by Vince Milam
“Not at the moment. Please drive east.”
Cole took Interstate 10, heading toward Louisiana. He called Nadine, tapped the speakerphone button, and handed the phone to Francois.
“Hey. Francois has a buzz. A signal,” he said when she answered. “Don’t know where, yet. Don’t get pissed because you’re not along.”
He could hear her keyboard working, the clicks frantic, then pausing, followed by more frenetic activity. “Not pissed. Searching for anomalies. Something indicating activity. Bad news activity. Gotta trust Francois’s radar.”
Cole pushed the vehicle to eighty miles an hour, driving toward Beaumont.
“It is most peculiar,” Francois said, clearly speaking to Nadine. “A tease. The cat and the mouse, no? Evil forces conspire.”
Cole adjusted his pistol holster to make his seating more comfortable.
“What about the others? Jude. Luke,” Nadine said.
“A most relevant question,” Francois replied. “I shall contact them at this moment. And shall call you back.”
Francois hit the end call button, cracked his window to light another Gauloises, and perused Cole’s cell phone options. “Perhaps you should manage this instrument,” Francois said and waved the Android device in the air.
“I’m driving.”
“Oui. This is so. And yet, the issue remains.”
Cole walked him through the conference call setup, and soon Jude and Luke were on the line. Jude engaged the speaker function as well, allowing Jean to comment.
They were all on the move, pulled by unseen signals, markers, evil manifested. The unique connectivity of the gathering flowed on the phone call.
“We’re heading south on Interstate 280,” Jude said. “Jean’s pissed because I can’t give a more definitive destination.”
“Not pissed,” Jean said. “Irritated. This is needle in a haystack stuff.”
“You got that right,” Cole added.
Francois wafted a hand to dismiss Cole’s comment and stared out the passenger window.
“Brothers and sisters,” Luke’s voice boomed over the tiny phone speaker. “We must focus. I am driving toward Norfolk with Nick. We are all engaged with the Enemy. Focus!”
“Luke, it’s you, Jude, and Francois that need to focus,” Jean said. “Cole and I are focused on driving like bats out of hell toward the unknown while dealing with this damn traffic. I assume Nick is doing the same.”
“No need to curse, Jean.”
“They’re drawing us in,” Jude said. “The Enemy. This is a direct assault. A challenge.”
“Amen,” Luke said.
“Most true,” Francois said. “Our gathering, our joining, has been felt. The Enemy is aware of us.”
“And we will confront the Enemy. ‘Do not fear or be in dread of them, for it is the Lord your God who goes with you,’” Luke said. His voice carried conviction and more than a tinge of battle-ready attitude.
“I will fear no evil, for you are with me,” Jude said. Her voice carried less conviction than Luke’s.
Cole whipped past a train of semi-trucks, hitting ninety miles an hour. “Could we get back to the whole focus thing?” he asked. “As in, let’s focus on where we’re all going?”
“Amen,” Jean said.
“Our sheriff has a valid point, mes amis,” Francois said. “We each must prepare for battle. May you go with God.”
They signed off the call, and Francois rang Nadine and informed her of the proceedings.
“So you, Jude, and Luke have your radars buzzing?” she asked. “At the same time? This smells like a coordinated effort. Big time.”
“Oui. I concur. A conspiracy. Of the utmost evil. We are drawn in. Trickery and lies, to be sure. The enemy is a master deceiver. Of this, we must always be aware.”
Francois bid Nadine adieu. They drove in silence, barreling down the highway, toward the unknown.
Chapter 18
Interstate 280 toward San Jose was packed as usual with traffic. Jean cast a constant eye toward both side mirrors as she pressed forward, whipping along with the faster vehicles, bumper-to-bumper. She prayed there wouldn’t be a wreck caused by some clown doing something stupid. She’d glance toward Jude at regular intervals. The pastor pinched her lower lip, staring into the distance and hunkered in the passenger seat. Don’t know whether to talk with her or let her concentrate on her weird sense, Jean thought.
Jude broke the silence. “It’s going to get awfully lonely.”
“What’s going to?”
“My life.”
Jean let that percolate for a while. Her pastor friend’s vulnerability had peeked through the tats and spiked hair exterior toughness.
Jude produced her e-cig and took a pull, exhaling vapor through her nose. “My friends and my congregation are going to be less than thrilled with this batshit crazy chasing evil thing. Guaranteed.” She paused to take another drag. “And any man I might begin to date is going to run like a scalded ape. Jude the demon hunter. That’ll make some sweet dinner conversation.”
“Look,” Jean said. “It’s real. Took me awhile to accept it. But it’s real. So if your friends and congregants and any potential lover can’t handle reality, well—”
“No, Jean. It’s not like that and you know it. I’ve got to ease into it with friends and associates. I can’t blare it out. Otherwise I’ll be the weird pastor chick forevermore. And that sucks.”
Jean changed lanes, pushing the vehicle into an open slot to her left. “You may be right. But it doesn’t necessarily equate to lonely.”
“It does when it comes to dating.”
Alright, let’s stop swirling around the lonely-in-life whirlpool. “I didn’t mean to offend with the needle in a haystack comment. Sorry if I did. But there is a need for urgency, I think. Don’t you?” Jean asked.
“Most people view my profession, my calling, with a jaundiced eye. Throw crazy lady and her evil alert radar in the mix, and there are damn few folks who will want to have anything to do with me,” Jude said, ignoring Jean’s question.
Jean maneuvered back to the center lane, uncomfortable with left lane traffic inches from her rear bumper.
“And I’m afraid, Jean. Afraid of what’s ahead. I’m glad you’re with me. Really and truly.”
“You’ll be fine. You have the power. Don’t doubt it,” Jean replied. “And I’m glad to be with you, too.”
The traffic waxed and waned by the mile. Jean’s hands cramped from her death-grip on the steering wheel when traffic packed around her.
“Get in the right lane,” Jude said, trancelike.
Jean began to maneuver to the right lanes. “You feeling something?” she asked.
“Yeah. Something. Something dark.”
They drove another few miles when Jude blurted, “Get off here!”
Jean forced her way into the right exit lane and pulled off at the Cupertino exit. Her gut began to tighten. Jude sat up straight, moving her head from left to right, searching, and then dropped her chin to her chest, squinting and concentrating.
“Turn right.”
Jean followed her friend’s directions, turning and driving, on edge.
“We passed it.” Jude’s statement overflowed with both conviction and trepidation. “Turn around.”
“Jude, we passed a small park. A neighborhood park. You sure?”
“Yes.”
Jean whipped the car around and parked on the street, opposite a small park filled with playground equipment, benches, and a copse of dense trees. Jude climbed out and surveyed the scene, focused and immersed in a private world. She accelerated from a slow pace to a brisk walk and strode into the park. Jean followed, checking to ensure the 9mm pistol remained firmly tucked under her suit jacket.
A young mother and her small child played in the park. Both climbed among the playground equipment, the child laughing as mom chased her. On a bench, away from the playground, sat a man wearing jeans and a college sweatshirt. His head hung
and he watched their approach from beneath hooded eyes. His face changed to a sardonic, sick smile and he began to rock his upper body, forward and back, staring at them.
“That one,” Jude said. She pointed at the man while she focused ahead. “Stay with him.”
“And where are you going?” Jean asked. The sitting man continued to watch them, stopped rocking, and gave a slight shake of his head—a warning. A challenge.
Jean’s street cop sense kicked into overdrive, and she knew the guy shaking his head at them was pure bad news. She hesitated and considered walking over and cuffing the SOB on general principles. But Jude continued to walk toward the thick trees and she couldn’t leave her friend alone.
“Jude, wait up!” Jean called. The pastor accelerated to the edge of the trees and then stopped, tilted her head, and continued, slowly. Jean ran to join her.
Inside the line of trees the brush became dense, and the canopy of branches blocked any direct sunlight. Jude moved with caution, Jean on her heels. Small twigs and branches snapped as they walked, the smell of decayed leaves and spring earth rich and thick.
“Jude. What’s going on?”
Jude turned and locked eyes—a look awash in commitment and fire, resolute. “It’s here. Somewhere. Here.” She began to move forward again, adding over her shoulder, “It captured that man. Filled him. Directed him. Go back. Watch the sweatshirt guy.”
“Not going to happen,” Jean said, straining to see through brush and shadow. “I’m sticking with you, kiddo.” She pulled out her semiautomatic pistol and took a two-handed grip, scanning, sensing.
Jude froze and Jean narrowly missed bumping into her. Off to the left, from deep within the shade and trees, came a voice. A voice mellifluous and calm and dripping with ugly intent.
“You are so right. No man will want to be with you. No man.” The voice, matter-of-fact, floated through the trees.
Jude turned to the voice and moved toward it. She cast another rock-hard glance back at Jean, lips tight, eyes squinted for battle. The snap of trodden twigs and branches took on a sharp resonance.
“You know you are powerless. Impotent.” The voice moved, floated, mocked. “Abandon such foolishness. Unwise, unwise. Return to your mewling flock.”
“Bite me, you son of a bitch.” Jude’s voice came low and firm and fearless. “In the name of God and Jesus Christ, bite me.” Jude moved forward. Jean’s heart pounded, her hair stood at attention on her arms and neck, and her skin tingled. She made frantic quick glances at her footing, avoided the larger branches, and continued to scan the area ahead, finger on the trigger.
A laugh, a rumble from deep within some hellish cave, sounded to their right. Both women turned and headed toward the voice. “Try and try, foolish ones. You cannot stop it,” the voice spoke again, full of evil mirth. “As it has always been, they are easily filled with passion and killing and death. Always death.”
“Show yourself,” Jude said, her voice rising in volume and strength. “In the name of Jesus Christ, you vile bastard, show yourself.”
Now to their left, twigs snapped deep within the trees. Instinct reigned and Jean dashed toward the noise, passing Jude. She ran hard, leaping over fallen limbs, and slid to a stop in a small clearing. Jean scanned for a target, her pistol double-gripped and aligned with her scan. Jude crashed through the brush and joined her, slowing as she passed to stand in the center of the small clearing. Silence, but for the sound of their breathing and the light footfalls as Jude turned, searching.
For a half minute they stayed, prepared, undaunted. Then Jude said, “It’s gone. Crap. It’s gone.”
The man on the bench! Nab that SOB now! Jean turned and dashed toward the playground, slammed to a stop, and ran back to Jude, grabbing her hand. “Come on!”
Jude continued to stare into the dark shadows, ignoring Jean. “Jude! Move!” Jean pulled Jude with her pistol-free hand. She accelerated and dragged Jude along with her.
The two emerged from the brush and trees in an outburst, and stood still. Two squirrels rummaging near a park trash can fled up the nearest tree. Jean searched, her breath coming hard and fast. The man in the college sweatshirt was gone.
Chapter 19
Bishop Luke Sikes hummed “Wade in the Water” as they drove east. Nick Capellas knew the song’s name because he’d asked after being told not to turn on the radio.
Two hours earlier, Luke had summoned him. Nick had told his boss, Zuhdi Kouri, that he’d received a tip and was following it up. A routine task.
And now they headed east, barreling down the highway as the bishop hummed a spiritual and commented on eating establishments in the small towns they passed by.
“Rudy’s. There in Locust Grove,” Luke said. “Chicken fried steak and cream gravy. A spiritual experience, young Nick. A spiritual experience. And don’t get me started on the sweet potato pie. Praise God.”
Really? This is how this goes down? Sweet potato pie? “So what, exactly, are we trying to do, Bishop?”
“Up there, before us, sits the manifested Enemy,” Luke replied. “A lure and perhaps a trap. Now, there in Fredericksburg is JoAnn’s. Collard greens cooked with fatback. Cornbread. Oh, mercy. Good enough to turn you into a Baptist, Nick.” Luke chortled, a rumbling train deep in a tunnel, and continued to hum a song.
The conference call between Luke, the Frenchman, the country sheriff, and the Bay Area contingent took place without Nick’s input. Nick listened to the bishop’s side of the conversation and continued to drive. Apparently, the others were also on the move. Nick had no issue being excluded from the call. Fine. Fine. Don’t need to roll around in spirit land any more than necessary.
Nick was raised in a Greek Orthodox Church that held strong beliefs, including a real Satan and associated evil spirits. It helped him internalize some of the horrors he had witnessed at his job. Still, this current situation constituted a down and dirty fight with, as the bishop put it, manifested evil. A bit of a reach, for sure. But the Boise gathering had been real. Real and weird, but it had happened without so much as an email or phone call or text message to coordinate them all arriving there. Weird, but real.
“Let’s pretend we find someone,” Nick said. “One of these evil creatures. What then?”
“There is nothing pretend about any of this, Nick.”
“Okay. Got it. So how do we handle it?” He checked himself in the rearview mirror. The fake Ray-Bans looked good. The date the other night with the auburn beauty law student from Georgetown had been great, a follow-up date in the works.
“These vile creatures know God. This knowledge fills them with fear. ‘You believe that there is one God…the demons also believe and tremble.’ We handle it, Nick, through the power of God.”
“And just how exactly does that work?”
“Nick, Nick,” Luke said, patting him on the thigh with a hand as big as a small dog. “I cannot alleviate your concern, for I have yet to directly encounter one of them.”
You can stop patting me now, Bishop. I’m not twelve years old. “So, like, any input from the Frenchman? Input regarding this matter?”
“Our friend, Father Francois, has discussed this with me at length. Along with Pastor Jude. As you know, Francois has battled several of them. His insights have given great succor. We must arm ourselves with the armor of God, Nick.”
They continued to drive and turned off the interstate and onto Highway 17 at Luke’s directions. Luke stopped humming and leaned forward, massive hands on the dashboard. His eyes closed for a few seconds, then opened with a focused squint. He repeated the gesture several times.
“Just ahead. Yes,” Luke said.
“Port Royal?”
“Perhaps. We will approach with caution. Confrontation awaits us. Do not be afraid.”
“Broad daylight in the dinky town of Port Royal doesn’t exactly give me the willies, Bishop.”
“Daylight fades.”
As they turned off the highway, thick spring fog rolled off
the Rappahannock River and enveloped them. Nick slowed to a crawl. A small sign informed them: Established 1652. Population 172.
Nick drove along the main street as the bishop scanned, seeking. “Stop. Stop here,” Luke said.
Parked, they both exited the sedan. A breeze moved the fog and allowed visibility of a short distance for a moment, then shrouded them again with a damp whiteness that obscured all but the closest objects. Luke accelerated forward, his fists clenched. Nick trotted to catch up.
They stopped at a large lawn. A sign said St. Peter’s Episcopal Church, and Luke turned onto the walkway and veered left, across the grass. The white outline of the small church building showed and disappeared. Then gravestones; a cluster of them—a small cemetery—showed through the fog.
“Really, Bishop?” Nick asked. “A graveyard? In the fog?” He shook his head and thought, Do I need to watch out for zombies?
Luke ignored him, stopped, turned, and pointed a large arm to his right.
Nick knew his demeanor was flippant, but his hand rested on the pistol in his waistband holster. A small figure—a young woman—sat leaning against one of the upright headstones. The two approached her, and she acknowledged them with a stare, a look. A look devoid of friendliness or any semblance of greeting. A look of contempt. Contempt mingled with hatred.
She wore jeans and a fleece jacket, hands in the pockets, legs crossed, as she rested against the headstone. She made no effort to communicate and continued to stare through a lock of hair across her face.
“Reject all such entreaties,” Luke said to her as he leaned down into her face. “Stand with God, child. Do not be deceived or swayed. Evil is the great liar. Stand with God.” Luke shifted to focus over her head into the murky distance.
She did not respond other than to curl a lip in disgust. Luke moved past her toward the whiteness of fog at the end of the small cemetery. “Stay with her, Nick. Stay.” He moved with caution and disappeared from sight as the fog wafted dense among them.
Alright, I’m officially weirded out. Job well done, Bishop. As an anchor, a piece of firmament, Nick produced his DHS badge and told the young woman, “Agent Capellas. Department of Homeland Security.”
