Agents of Shadow (The Keepers of White Book 1)

by Richard Crofton

  Father Paul eyed the man with a disapproving, “don’t touch” look; the same that parents often give to their toddlers when they reach for the cookie jar without permission. “These are my mother’s ashes, son; I’ve only recently acquired them.”

  The homeless man lowered his head shamefully. “Oh. Sorry, Father.”

  The priest took his eyes off the man and placed the box in the upper right corner drawer of his desk. “If there’s nothing else,” he mentioned as he locked the drawer with a small key, then immediately slipping it in his pocket, “perhaps you can wait outside of Shepherd Hall. As I said, I’ll be there shortly.”

  The man nodded. “Ok, I’ll just hang out and kill time, tradin’ stocks on my I-pad.” he snorted sarcastically, with a shrug of his dusty shoulders. Before he turned to leave, he acknowledged Madsen again. “I’ll try not ta get any dirt on your car when I pass it.”

  The two colleagues remained quiet as they listened to the clomping of the tattered boots from the man’s limping walk, until they heard the main doorway open, then shut. “Well,” Professor Madsen began, “I’ll certainly be sitting as far from him as possible at Bible Study. You can’t blame me either, Paul. Did you see the way he was scratching his head? The poor bastard is probably infested with lice! Utterly repulsive! You should have lied and told him the session was cancelled tonight.”

  “I don’t think he would have believed me if I did. He’s a man who’s most likely accustomed to people denying they have what he’s asking for, just to try to get rid of him. Don’t let it ruin your evening; we get people like that from time to time. They have nothing to live for; lost souls with no purpose. Eventually they wander to whatever local church they can find, seeking answers or salvation. Comes with the territory, my friend.”

  Professor Madsen lowered his voice a bit. “Do you think he overheard anything we were talking about before?”

  The priest shook his head with his eyes rolled up. “Stephen,” he said with a sigh, “The man’s a bum. A beggar…”

  “He noticed the ashes…”

  “So? Is it that uncommon for a priest to have a box of ashes?”

  “The statue is uncommon. He noticed that too.”

  “Now you’re starting to sound like our dear chief of police.”

  Perhaps the priest was right. Perhaps Madsen was being a little paranoid. As repugnant as the man was, he was also the least threatening adult the professor ever laid eyes on; ridiculously amusing even. But Madsen decided he didn’t like the man. Maybe because he never had much tolerance for people who failed in life. Every man was responsible for his accomplishments as well as his failures. If this man was a failure, and he indisputably was, it was his own fault. The unfortunate of the world became so from their own obstacles that they were too weak or cowardly to overcome; therefore they would receive no pity or charity from him.

  Or maybe he was used to the luxuries of life, and being surrounded by the luxurious. This man was a piece of a puzzle that he was not used to having on his table. He was different. Anything different required tolerance and understanding; things he never had the inclination to exercise.

  Or maybe, it was the man’s eyes… they were as extraneous to Madsen as tolerance and understanding were. Yet he didn’t like the look of them, though he had no reason why. There was just something in them that gave him the slightest feeling of uneasiness; nothing worth mentioning, not without sounding even more like Chief Biddle than he already had, but just enough to allow Madsen the predetermination that he didn’t like the vagabond or his intrusive actions. Recalling the look in those orbs of fantastic, glacial blue steel, he felt that perchance a memory might stir from within, as if it were ensconced deep in a dark swimming pool at night with the lights off. You think something might be resting at the bottom, but it’s impossible to make out the size, shape, or color. Anyway, there was no point in delving into the crevices of his vast accumulation of memories over a tickle of Deja Vu that may or may not even be authentic.

  Father Paul could tell that Madsen was deep in thought, trying to decide if they should be worried. “Listen, Stephen. There was no lie in his face or voice when he told us that all he heard was laughing. If he happened to find the statue bizarre, and even if he actually overheard us, enough to be able to make sense of any of it; even if he did, so what? Who would he tell? Who would believe him, a homeless drunkard, whose brain is most likely half fried on whatever illegal substances he can get up his nose? He’d have better luck convincing the authorities that he was abducted by aliens who resembled Elvis Presley. The man’s not in his right mind, Stephen. Wouldn’t you say so?”

  Professor Madsen decided that Father Paul was right, as usual. He nodded in agreement, staring in the direction of the doorway where the man had exited. “He did use the word ‘potty.”

  Once again, the two friends broke out into laughter in the rectory office.

  Chapter XV

  Fifteen minutes passed before Father Paul, accompanied by Professor Madsen, made his way over to Shepherd Hall. When the two men arrived at the front doors of their destination, the homeless man was nowhere to be seen. Madsen scanned the area for him; a standard timer had already activated the lamps of the parking lot and outer buildings, even though the May evening was still young and offered a sufficient amount of light, in spite of an overcast sky, so visibility of the entire premises was not laborious. The professor crossed his fingers inside his pocket, hopeful that the disgusting vagabond had wandered off to pick half-empty beer bottles out of trashcans, or to return to whatever cardboard box he slept in.

  Nature had decided to decorate Lancaster County with a slight but constant drizzle, which entertained his wishful thinking that the man decided not to wait around and instead left to find shelter. He could tell that the priest was also curious as to the man’s whereabouts, for he also looked around the area once or twice before he unlocked the doors.

  They entered the building, and after Father Paul flicked on the light switch to the main hallway, they made their way to the large, open multipurpose room on their left. There was very little to look at in this plain looking area. A small rectangular protrusion of flooring at the back of the room indicated a mini stage, not suitable for any performances greater than lectures and speeches. Madsen noticed in the ceiling, above the stage, exposed a thin slit where a remote controlled, retractable screen most likely hibernated. Father Paul explained that Shepherd’s Hall was a building in which, many of the diverse extra-curricular activities run by some of the organizations formed within the church required the use of an LCD projector and screen. There were weekly movie nights hosted by the Church Youth Organization (CYO), and after many funerals and memorial services, families would often create slide shows on DVD’s: memorable pictures depicting moments in the lives of their departed loved ones, to be enjoyed by all the attendees who came to honor the memory of the recent dead.

  Though Madsen was honestly not engrossed in the priest’s informing him of the several, various examples of how church members used the facilities in Shepherd’s Hall, he politely nodded his head or encouraged him to continue with the occasional “I see,” because he understood that Father Paul had as much disinterest in enlightening him with it, but it was something casual and informal to do while they unfolded small metal chairs around the center of the room. It was much better, and safer to kill time with informal chatter when anyone could show up for the Bible Study at any time now. Not to mention the close call they had just experienced with the homeless man in the doorway to Father Paul’s office. Had the priest not taken notice of him as promptly as he did, or had it been someone who wasn’t missing half of his marbles, unlike the vagabond, who knows what may have been overheard concerning their concealed plans? Surely, the close call reminded both men to exercise a little more caution when not behind closed doors.

  The clanging sound of the bar-latched door that exited the main hallway echoed into the multi-purpose room. Both men stopped with the chairs and tur
ned toward the open doorway, anticipating the arrival of the wretch who had intruded on them earlier in the rectory. Instead, a more pleasant looking young woman entered, wearing tidy jeans and a dampened, green windbreaker with the hood over her head. Strands of long, blonde hair pressed against the sides of her face as they protruded from the protective hood. Father Paul offered a most sincere smile. “Well, hello there, Miss Panco! Still raining outside, I see.” He nodded at the watery evidence covering her windbreaker.

  “Only a drizzle, Father,” Megan replied with a smile not unlike his own, though her eyes were fixed on the professor, whom she didn’t recognize. “Hello,” she acknowledged him with an extended hand as she approached the two men, “I’m Megan.”

  Professor Madsen accepted her hand with a firm and chivalrous shake. “Stephen. Pleased to meet you Megan.”

  “Well I must say, Stephen,” Megan stated, still shaking Madsen’s hand, “that I’m quite disappointed.”

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “I believe this is the first night of Bible Study that I’m not the first to arrive, with the exception of Father Paul, that is. You’ve broken my streak.”

  The three acquaintances laughed. “Stephen’s an old friend of mine from out of town,” Father Paul explained. Then to Madsen he announced, “Megan has always been eager to help out with church functions, and is always here early to offer her most-welcomed assistance.”

  “Ah yes,” Madsen exclaimed. “Father’s told me a lot about you Megan. Says you single handedly saved the spaghetti dinner held by the Knights of Columbus when they lost their recipe for the sauce.”

  Megan giggled as she shook her head playfully at the priest. “Father’s always telling that story. When they couldn’t find it, I just went to my apartment and grabbed mine for them.”

  “Well, at any rate, I understand you’re quite the volunteer for the church. That’s wonderful to hear.”

  “I wish I could say I really do have a helpful nature. In all honesty, it gets my mind off of my job.”

  “Hey,” Father Paul bantered, “the Lord works in mysterious ways. You see? Your trying experience at work has brought you closer to God.” All three laughed again. “How is the store going this week, Megan? Any better?”

  “The store is just fine, Father. It’s my manager that makes it so trying. By the end of my shift on Wednesdays, I can’t wait to get here.”

  “Things will get better,” Father Paul smiled. “They always do.”

  “In my experience,” Madsen added, “no matter where you work, you’ll never get along with everybody. There’s always that one coworker.”

  “Yeah, I’m starting to notice that,” she smiled. “Well, it is what it is. Anyway, since we’re on the topic of help, what can I do? It looks like you two are doing alright with the chairs.”

  Father Paul took another chair from the folded stack leaning against the corner of the room. “You’ve set up the coffee before haven’t you, Megan?”

  Megan already started toward a white, plastic folding table against the far wall, which presented a large, rectangular, aluminum coffee dispenser; the kind a typical nine-to-fiver would find in any local 7-11, on the way to work in the morning. “On it,” she declared.

  “If you look in the cabinets above you, you’ll find…”

  “Filters, paper cups, coffee grounds. On it.” She turned and smirked at the two men with a light hearted expression.

  “Don’t forget to plug the coffee maker in. The socket is just under…”

  “Father Paul. Now don’t you make me commit the sin of striking a man of the cloth, especially when I’m armed with a coffee pot.” The two men shared a laugh as they glanced at each other, as if sharing an inside joke, then went back to work on setting up chairs. Megan also continued with refreshments. This was why she enjoyed coming here. She had known Father Paul ever since she moved to Lancaster, and he certainly had a knack for cheering her up, even by teasing her. Sometimes, when life is overstocked with the kinds of trials that result in painful stress headaches, a playful joshing session with a good-humored old man made for a damn good aspirin.

  The minutes ticked by rapidly as several parishioners made their entrance into the room to attend the session. Megan recognized all of them. She quickly greeted and mingled with them as they filled the Styrofoam cups they had claimed with hot coffee and mixed their individually preferred amounts of cream and sugar.

  First, Joe and Martha, a childless married couple who participated in the choir, followed by Irene, the Catholic education coordinator: overseeing the evening classes held for children whose parents wanted their kids to receive the Sacraments. Next, she conversed with Gloria, an elderly widow who served Sunday Mass as a lectern. There were a few others in attendance tonight; other less involved members who never failed to show for Mass, and never failed to vacate the church immediately after Communion, instead of waiting for the end, just to get ahead of the inevitable congested traffic that would flood the parking lot. Nine attendees in all…the usual crowd, she thought.

  “The Lord be with you,” Father Paul projected with a friendly smile over the soft clamor of conversation. Everyone consequently hushed themselves. “It’s about that time, so if everyone would grab a bible from the table and take a seat, we’ll go ahead and get started.” Even before the priest finished his directing, the parishioners began seating themselves in the circle of metal folding chairs, making best attempts to coordinate themselves next to people they knew and liked well. When all was settled, Father Paul led the group in prayer. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, amen.” Everyone made the Sign of the Cross. “Our Father…”

  The small gathering chimed in, being prompted by their pastor, chanting the Lord’s Prayer. Megan, like the rest, bowed her head and closed her eyes as she prayed aloud. She took in every word as she spoke, settling her soul and allowing the peace she often found in this place of worship to take over. It was on “…and deliver us from evil,” that her quick meditative reflection was interrupted by a discordant scraping of a metal chair against the bare floor. Someone had entered late and took a seat at the tail end of the prayer. Annoyed, she opened her eyes and looked toward the sound of the intrusion to see that the someone was the same homeless man she had noticed at Mass on Sunday. Her look of vexation suddenly transformed into an expression of bewilderment.

  Professor Madsen also lifted his head, and upon recognition of the pestering flea bag he hoped had found greener pastures, his eyes briefly unveiled an obvious displeasure. Despite his personal disapproval of the newcomer, he at least observed the man to be considerate enough to sit in a chair that had no neighboring parishioners; in fact he rested himself in a part of the makeshift circle that was farthest from the rest of the group. At least no one would have to endure the full effect of his notably foul stench. He was convinced that the drizzling rain, that was dripping off the man’s hair and camouflaged jacket, did no wonders for his unflattering odor. Madsen could tell that others had noticed him, because they were making a forced effort not to notice him.

  Unfortunately the homeless man refused to go unnoticed, no matter how discrete the parishioners were carrying themselves. “Sorry I’m late,” he announced with that same slur, in that same coarse, throaty voice. “I was lookin’ for the bathroom.”

  Megan was the only one of the group who did not follow the crowd and turn her head. Instead, she stared right at the man. Part of her was still trying to accept the coincidence that the same man who caught her attention like an enormous spider web in church, was here in the same room with her again. Part of her was just drawn to him, for whatever reason she could not explain. He was definitely not easy on the eyes, but she didn’t find him repulsive like everyone else probably did. She looked past his filth, his pathetically worn down clothing, his weather-beaten features, and saw the poor man who put money in the poor box.

  “Well,” Father Paul cleared his throat, masking his unsettled surprise, “
the Lord has brought us a couple of new faces today, and as is tradition, we always have a round of introductions. So I will start, and we will continue around the room clockwise. I’m Father Paul. I’ve been the pastor at St. Elizabeth’s for about ten years, and I must say that, in all my assignments around the diocese, this parish has got to hold the warmest and most welcoming children of God I’ve ever had the privilege of preaching to.”

  Everyone made silly sounds of “aww’s” in approval of the priest’s charming compliment. Father Paul smiled and looked to his left. “Irene?”

  “You know you don’t need any introduction Father,” Irene noted flirtatiously to her pastor beside her, nervous laughter accompanying her. “I’m Irene Drew; I’m the PREP coordinator for the church. For those of you that may not know, PREP is ‘Preparatory Religious Education Program.’ It’s what we used to refer to as CCD classes.” Everyone nodded their heads as if they already knew this information, except for Professor Madsen, who looked upon Irene with interest, and the homeless man, who was looking in every which way around the room for that invisible fly that pestered him so. Father Paul, who was watching the man, paying no attention to Irene, had to cover his mouth, as if to stifle a cough, in order to cover an amused smile.

  The other parishioners in turn gave their quick introductions; some revealed first and last names, some preferred to remain on a first name basis, others boasted about their successful positions of employment or their designated roles in the church. Still others spoke of their being born and raised in Lancaster County, whereas those who had not the bragging rights of being natives, announced proudly from where they had come.

  When it came time for the homeless man to introduce himself, he awkwardly rose from his chair, the only one to do so, somewhat hunched, and gave a skewed, two-finger salute with his right hand. “Name’s Cliff. I uh… come from… all over.” Nothing else. The man sat back down and rested his elbows on his knees.