by Vince Milam
The two men drove in silence while NPR interviewed authors on the radio. Cole contemplated Francois’s attempted introduction of a new reality. Life experiences had led him to a worldview of good people versus bad people, with gradations of both. Evil as a tangible item stayed contained in the individual—some folks were bad and their actions evil. There was not much need for more analysis than that.
A bad person performing an evil act had committed Martha’s murder. It was the same with the nursing home murders. Francois kept tossing out some kind of demonic possessions or demonic entity as a prime driver and normally Cole would dismiss this out of hand. It had no basis in his belief system, other than niggling doubts left over from childhood. That dang movie, he thought, remembering The Exorcist. But life was experiential, and you couldn’t just chalk up something to a possession, although Moloch pointed to something unknown. And the exact same perverted smile and facial countenance on both Burt Hall and his wife’s killer gnawed at him.
Moloch knew fear, regardless of his nature. Before vanishing from his sight, Cole observed abject terror and deep hatred in Moloch’s face—a cornered animal attacked by a stronger animal. Moloch had fled—not from the crime or from him, but from that old-man stranger. None of it fit normal behavioral patterns related to a crime scene. Something different was going on. To bring all this up with Francois during the drive to Nadine’s place would open the door to more confusion and alter the focus on acquiring concrete facts about that tall pale SOB.
As they approached Houston, Cole gave Francois background on Nadine. He tried to explain in a digestible format how people might construe her as different. She had always been infatuated by computers, the languages of software, puzzles, and games. Her analytical mind frightened those who chose to get close. When the Internet and all its tendrils bloomed, she dove in lock, stock, and barrel. She had found her calling. No encryption existed that she could not break, no firewall she couldn’t breach, no system she couldn’t hack, and no information she couldn’t find. She carried a Top Secret clearance.
The main house had ionic columns and a porte cochère through which they drove to park in the shade of a huge river oak next to the garage. Francois couldn’t wait to smoke and lit one as they ascended the peeling wooden stairs to Nadine’s apartment.
***
Nadine flung open the door and admonished them to hurry before the cold air escaped. She stood in flip-flops, shorts, and an old Colt .45s T-shirt. As Cole approached, she panicked a bit, not sure how to greet him. Cole removed that concern when he gave her a big hug and a “How’re you, Nadine?” She hugged back and patted him on the back as he entered. “That’s Francois,” he tossed over his shoulder, followed by “Howdy, Mule.” She thought it was a nice touch to remember the cat’s name. The guy was authentic, no doubt.
Francois stood before her. “Mademoiselle. Francois Domaine at your service.” He gave a slight bow.
“Can I have one of those?” she asked, pointing at the lit cigarette.
“But of course!”
As he reached for the pack of smokes, she grabbed him by the arm and led him inside. The insulated metal door closed with a heavy clank.
“I know you fellas are thirsty after that drive. Drinks? Ice tea or adult beverage? How was traffic? Francois, sit anywhere. You’re a priest? Can I call you Francois? I like your socks.”
She turned and flip-flopped into the small kitchen while Cole relaxed in a comfortable chair and signaled for Francois to do the same. She paused long enough for an answer and to watch Francois inspect the couch and its resident, Mule the cat.
“Oui. Francois will be quite adequate.”
“Adult beverages, please,” Cole said.
“Cole, I haven’t seen you for almost a year. Tell me about the kids,” she said as kitchen cabinets opened and slammed shut in her quest for glasses.
“College appears to suit Lisa. Jeri Ann still hangs with the bum in Lubbock,” said Cole.
“Jeri Ann may not agree that her beau working toward a PhD constitutes bum status,” came back from the kitchen, followed by, “there they are.”
Francois settled on the opposite side of the couch from Mule and viewed the mishmash of computers, monitors, servers, and assorted blinking lights while she poured. He held one hand under the cigarette as a portable ashtray.
Nadine carried in three Flintstone jelly glasses and a bottle of Maker’s Mark bourbon—the latter stored in the freezer with a handful of mint from under her stairway shoved down the neck and mixed with the liquor. She always believed it made for a nice cocktail on a hot summer evening. She balanced on one foot and used the other to sweep documents off the coffee table in front of Francois. His long ash and lifted palm prompted a rush back into the kitchen to return with a vintage Tiffany silver ashtray.
“Wilma, Fred, and Bam-Bam,” she said. Nadine figured two fingers each of the Tennessee liquid ought to do it unless this priest wanted something different. If that was the case, she had wine cooling in the fridge.
Cole got Fred. Francois stared at the offered Bam-Bam glass, and then with quick, sure movements placed the cigarette in the ashtray and accepted the drink. He took a long and loud sniff of the bourbon, gave a grunt of satisfaction as he took a first sip, smacked his lips, and settled back, giving Mule a look with every bit as much attitude as Mule conveyed toward him. This was good to see, since the priest and Mule both needed to find personal demarcation even if it resembled the Maginot Line. The grunt of satisfaction struck her as a nice touch.
Nadine sat at her computer console and swung the chair around, planted her now flip-flop-less feet on the coffee table, and began rummaging through a Folgers coffee container filled with small bottles of nail polish.
“I suppose I could have offered something other than bourbon,” said Nadine. “I have some wine.”
“No, don’t go there,” said Cole. He smiled at Francois. The priest responded with a shrug.
“It’s good to see you, Cole. It really is. First time in Texas, Francois?”
Francois adjusted himself on the couch and said, “Oui. I have purchased a belt.”
She gandered at the snakeskin around his waist. “Nice. Are you celibate?”
“Oh, Nadine,” groaned Cole.
“It is part of my calling,” said Francois.
Cole rolled his eyes and cleared his throat. “Those murders were a bad, bad deal, Nadine. You and I aren’t going to see worse.”
“Meadow Green or Mystic Purple?” she asked, and lifted two small nail polishes from the container, then took the proffered cigarette, already lit by Francois.
“And this Moloch character. I just don’t know,” continued Cole.
“And the effect. To what effect?” asked Francois, as one hand gave a broad sweeping gesture, directed toward Nadine.
“Analytical but passionate. Vulnerable but in control. Right, Cole?” She didn’t take her gaze off the two bottles of polish.
Cole appeared undaunted by the other two’s conversation and said, “This isn’t the usual crime story. Not by a long shot. Something is going on. Some connectivity I cannot get my head around.”
“Pourpre. Purple,” said Francois.
Nadine pursed her lips. “Yup. I think you’re right.”
Francois took a sip and said, “For such lovely feet, one may wish to improve on those.” He pointed with his chin at her Walmart flip-flops.
“Folks, this is serious. Nadine, pay attention please,” said Cole.
She heeded Cole’s admonition to a small degree. “I’ve got nothing on Mr. Moloch yet. But I will, bucko. I will,” she said, shaking the purple nail polish and waving her other hand in the general direction of all the computer equipment. “Retro. Very much a throwback to simpler times,” she said to Francois, pointing at the flip-flops.
“We’ve got mass murder, ostensibly by a madman, and some guy who fled the scene who had talked with said madman the night before. Moloch has something to do with it. But I don’t kno
w what,” said Cole, and took a hefty slug of bourbon. “So quit worrying about your dang toenails, please.”
“These are strong,” she said, holding the cigarette with her thumb and first two fingers. “French?”
“Oui. And the sheriff is correct, Mademoiselle. This will not reside among normal pursuits. It will not manifest from our reality. It is spiritual in nature.”
“All those dead people aren’t part of our reality?” asked Nadine. She leaned over to start on her toenails. “You guys hungry? With fresh purple toenails, I fully expect two fine gentlemen such as yourselves to escort me to dinner.”
“A meal would be most satisfying,” said Francois. “Regarding our reality, no—the true perpetrator does not exist in this reality. The sheriff has of yet not come to such a defined realization, but I do have hope that will change soon.”
Her auburn hair obscured her face as she bent to the task. At Francois’s comment, she turned her head and looked hard at Cole.
“Francois has a different perspective,” Cole confirmed, and went to pour another drink.
She sat back, put her polish down, and took a small sip. From the freezer, the liquor had a syrupy consistency. Nadine processed within multidimensional frameworks. She didn’t ascribe to neat boxes of cause/effect, nor discount outlier alternatives. Abstract concepts such as evil remained far-fetched possibilities, but that did not disqualify them as motivators of human behavior. They were, after all, possibilities. She had backtracked motives and rationalizations on dozens of bad people who did—or tried to do—horrible things. Cultural motives, economic motives, religious motives, personal motives—these things she interfaced with actions and outcomes and forecasts. But active spiritual interference fell outside her few mental constraints.
The priest likely wanted her to consider possessions; implanted evil from a source she could not see, hear, or feel—proposing some spiritual force related to centuries of Christian dogma. She bent back to her task and applied nail polish. Does Cole really buy into this possession stuff? she wondered.
The air conditioner hummed. Mule purred. Nadine took another drag on her cigarette and exhaled toward the ceiling.
“Everything is real. That’s why it’s everything. It exists,” she said. “Outside our reality? Well, I’ll tell you both what’s outside our reality. Something that can’t be explained. A dozen dead people at a nursing home can be explained when you toss some sicko into the mix. Or multiple sickos. I’ve tracked their type before. Believe me, they are real enough.”
Francois took a long drag and gave Mule a momentary glance. Smoke blew from his nostrils as he looked at Nadine. “No, mes amis,” he said with a soft and serious voice. “No. This is evil. With no dilution, no elements of this good earth. Evil. Pure evil.”
Chapter 13
The sounds of electronic equipment mixed with the smell of mint, whiskey, and cigarette smoke. Francois waited and wondered if this peculiar woman was as good as the sheriff had led him to believe.
Nadine shifted position, causing her office chair to give a mild squeak. “Francois, before I try and wrap my head around this, I have to understand what this is. Admittedly, I live inside a murky world of obfuscation and misdirection. But at the end of the day there exists an informational reality. Something tangible, based on what we know. Now, you’re telling me that this man, our Adal Moloch, shouldn’t be treated as a normal human?” asked Nadine.
“I’d like a bit more information on that myself,” said Cole.
Francois had prepared for such a conversation. The drive to Houston with the sheriff had passed without such an interchange—to be expected given the radical adjustment in the latter’s worldview. But now the sheriff had an ally in this strange woman. Francois knew that adjusting realities, paradigms, and foundational footing could not be accomplished quickly. A bit more of a challenge, perhaps, with these Americans, infused as they were with absolutes and surety, but one must address such matters in the appropriate timeframe.
“Bon,” said Francois. He finished his drink and clapped his hands once as he stood. “Bon. An excellent conversation. And in grand concurrence with Nadine, one we shall have over a meal, n’est-ce pas?”
Nadine drove them to a nearby Tex-Mex restaurant. She rolled the windows down and kept the AC on high. The two men kept silent as the thick heat wafted over them and sweat dripped down their faces. During the ten-minute trip, Francois chose not to engage her on the incongruity of traveling in such a manner. Some energy must be conserved for more important matters.
At the restaurant, an enlarged black-and-white photo of a Mexican bandit dominated one wall. They were the first patrons of the evening and chose a table in a far corner. Francois inspected the chips and salsa before he dug in.
“Tres Negro Modelo, por favor,” said Cole when the waiter arrived.
“What is that?” asked Francois.
“Beer. Mexican. You’ll like it,” said Nadine, before placing the food order without glancing at a menu. She explained that she was a regular and often sat at a table by herself, perusing her laptop. Her book club also met there. Everyone in the club enjoyed the margaritas.
“What’s the current gig you’re on?” Cole asked Nadine, to start the dinner conversation.
“As usual, I can’t tell you much. Homeland Security. Suffice it to say it involves bad people engaged in bad things. Evil things.” She glanced at Francois as she shoveled a chip laden with a strange green sauce into her mouth.
“Ah!” said Francois. “Human evil. Evil of the person. Bon. You have the ability to predict, no? To forecast and follow such actions?”
He needed Nadine to find the trail. He needed a direction and a destination. The information he received from the sheriff was excellent and filled to the brim with possibilities, but this woman’s alleged abilities could define a critical aspect of the quest—the location and movement and background of the enemy. The first major hurdle of confirming that the affairs in Rockport were influenced by an evil entity had been accomplished. The chase had begun.
“To some degree. I, and lots of others, have written data mining algorithms. Sometimes it helps. Sometimes not. Random isn’t always the friend of data analytics,” said Nadine.
“Then maybe that’s a good place to start,” said Cole. “If your contention is correct that evil walks among us, Francois, do they strike randomly or are specific people singled out?”
The sheriff’s tone had an edge. Could he be thinking of his wife’s tragedy? And now the skeptical look Nadine gave the sheriff indicated the entire non-human contention made her most uncomfortable.
“No,” said Francois.
“So then you’ve discerned a pattern to these events,” said Nadine.
“No,” said Francois. “By that I mean, no, that is most clearly not a good place to start. And what is this meant to be?” He held a deep-fried pepper for inspection. It had some type of protrusion, making for a most unattractive presentation.
“Ratone. Little rat. Because the shrimp tail sticks out. A jalapeno pepper stuffed with shrimp and Mexican cheese. Don’t worry. You’ll like it,” explained Nadine.
He took a substantial bite. Poor presentation and atrocious name aside, it tasted delicious. A large gulp of beer followed. “Excellent,” he said.
“Let’s go back to that not a normal human being thing,” said Cole.
“You kick off, Padre,” said Nadine. “I’m all ears.”
These Americans, thought Francois. No nuance. No first circling the core, absorbing subtleties.
“Let us start with power,” he began. “Not the power of physics, but the power of living beings. Such beings may or may not have visibility, but that, perhaps, opens up a larger discussion for this moment. A discussion with too many variables.” At the last comment he nodded to Nadine in recognition of her analytical capabilities. He felt such things must be acknowledged.
“I have studied power, and its effects,” he added. “And this?” He gestured at a th
in stuffed and folded bread-like substance.
“Cow tongue taco. Eat it with your hands,” Nadine said, taking a bite out of hers to demonstrate.
Several more patrons entered the small restaurant and the muted clatter of heavy dishes came from the kitchen. The aromas of stewed meat and spices permeated the small room.
“Yes,” said Francois. “To the beginning. At least the beginning of records. And here I shall focus on the unseen forces. Evil power. The Mesopotamians, Egyptians, Assyrians all made references. The Hebrews captured a reasonable classification.” He paused to eat, knowing such a discussion required time. The tongue dish was, again, excellent.
He chewed with his eyes closed, finished the last of his beer, and raised the empty dark bottle until their waiter saw it, smiled, and nodded affirmation. Cole turned and displayed two fingers to the waiter. The Mademoiselle hadn’t touched her beer.
“The Hebrews. Oui. They knew God. They knew of fallen angels, celestial battles. They knew this earthly realm was only a slice of reality. But the Hebrews today do not mention it. They did document it, of course.” He took another large bite of the tongue as his second beer arrived.
Nadine perked up at the word “document,” evidently excited by the prospect of tangible information.
“Those documents reside in Israel?” she asked.
“Non. No. And this?” he asked, pointing a fork at an elongated lump wrapped in a cornhusk.
“Tamale. Take the—never mind. I’ll do it,” said Nadine, and unwrapped the cornhusk from the tamale so he could ingest it.
He held up his fork and one eyebrow.
“Yes. Use the fork. Or your hands. It doesn’t matter,” said Nadine.
They both watched as he took a bite, nodded, and gave guttural approval. He added some salt and fresh lime to the tamale and took another bite. He chewed and jabbed the air with his fork at the old photo of the Mexican bandit.
“Pancho Villa. Forget that,” said Cole. “For God’s sake, let’s stay on track.”
Americans. Francois followed the spicy tamale with a long pull of beer and a small belch.
