Smaller buildings extended from the rear of the main house at right angles. With guest quarters, verandas, storage rooms, and areas with no apparent use, these additions were constructed in the Gothic style, contrasting with the manor’s Victorian architecture. Greenhouses could be seen at the far end of the long, brick-paved walkways that guided Mary and an occasional relative on strolls through the manicured grounds.
The sumptuous, multi-tiered gardens, cared for by a veritable army of workmen, covered many acres of beautiful land. Mary never got lost in the complex landscaping. Sometimes, however, her visitors did.
Construction on the manor and its gardens was never-ending. The spirits had to be kept guessing. Most importantly, no image or replica of a gun was allowed in the manor, not even a famous painting depicting some heroic battle.
If the souls of deceased soldiers were still lurking on Whittington property, they no longer bothered Mary.
Chapter 4
St. John’s Cathedral Campus
Manhattan, New York
Archbishop Joseph Connolly, Anglican high priest of the Church of England, was sorely in need of a single malt scotch. The headache that pounded against his temples had become an all-too-often occurrence.
The waxen-skinned priest reflected on the events of the day as he walked past St. John’s Cathedral towards a collection of buildings clustered nearby. His joints ached with the recent change in the weather. The Archbishop’s residence beckoned with the promise of a glass, maybe two, of twenty-five-year-old Macallan scotch.
It was his only vice.
He loved the daily ritual of it. The sound of a single ice cube dropped into his favorite crystal snifter. The heavy aroma of earth and peat. The tingling warmth that radiated into the limbs of his aging body.
When he finally reached the front door of the residence, Connolly had almost succeeded in convincing himself that tomorrow would be a better day.
Quietly whistling a fugue from Johann Sebastian Bach’s Ave Maria to calm his frayed nerves, he opened the door and stepped into the foyer. A pantheon of saints eyed him warily from within gilded frames.
Abruptly, his whistling ceased.
A sound emanated from somewhere above him.
“Hello?” he called out, advancing two steps up the staircase. His knees ached badly.
The greeting went unanswered.
Connolly crept up the staircase. He reached the second floor landing as the grandfather clock on the first floor struck eight o’clock.
He sat down behind the desk in his study and poured a glass of the Macallan scotch, a gift from an old friend. It warmed his throat as he swallowed. A folio of brittle parchment occupied the center of his desk. With arthritic fingers, Connolly delicately turned a page and began to read. His lips silently mouthed the words.
Blessed is the one who reads the words of this prophecy, and blessed are those who hear it and take to heart what is written in it, because the time is near.
A faint noise broke his concentration. He rose and stepped into the hallway. It was dimly lit and empty. At the end of the corridor, a large window overlooked the gardens below. Outside, a Yashino cherry tree stood in dark silhouette. A wayward branch reached out from the tree like a gnarled finger. It scratched on the windowpane, stirred by the night breeze.
“Ah,” he said to himself. “The vague imaginings of an old man.”
The lines of his long, angular face deepened as he smiled to himself. Wisps of thin gray hair on top of his head gave him the appearance of a battered scarecrow.
He retraced his steps down the hall. It was filled with medieval religious art. A boyish angel smiled at him from a Caravaggio painting, Amor Victorious.
Seated again at his desk, he continued reading from the folio.
And I saw a mighty angel proclaiming in a loud voice, "Who is worthy to break the seals and open the scroll?"
He once again heard the sound of the tree, plaintively scratching the windowpane, as if it were seeking admittance.
Connolly simply smiled. He supposed he was a silly old man afraid of shadows.
But Connolly also knew that even silly old men, if they still had their wits about them, contained a lifetime of wisdom in the aging synapses of their brains.
And Connolly was most definitely still in possession of his wits. Indeed, he intended to beat his diagnosis of liver cancer. He had been through a grueling day of chemotherapy, but he hadn’t lost hope.
Gazing at the wall across the study, his kindly eyes focused on an old painting — an El Greco reproduction — of Christ on the cross. The grossly elongated figure of Christ reminded Connolly of his own body. The Archbishop’s frame was thin and gaunt, crucified by cancer and what seemed like barbaric, medieval treatments — toxic chemicals flowing through his bloodstream to kill the tumor.
But God would protect him, as would His angels. Connolly quietly recited by heart the last few lines of Psalm 103: “Bless Yahweh, all his angels, heroes mighty to enforce his word, attentive to his word of command.”
Bronze statues stood in two corners of the study opposite the desk: Saints Michael and Gabriel.
Archangels.
“Servants to enforce his will,” Connolly said softly.
Connolly took another sip of scotch. Yes, all would be well.
Whittington Manor
Long Island, New York, 2011
Charles Whittington opened the iron doors of the sensory deprivation chamber he kept in one of the many labs he had outfitted in the basements and subbasements of the manor he had inherited from his great grandmother, Mary.
He had been lying peacefully in the warm saline and water solution for almost two hours. The hallucinations had finally subsided, and he realized that he was hungry and thirsty. Totally nude, he climbed out of the chamber, toweled off, and put on a white terrycloth robe. He then went to the kitchenette at the end of the basement corridor.
Reaching for various ingredients, he poured orange juice, gin, vitamin C, ginseng, and a raw egg into a blender and pushed frappe.
“Done,” he said, pouring the mixture into a tall glass. “Ambrosia fit for Dionysus.”
He drank the concoction in two swift gulps and reached into the cabinet over the sink.
Whittington manor was the perfect place to conduct his experiments. He had a Ph.D. in physics from Princeton, but he had shunned teaching altogether. Even now, at sixty-four, he reveled in performing his own research. He was worth . . . well, it was quite a lot of money, though he never really calculated his assets. That sort of mundane task was for accountants and pencil-pushers.
He had inherited the Whittington fortune, including the family’s manor, from his father, who had himself inherited it many years earlier from his mother, the eccentric Mary Highstreet Whittington. The manor, though an architectural puzzle in the extreme, suited Charles’ personality and pursuits perfectly. He was absorbed in many areas of research, both scientific and paranormal in nature: lucid dreams, auras, out-of-body experiences, telekinesis, remote viewing, and a host of experiments related to quantum theory. He loved the seclusion afforded by the rambling Victorian mansion.
He was especially interested in wave-particle duality, an outgrowth of Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle, which stated that reality depended on the mindset of the observer. Light was a particle, light was energy. One simply couldn’t pin down the exact nature of reality.
Fortified from what he called his Ginseng Sling, Charles walked gingerly up a spiral staircase to the second floor. He entered the third door in a row of six. Three of the doors opened onto brick walls. Inside was a small chapel that his great grandmother had built, yet another measure to help protect herself from ghosts. Charles himself had never seen any of these military specters — not that he didn’t believe in their existence. Quite to the contrary.
Charles sat quietly, looking at the altar and the crucifix hanging above it. He was not a member of any organized religion, although he harbored very firm spiritual beliefs. H
e liked to come to the chapel to let his mind wander.
Today, he thought of his grandson, David Denton. Some called him Quiz.
“Smart as a whip, that boy,” Charles said to himself. “And a very special young man. Oh yes, very special indeed.”
On many occasions, he had heard Quiz speaking to himself, although Charles suspected that David was, in reality, speaking to someone else. Charles knew all too well what that was like.
Charles rose, mumbling Hamlet’s famous line: “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
Charles climbed to the third floor, intending to take a power nap in his bedroom. Like Thomas Edison, he often lay down for an hour or two, awaking refreshed, ready to resume his esoteric work.
On the third floor, he passed a corridor that admitted to no room and led absolutely nowhere. A voice at the end of the corridor summoned him.
Charles paused, turned, and walked down the dark hallway. There was no one in the hall, but he was nevertheless attentive as the voice spoke to him.
“Goodness me,” he said in response. “That could be very troublesome. Very troublesome indeed. I will try my best. I give you my word.”
Within ten minutes, Charles was fast asleep in the large four-poster bed in his room.
Chapter 5
8:31 P.M., September 11
Archbishop Connolly’s Residence
Manhattan, New York
Father Connolly had almost dozed off from the effects of a long day and the comforting, therapeutic Macallan scotch when he heard yet another noise. It sounded like a faint footfall. He wasn’t sure whether it had come from the hallway or the staircase. Had his housekeeper returned to check up on him? The kindly old woman did so frequently ever since he’d begun chemo.
“Mrs. Mancuso?” he called out in his thin voice. “Is that you, Mrs. Mancuso?”
There was no reply.
He decided to tidy up his study and go to bed early.
He sat at his desk and attempted to shuffle papers into some kind of semblance of order. He then picked up his glass to finish off the scotch.
“Good evening, Eminence,” said a harsh voice from the shadows of the study.
The glass slipped from Connolly's trembling fingers. For a moment it was suspended in mid-air, a spray of amber liquid spinning away from the tumbling crystal.
And then it fell, shattering with a crash against the floor.
Connolly’s hands trembled as a man dressed in black stepped forward. The white collar of a priest adorned his neck. The stranger had been handsome once, but no more. The right side of the priest’s face was pitted and scarred, the horrific remains of a terrible burn. One side of his lip curled upward in a perpetual sneer. The puckered skin around his mouth was drawn tightly against his jaw.
“Do I know you?” asked Connolly.
“Have you ever seen an angel, Archbishop Connolly?” the priest asked. His manner of speech was abrupt and halting. His sentences wore straightjackets.
“What are you doing in my private residence?” asked the Archbishop.
The strange priest continued, ignoring the question. “I’ve seen an angel,” he said. “When I was just a boy. We lived in Genoa then. I was about nine when it happened. My sister, Francesca, was perhaps seven.”
“Please leave,” said Connolly. “I’m old and sick, and — ”
“We went for a stroll one Sunday evening,” the intruder continued. “Francesca and I rode our bicycles on the path beside the river while our parents walked. The embankment was quite steep, and the current in the river was very strong. Mother warned us to stay away from the edge.”
Connolly shook his head. “Father, I don’t mean to be inhospitable, but . . . ”
“Francesca looked back over her shoulder to wave at Mother and Father,” said the priest. “She ran over a tree root and lost control of her bicycle.”
The priest advanced towards Connolly. His features were even more bizarre in the dim light from the library lamp on Connolly’s desk, as if the stranger were wearing a mask.
“Francesca fell from her bicycle and rolled down the embankment toward the river. I was certain she would fall into the water, and the current would sweep her away. But just as Francesca reached the edge, she suddenly stopped rolling. My parents were quite shaken and ran to her side.”
The priest paused. Archbishop Connolly shrank into his chair as if to get as far away from the looming figure as possible.
“Francesca looked up from where she lay on the ground and said in a voice filled with wonder: ‘Did you see that beautiful angel standing at the edge of the river, holding up his hands to keep me from falling in?’”
Connolly’s mouth was dry. His Adam’s-apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously. “And you . . . saw this angel?” he asked.
“Yes, I did. You have seen an angel, too, in a manner of speaking. I want you to tell me about this angel. Now.”
The disfigured priest smiled, but there was no kindness in the gesture. He walked behind the desk, seizing the trembling body of Connolly and pulling it into a standing position. His arms possessed incredible strength. Roughly, he dragged Connolly into the hall.
“Where are you taking me?” asked the frightened cleric.
The priest smiled at Connolly with misshapen lips and drew a silver blade from a sheath tucked beneath his sleeve.
At the sight of the knife, Connolly wrenched himself free and bolted for the stairs. But his body was not accustomed to bursts of physical activity, and his right knee refused to support his weight. It gave way beneath him, and Connolly fell hard to the wooden floorboards.
The priest chuckled and took a step toward his captive. He held the knife with reverence, as if it were a holy relic.
“Don’t be foolish,” he said. “Do you really believe that you can run from me?”
Connolly crabbed across the floor on all fours until he reached the top of the stairs. Gritting his teeth against the grinding pain in his knee, he reached for the banister and pulled himself to his feet.
If I can just make it to the front door.
Connolly stumbled down the steps, hobbling on one leg and leaning against the banister to support his weight. Halfway down, he stumbled and banged his knee against the railing. Fire lanced through his leg, and his vision blurred.
The priest reached the top of the stairway and watched his prey writhe in agony on the wooden steps. He tapped the blade of his knife against the banister.
“You’re almost there, Archbishop Connolly,” he said. “Only twenty meters to the front door.”
Twenty meters.
Unable to regain his feet, Connolly threw his body down the staircase. His right shoulder and hip smashed against the steps, and he tumbled down the stairs to the marble floor of the foyer. His right arm went numb. Blood streamed from a gash across his chin.
Connolly tried to stand. The broken edges of three shattered ribs grated in his chest. The breath left his lungs in a gasp of pain.
Five meters.
“Almost there,” the priest called out.
Connolly pulled himself across the marble floor with his left arm. His broken body felt like it was on fire. The color drained from his vision, and the front door swam before his eyes in foggy shades of gray.
Two meters.
The priest descended the staircase, taking two steps at a time. He kept the point of his blade trained on Connolly like the needle of a compass.
“Come now — tell me what you know of angels,” said the priest. “I am told you know a great deal about one angel in particular. An archangel.”
Connolly forced himself to his feet and rose into a half-crouch. He lunged for the door, grasped the doorknob with both hands, and pulled it open.
Outside, two men in long gray robes barred Connolly’s escape. Cowls covered their heads, shadows hiding their faces.
“An excellent effort,” said the priest. “Completely foolish, of course. Before th
e night is over, you will tell me everything you know about the Archangel Michael.”
He bounded down the last several steps to the foyer.
Connolly felt hot breath against his ear, and then a soft whisper.
“Bring him,” the priest commanded.
The cloaked men seized Connolly by his arms and dragged him back into the residence. The Archbishop tried to scream, but he could produce nothing more than a raspy wheezing sound.
Whittington Manor
Long Island, New York, 2011
Charles felt someone tap his shoulder. He turned over in his bed, but no one was there.
He was still clothed in the terrycloth robe. Turning on the lamp by his nightstand, he sat up and swung his feet over the bed.
Something was wrong. Very wrong. He had hypothesized five years ago that his experiments in the sensory deprivation chamber had opened up a doorway in his mind. A doorway to other dimensions and realities.
A doorway that made him more than a bit psychic.
He put on a button-down shirt and a pair of trousers and went to his main laboratory in the basement. Work was always the best medicine when he felt unsettled.
A spirit was definitely in the manor tonight.
A friendly one, he suspected.
Chapter 6
11:42 p.m., September 11
Archbishop Connolly’s Residence
Manhattan, New York
The priest and his two gray-clad acolytes searched the Archbishop’s residence. Connolly was proving to be most uncooperative and was currently tied up in a drawing room on the first floor.
The three men looked through closets and all of Connolly’s personal belongings. They rifled through his desks and tossed old and valuable manuscripts onto the floor in the Archbishop’s library, hoping to find a slip of paper inserted between the pages of an old volume. Or maybe a book itself, one that dealt with arcane information of the Archangel Michael.
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