by Hunter Shea
The electronic buzz of the ringing phone broke her concentration. She answered before the second ring, hoping it was Shane.
“Hello.”
“Good morning, Ms. DeCarlo. It’s Rose Williams from the office. I just wanted to call and let you know that the mayor is having a car pick you up at four this afternoon.”
“A car? Wow, that would be great. Do you need my address.”
“That’s okay, dear,” Rose said. She sounded like a Norman Rockwell painting of a genial grandmother come to life. “I think we have your address somewhere around here.”
Aimee laughed, mostly at herself for being such a dunce.
“Yeah, I guess you do. Thank you, Rose. I’ll be here.”
“Very good. Have a wonderful time. Bye, dear.”
The brief phone call reignited her excitement about the night’s festivities. After a light lunch, shower and change into her dress, all thoughts of Shane had drifted to the gentle undercurrents of her mind. This was her big night and, if he wanted to be an ass about it, that was his problem. Aimee admired the black dress in the full-length mirror, gave her lip liner a final touch-up and had to keep herself from running out the door when she heard the car horn signal her chariot’s arrival.
Father Michael and Shane spent the day in the church, gathering their strength for the oncoming clash. They’d sat at the back of the church during the 6 a.m. Mass, politely ignored by the serving priest. At the end of Mass, they’d left before the priest and his lone altar boy made their way to tidy up the pulpit and lectern, only to return half an hour later to sequester themselves upstairs where the organist and choir sat on Sundays.
Shane remained in a kind of haze. He’d never before felt so at peace within himself, despite the terror he knew awaited them. Sometime during his silent meditation, his grandmother’s shadow had departed but not without leaving him a pastoral sense of purpose. Father Michael’s brief touch had opened up a doorway he never knew existed, and even though the scene behind it was filled with inhuman nightmares and uncertainty, he was strengthened by the fact that he had been chosen by a higher power for a special mission. All those years of feeling alone, rejected, an outsider even in a city as rich and diverse as New York. If he’d only known.
If he’d only known.
Father Michael touched his shoulder in the late morning and said, “Stay.”
He slipped through the rectory like a phantom and went to Monsignor Stanton’s bedside. The monsignor was in the same position he had left him the night before. His breathing was ragged, stopping for dangerously long periods of time before restarting with a sickening rattle. His time was near, but it had to be delayed.
“Stay strong for a while longer,” he whispered. “Stay strong and I will guide you.”
A wan smile spread across Monsignor Stanton’s sleeping face and his breathing became easier. He sat with him a while longer, until he was satisfied that the worst had been held at bay.
After Father Michael’s return to the church, he and Shane spent the rest of the day arming themselves and dipping their weapons in holy water. When they were done, the gunnysack was empty and they were each almost fifty pounds heavier with well-concealed armaments. They watched the sun set, bleeding the vibrancy from the stained-glass windows.
“Father Michael,” Shane intoned as night descended. They were the first words he’d uttered all day.
“Yes.”
“I’ve never used a weapon on anyone before. I want to make sure I do it right. I don’t want to fail.”
Father Michael turned and met his gaze. “Look at me, and see.”
Shane peered at him from under heavy lids, his full attention snared by the pull of Father Michael’s command. He looked into his eyes, and his own widened in shock as he was given panoramic access to a fleeting display of time and trials, of hope and despair.
Scenes of battles past eddied across the white, wet surfaces of Father Michael’s eyes. They transmuted to a blinding crimson, the color of the battlefield after war, and still Shane didn’t break his stare. Shane watched men, women and children die alongside hellish monstrosities. He witnessed Father Michael, ever present, ever the blood-stained warrior, as he dispatched the evil hordes with brutal efficiency. Most men would have gone mad had they seen the destruction in Father Michael’s eyes. Shane locked into them, and learned.
Father Michael broke the spell with a blink and turn of his head.
“Whoa,” Shane exhaled. He staggered into the railing before the altar, rubbing his temples with his fingers.
He paused a moment, then said, “Now I know. The others like me were killed, weren’t they?”
Father Michael nodded.
“My greatest weakness is people, not demons. The way I see it, I have to fight Cain’s creatures, protect Aimee and other innocent people, and look out for well-meaning police and other guards who may take shots at me during the melee.”
The quiet provided his answer. It was a tall order, especially for one who had never been battle tested.
They both rose and turned towards the crucifix above the altar.
“If I am an Impervious, I guess I don’t have much choice in the matter,” Shane said, feeling more of his old self return. “And I am not letting them take Aimee. Let’s shred some ugly, demon ass.”
A thin-lipped grin crept across Father Michael’s face.
After making the sign of the cross, they left the church and made their way to the Javits Center.
Chapter Twenty-One
Security around the Javits Center almost outnumbered the participants, not just because of the high representation of politicians but also from the foul residue that still infected the city since the terror that had befallen it. The world had changed and now every gathering was a cause for alarm. The West Side Highway had been blocked off for ten blocks in each direction and the entire convention hall was surrounded by a reserve of troops, police, undercover security, news vans, limos and town cars carrying invitees, photographers and a score of onlookers.
Mayor Spinelli stepped out of his town car to the applause of an appreciative city. He waved at the crowd, stopped for a few pictures that would grace the covers of all the local papers in the morning and even shook hands. He walked the red carpet alone, testament to his bravery, and more than one person in the crowd commented it was a shame he couldn’t be elected for another term.
Reporters shouted questions at him and he provided a few, canned replies. Someone asked if his wife was going to join him. She had been a well-known socialite long before he had become mayor and was never one to miss a major event. Her absence was noted by all.
“I told her she could take the night off. Too many mayors spoil the brew.”
That elicited a round of laughter, most of it forced.
No one noticed his eyes briefly coruscate a vibrant red when he spotted Father Michael and his new toy across the street, watching. Giving the crowd his patented thumbs-up, he walked into the building and out of sight.
Shane leaned against a light pole and watched the pulse of the crowd, the flash of cameras as a parade of black cars spit their cargo onto the red carpet. Velvet ropes kept the throng at bay as various mayors of every sex, race, creed and color took their star turn into the Javits Center. Two helicopters buzzed overhead and snipers had taken positions on top of the building, as well as on every rooftop in the surrounding area. They hadn’t walked that far yet, but Shane was sure the water behind the convention center was lined with patrol boats as well.
“This place is swarming with cops and people,” Shane said. “I hope you know how we’re getting in there, because I haven’t a clue.”
The snow from the night before had been plowed away so there weren’t even any mounds of black- and brown-flecked hardpack in front of the building. The Jacob Javits Center was a series of giant, connected glass cubes that had been built in the mid-1980s to serve as the city’s premier convention hall. Boat shows, hundreds of trade shows and special even
ts like this one tonight kept the odd-looking building alive. It looked like the end result of a mammoth child tinkering with an equally mammoth erector set. Inside, above the main convention hall was a series of suites, all designed for top comfort and appointed with every possible convenience. The dimensions of the structure and the great number of people that were crammed into every corner, both inside and out, guaranteed certain disaster for many.
“We wait,” Father Michael grumbled.
The temperature was rapidly dropping below freezing and the wind that had been whipping the city bare for weeks started to kick up.
Shane patted the various pockets in his coat and pants as a sort of cursory weapons check. His heart was beating so hard in his chest he thought for sure he’d crack a rib. He was scared, determined and angry. His teeth chattered so hard he was afraid they would chip. It was a funny thing to worry about when you were moments away from fighting a horde of demons sent from hell itself. Shane thought, If you fight demons as a career for the church, does it come with dental benefits?
He tittered through the clacking of his teeth.
“How long?” he asked.
Father Michael cocked his head towards the lineup of news vans, their satellite dishes fully extended towards the sky, ready to broadcast Cain’s main event. “We must limit his audience. Take these.” He handed Shane a pair of thick foam plugs.
Shane tossed them from one hand to the other. “Are you going to tell me to put these in my ears lest I be swayed by Cain’s siren song?” He snorted and a plume of white smoke clouded his face.
“That will protect you from me. Put them in and do as I say. Just follow my motions and you will be safe.”
They were in his ears a second later.
The night’s festivities started with a cocktail reception where the mayors got to mix and mingle. Aimee felt totally out of place. It had been weird, riding alone in the back of the town car, dressed to kill without the man she loved to even see her off. Why had he been so upset? The question had nagged her constantly from the moment he’d left. Some career move this had been. She hadn’t even seen the mayor yet. She grabbed a champagne glass from a passing waiter’s tray and downed it. It was free. She might as well take advantage of it. Just had to be sure she didn’t drink too much and make an ass of herself. Stage-diving was not encouraged here.
She wandered through the crowd, catching lines of conversations here and there, boasts of this one’s city being rated top ten in housing while another mayor crowed about the increasing high school test scores in her district. Occasionally someone would smile her way, especially some of the heavyset, middle-aged male representatives or their assistants. Even she had to admit that she looked damn good in her black dress and everyone knew in a glance that she was not a politician. Thank God, Aimee thought. I couldn’t be phony long enough to pull their job off.
Half an hour and three glasses of champagne later, an announcement over the loudspeaker heralded the start of the presentations. People lined up outside the main floor and waited for ushers to show them to their assigned seats. Aimee was shown to the end of the aisle in the second row, a prize seat. Then again, her mayor was the host of the event, so why shouldn’t he and his staff enjoy the best? She looked around for familiar faces from the mayor’s entourage but could find no one. She looked behind her and saw that it would be a while before everyone was seated. People were still lingering at the buffet tables and the open bar. Classical music—was it Mozart?—played softly over the thrum of conversation and the shuffling of feet and chairs.
She was fixated on a man she thought she recognized as the mayor of Philadelphia when a voice from just over her shoulder gave her a start.
“Having fun, Ms. DeCarlo?”
Flustered, Aimee turned around to face Mayor Spinelli. The champagne she had imbibed made her cheeks rosy.
“Yes. This is just amazing,” she said, quickly collecting herself.
The mayor rolled his eyes. “Actually, it’s just a vast collection of blowhards scarfing down whatever’s free and indulging in our favorite pastime.”
Aimee wanted to say “And what would that be?” but she was still a little starstruck when it came to being so close to the mayor.
“I know what you’re wondering,” he said. “Rule number one of politics: a politician’s favorite topic is himself and what he’s done, can do or will do for his constituency. Gatherings like this give us a chance to bore each other instead of our significant others with our self-indulgent platitudes for a night.”
He smiled big and wide, every perfectly white tooth flashing with brilliance. Aimee chuckled. “I don’t see anyone else from the office,” she said.
The mayor looked around the congregation. “Oh, they’re all here, somewhere. Probably loading their pockets with shrimp.” He laughed and placed his hand on her shoulder. Aimee went rigid and tried to mask her surprise. “I have to go stand backstage now. Just after my speech, I’ll call everyone up to the podium. I’d really appreciate it if you could come up and get a well-deserved round of applause. I couldn’t do my job without people like you.”
Aimee was speechless. Somehow, she managed to croak out, “I would be honored.”
The mayor replied “Great!” and clapped his hands once. “Well, I guess I’ll see you in a few. Relax. I promise, it’ll be fun.”
Aimee watched him walk down the aisle, pressing the flesh along the way. The way he attracted people and commanded their respect, he looked like more than the mayor. At this moment, he could have been president.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Father Michael had stood vigil for over an hour, motionless, wordless, as unwavering and unreadable as a wax figure. He concentrated on the proceedings within the Javits Center, using his enhanced senses to listen in on a multitude of conversations and the various announcements made over the PA system. He tried hard to detect Aimee’s presence but was unable to locate her voice amid the cacophony. At one point, he and Shane were approached by a policeman. He came stamping his feet to drive out the cold. He had a large, salt-and-pepper mustache and the bulk of his tight, heavy jacket made him look like a walking wine barrel.
“Can I help you fellas?” he said and stopped in his tracks when he saw Father Michael’s white collar.
Shane quickly played the middleman, pulling the officer away and saying in a low voice, “The father is blind. I’ve been describing the scene over there and I think he’s just kinda taking in the sounds. You know what I mean?”
The cop nodded. “Sure.” Turning to the priest he said, “Sorry to bother you, Father. It’s a big night. We can’t be too careful anymore. I saw the two of you standing around for so long, I started to get suspicious. It’s this crazy world. Makes a man jumpy. You enjoy your evening.”
Father Michael nodded. The cop walked away.
“We better at least move to a different spot,” Shane said, eyeing the officer’s retreating back.
“It will be soon.”
“Shit, I hope so.” Shane hopped in place, blowing into the palms of his hands. “I’m starting to run out of adrenaline.”
The emcee had just about finished his preamble. At least Aimee hoped so. Ever since the mayor had told her she would actually be onstage, she had been fighting a major case of the jitters. Her stomach was tight and her pulse soared. Taking deep breaths did nothing to calm her down. She didn’t know whether she was more excited or nervous. Finally, she heard the emcee announce Mayor Spinelli’s name.
The crowd rose to its feet and gave a standing ovation as the mayor of New York strode to the podium. He tried starting his speech a few times but was interrupted by swells of applause. He smiled and motioned them to their seats but the adulation kept coming. Aimee was among the throng of cheering fans.
When things had finally settled down, he said, “Thank you very much for that well-deserved show of affection.” The crowd nearly laughed their heads off, they were so giddy and wrapped up in the pomp and circumstance. “Welc
ome to New York!” He threw his arms wide and basked in the swelling current of applause.
He rolled into his speech about all the city had been through and the grit and resolve of its citizens. It seemed that every sentence was punctuated with an ovation. Ten minutes into his monologue, he said, “I just want to personally thank some of the people that make this city run.”
Aimee thought her heart would stop. There wasn’t time for more tension to build as her name was called first.
“Aimee DeCarlo, come on up. Everyone, please give her a hand.”
The mayor’s eyes glinted as he sought her out among the crowd.
She approached the stage on jelly legs, squinting from the harsh TV lights and flash of cameras. Mayor Spinelli called up other people: Rose Williams, Muriel Clarke, John Patrick, Paul Rosario, and, much to Aimee’s surprise, Patty Wilson, who walked from the back of the room and stood beside Aimee. “How come you didn’t tell me?” Aimee whispered, wide-eyed and bewildered that her best friend who’d helped her get ready for this night had neglected to inform her that she was also invited.
“Trust me, honey, that’s the least of your concerns tonight.”
Now what the hell did she mean by that?
The thundering of the assembly made it hard for her to think.
Rose Williams, who had baked her brownies when she’d worked through the flu and had even kissed her forehead to check if she had a fever, leaned forward to catch her attention. Aimee nearly gasped when the old matriarch of the office lifted the middle finger of her right hand, twisting her body so only she could see.
