged at the vinyl shade. The roller caught, sending the shade straight up, revealing a grimy window and the ancient rusted black iron fire escape Frank had noticed outside. Both obscured his view as he glanced up and down Main Street. He pulled the shade back down to the sill.
The room was small and thrown together with mixed and matched furniture from decades past. It reminded Frank of a yard sale. He pulled back the covers on the bed and pressed the mattress. Its springs creaked under the pads of his fingers and his back groaned at the thought of stretching out on the thick aluminum coils.
He took off his shirt and tossed it in the chair in the corner of the room. Unzipping the duffel bag, he took out his 9mm, made sure it was loaded, flicked the safety on and off, and placed it on the nightstand in its holster.
He sat and the bed squeaked. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he checked to see if he had any messages. Brennan had called. Now was as good a time as any to check in. Then he would take a shower and sleep.
He pulled the tablet from his duffel bag, opened it, and tapped the program to launch the secure video chat to The Order’s New York City headquarters. A screen opened and text scrolled down the screen as the app went through its secure login protocol. After a moment, the video came to life. A man with dark black stubble and weary, bloodshot eyes squinted at Frank. He looked like he hadn’t slept for days, but he always looked that way.
“Brennan,” Frank said.
“Frank. Good. You made it. Accommodations as expected?” Brennan said, a smirk curling up the side of his face.
“As usual,” Frank said, holding his tongue.
“Any word on Olga yet?”
“None. But there’s a media circus outside the bookstore. I guess there aren’t too many murders here.” He paused, then added, “We should never have sent her down here.”
“Everything’s twenty-twenty in hindsight. We all have our orders, Francis.”
I hate when he calls me Francis. “Yes, sir, Father Brennan, sir,” he replied. Orders from The Order. This fucking job sometimes…
He wanted to ream Brennan out. He wanted to jump through the screen and rip his god-damned head off. But Frank knew Brennan was right. He didn’t always agree with The Order, but he and the other Watchers swore to follow and protect. There had been too many cowboys in the past; the organization and structure of The Order of Watchers was necessary. That meant following rules and orders, even when you didn’t agree with them.
This was the life of a Watcher. The instructions came down and you did as you were told, or bad shit happened. There were greater powers at work here; more than one Watcher could understand and keep track of. Frank knew that, and so he did what they asked him, and most times it worked out. Most times.
Things didn’t work out so well for Olga, though, did they?
“There something else you want to say, Francis?” The words hung in the air. There was a lot he wanted to say, but Frank knew it was pointless. Brennan just followed orders like Frank did. There was no point in giving him a hard time about it.
“I’m set, Padre. Gimme the details again.”
“You need to read the reports, Frank. That’s what the tech and intel is for. So you know the details before you get to the scene.”
Frank said nothing. He just stared deadpan into the screen and waited until Brennan coughed up the info.
Brennan sighed and glanced down. Frank heard papers shuffling and crinkling in the background.
“Olga Platt. Sent to Beauchamp, Louisiana. Her orders were to set up a new safe house to hide the Arraziel book.”
“What was wrong with the old safe house?”
“Compromised when archaeologists in Israel excavated on the West Bank. We had to get the book out of there and to a new location.”
“Why here? We already have enough to contend with in this hemisphere.”
“You know as much as I do, Frank. The Order thinks there’s something bigger going on and is shifting and consolidating artifacts around the world.”
Frank knew that, too. There was a consolidation happening. All the artifacts, books, and relics of the Second Death were being moved. That much concentration of dark energy in so few parts of the world was a magnet for all the psycho cultists and dark forces in the world to come together.
Maybe that’s the plan.
“Go on,” Frank said.
“She arrived several days ago. Checked in with me a couple of times. That was the last anyone heard from her. She started setting up the bookstore and the book was to remain there, under her protection. Everything was going to plan as far as I know.”
“Brilliant idea to use a bookstore as a front,” Frank said. “Hide the book in plain sight.”
“Drop the attitude. You’re not helping.”
Frank was tired and grumpy and wanted that shower. He bit back his sarcasm and focused. “From the looks of it, she got the store set up. I saw them pull a body out on a stretcher. Might be hers.”
“Might be. Like I said, she’s missing and the internet spider picked up the headline in the Picayune Daily about the murder of the bookstore owner.”
“And now here I am. See, I didn’t need to read. I’ve got you,” Frank said and cracked a wise-ass smirk at Brennan, who looked unamused.
“Cut the shit, Frank. There’s other important information in the intel package. Read it before you go out in the field.”
“I will. I’m going to the bookstore first, then I’ll to go to the morgue to ID the body. If it’s Olga I’ll report back to you ASAP.”
“Right. We need to retrieve the book. If someone let Arraziel out – ”
“I’m on it. I’ll check in tomorrow morning and let you know what I turn up.”
“Wait. There’s more.”
Great, Frank thought. What else could have happened in the less than twenty-four hours since this happened?
“A boy from Hell’s Kitchen. He’s a Watcher, Frank.”
Frank’s interest piqued. He knitted his brows.
“Who confirmed it?”
“I did.”
“Did you recruit him yet?”
“No. He’s a boy. I’m meeting with the mother as soon as she can get here. She thinks it’s possession. She’s wrong.”
The memories of Frank’s childhood rushed through his mind. He felt warm all of a sudden.
“The mother’s name is Sarah. She approached me after Mass. Asked me questions about exorcism. Then I found out about the boy.”
“It was good she came to you. Do you know how far along he is?”
“Not yet, but from what the mother tells me, his powers have been manifesting for a while. I’ll need to meet him to find out and if there are any…complications.”
“Have there been any attacks on him or the family?”
“Don’t think so.”
“How old?”
“Fourteen.”
Still just a kid. There’s still time to train him.
Frank felt sorry for the kid. He probably thought he was losing his mind. Frank had been lucky, in a sense. The Order found him while he was young and before his powers had manifested. At least he’d had The Order around to help him understand what was happening to him: the visions, the energy pulsing through him, the out-of-body experiences. This kid had none of that. No guidance. That, coupled with the normal hormones of puberty, was a dangerous cocktail of emotion and power. It had been hard on Frank with training and support. If The Order hadn’t found him when they had, he might be dead or damned. He couldn’t imagine what a kid would be going through on his own.
�
��There was an incident with the boy several months ago. The father couldn’t take it. He bailed on the family, leaving the mother alone with the two boys.”
A mother with two boys. Screams echoed in the back of Frank’s mind and his skin prickled as the memory of a recent vision flickered through his thoughts.
“The other boy, is he a Watcher too?”
“From what the mother said to me, no. It’s just the one.”
“Where are they now?”
“Home. Kid’s name is Jack. The older brother is Nic. You should meet them all when you get back.”
“When I get back. Maybe.”
“I’d like you to.”
Frank did not respond. He never got involved in recruiting. Why now?
“It would help him, I think. And his mother. The situation is…tough. You know how it is.”
Brennan buttoned the top button of his shirt and stuck in the white clerical collar. Frank looked at the clock in the corner of the tablet screen. It was nearly time for five o’clock Mass.
“Yeah, I get it. I get it. All right, set it up for when I get back. I need to get some rest. Long night tonight.”
“I gotta go too. Church. Frank, be careful.”
“Always,” Frank said and closed the tablet cover.
He looked around at the rest of the room as a feeling of depression crept into his head.
Poor kid doesn’t know what he’s in for.
6
JESSIE
October 17, 2015
Chicago, Illinois
“North Michigan Avenue, miss,” the taxi driver said. “Forty-five dollars.”
Jessie reached into her bag and pulled out the cash she had taken from Steve and her mother. It wasn’t much; more than she had ever held before, but still just two hundred dollars at most. She chose the credit card she had used to pay for the airline ticket instead.
“Here,” she said, passing it to the driver. The man swiped the card.
After a moment, the driver looked back at her with a frown, handing the card back to her. “Declined,” he said. “You have cash?”
Jessie sensed his annoyance. She pulled another card from her mother’s wallet and passed it to him, hoping it would not be declined.
He frowned and sighed. “Come on, lady. You pay cash,” he said bothered.
Jessie felt her anger simmer. “No,” she said. “Run the card.”
The man sucked his teeth, swiped the new card, and after a moment, Jessie heard the receipt printing. He passed the paper and pen back to her. She scribbled her mother’s name on the receipt and exited the taxi, relieved the other card had worked.
The sounds of the busy city reverberated through her as she stepped from the car onto the curb. A horn blared behind her, startling her. The driver gave her a nasty look as she stood on the curb.
The taxi pulled away, its tires squealing, and the few cars that had been waiting behind it rushed by her.
Everyone is in such a hurry. Jeesh!
Jessie looked up and down the street. Buildings rose all around her, scraping the sky above. The tall buildings blocked out the setting sun, sending long shadows across the pavement. It was a little after 5:00 PM and people rushed to and fro. Jessie backed up and took it all in – the tall buildings, the concrete, the mass of people, the traffic, the street smells. She was invigorated and overwhelmed with so much information flooding her senses. Her chest rose and fell rapidly with the buzz of the big city.
She backed into something solid – a raised flower bed in front of a building. The sign on the building said Water Tower Place. Unsure of where to go, she sat down on the edge of the flowerbed, watching people pass by. Her head swiveled back and forth at all the activity. Several young girls walked into a store to her left and she noticed the building was actually an enormous shopping mall. One store caught her attention.
American Girl Place.
Jessie had heard about American Girl before, but had never seen a store or been inside one. She found herself walking through the front door.
Beyond the entrance were dozens of dolls on display in every size, color, and dress imaginable. Dolls with long hair; dolls with short hair; blond hair and blue eyes, brown hair and brown eyes; dolls with white skin, brown skin, black skin and every other combination one could think of.
Girls of all ages roamed the store, joyfully chatting with their mothers, fathers, grandmothers, aunts, and others who held their hands and walked with them up and down the aisles. Jessie was struck by the adoration and happiness on so many little faces.
She continued further into the store, strolling down an aisle, mesmerized by the little dolls all around her. She picked up a doll with long brown hair and blue eyes that wore a purple cardigan. A subtle smile spread across the doll’s face; its lifeless eyes stared at her, through her. She placed the doll back on the shelf, glanced around the show room, and wandered further into the store, wide-eyed.
“This is my baby,” a little voice said to her right. She turned and glanced down. A blond girl, no more than five, had her arms wrapped around a doll that was a miniature of her. She squeezed the doll tightly to her chest, hugging her with all the strength in her pint-size arms.
“Is that the one you want, Lilly?” an adult voice came from around the aisle.
“Oh yes, Mommy,” the girl said. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
A mother dressed in expensive designer clothes came around the corner of the aisle. The mother and daughter looked like they belonged on the cover of a fashion magazine.
“Do you want to pick out another outfit for her, sweetheart?” the mother asked.
“Oh, can I, Mommy! Thanks!” Lilly shouted gleefully. She took her mother’s hand and skipped with her dolly in tow toward a clothes rack with outfits for the dolls.
Jessie smiled and continued back through the store, noticing an escalator toward the back. A sign above the escalator told her Bedding and Furniture was upstairs and she decided to take a peak.
At the top of the escalator, she entered a showroom filled with child-sized furniture in a rainbow of pastel colors.
Single beds with high headboards, wardrobes, dressers, and bookshelves with American Girl books created life-sized dollhouse bedrooms. Young girls squealed and played on the beds with their dolls as adults spoke with salespeople.
A brown-haired girl, about five, sat on a pastel-pink bedspread having a conversation with her doll while her mother spoke to a salesperson about delivery options. The girl saw Jessie watching her, smiled, and turned her doll toward Jessie, waving the doll’s arm at her. Jessie grinned and waved back.
Meandering through the fairytale bedroom displays, Jessie saw similar scenes throughout the second floor of the store. Coming to the end of the showroom, she glimpsed the back of the store, which exited into the mall. A brown-skinned girl with tight curly hair held onto her doll with one hand, and the hand of a man with her other. Jessie stared at the pair, unconsciously following them.
“Thank you, Daddy!” she said.
The man glanced down at her, beaming. “You’re welcome, princess. I love you.”
“Love you too, Daddy!”
He scooped her up into his arms, and she buried her face in his neck.
A lump rose in Jessie’s throat and her eyes stung with tears. Sadness overcame her and she ran for the exit, past the father and daughter, and into the hall of the mall as tears rolled down her cheeks.
7
FRANK
October 19, 2015
Beauchamp, Louisiana
Frank sighed. At least it has its own bathroom.
The drive to Louisiana was long, but Frank was used to long drives. He hated flying and refused to step foot in a plane unless someone had a gun to his head. And then, only maybe.
New York to Louisiana took twenty hours give or take, and he had only stopped for food and cat naps on the road. Frank needed real sleep before he went out tonight.
He pushed the soap dispenser next to the sink, r
ubbed his hands together under the cold water, and inspected himself in the mirror. His jet-black hair, sharply cut and brushed neatly when he left, was a tangled mess now. The skin under his eyes looked purple and bruised from years of sleep deprivation. Two days of stubble shadowed his cheeks. At least his beard and mustache appeared neat and well kept.
Crow’s feet crept in around his eyes and lines were becoming more pronounced on his forehead. I think my hairline is receding.
His skin was pale as much from lack of sun as lack of sleep. He cupped his hands under the water, closed his eyes, splashed the cold water on his face, and on the back of his neck. It trickled down his back and chest, the cool sensation refreshing Frank’s weary body.
He was getting too old for this work, and he thought about retirement for the second time in as many weeks. The star-shaped scar on his chest caught his eye in the mirror, and the fantasy of retirement faded abruptly. Memories flashed through his mind of previous investigations and encounters. Watchers don’t get to retire. We don’t have that choice.
He dried himself with a coarse towel and went to the bed to lie down. Kicking off his boots, he picked up his gun, and lay his head back on the deflated pillows. The springs squealed under his two-hundred-pound frame and poked at his spine. He closed his eyes and immediately fell into a deep, but fitful sleep.
The glow from the small, square windows of the front door spilled onto the sidewalk.
Something’s wrong.
He ran up the front steps and burst through the door, his heart beating madly in his chest. Adrenaline made his arms tingle as he stepped over the threshold and into the hall.
The kitchen.
Hazy red light flickered as he moved around the stairs, drawing shadows on the hard wood floor. His mind was moving fast, but his movements were sluggish, like he was wading through neck-deep water.
He rounded the corner of the stairs and was standing behind two teenage boys. One boy looked no more than fourteen and was crying. The other was older, but not quite a man, and he was screaming, “Mom! Mom! Mom!”
