~ 14 ~
Malachi exited the room and began walking down the hospital corridor where he was immediately joined in step by two U.S. Army officers, one bearing the silver eagles of a bird colonel on his epaulets, and the other man proudly displaying his captain’s bars.
“Satisfied, Father Malachi?”
“Yes,” the priest said, as they all strode down the corridor, their heels cracking with hollow echoes.
“What’s this about, if I may?” the colonel asked. Malachi gave him an appraising look. He was a well conditioned man of about forty, threads of iron grey hair already showing at his temples.
“You had your orders?” Malachi asked.
“Yes Father....”
“And, what were they?” Malachi persisted, not unkindly.
“To get you in to see the lieutenant before he was discharged...and not to ask any questions.”
“There’s your answer, my good man.”
“Sorry sir...Father,” the colonel said quickly, his face reddening.
“Any news on Father Gallo?”
“No sir. But the New York State Police are working closely with the town police, the Sheriff’s department and our own MPs to try to find him.”
“How does a man just vanish?” Malachi shook his head.
The colonel shrugged. “The FBI tells us that on any given day, there are 100,000 active missing person cases being investigated in the country.”
“Who would harm a priest,” Malachi grated, though he knew he was being intentionally naive. He continued. “If he was murdered, police should have found something by now?”
“He could have been kidnapped and removed from New York State,” the colonel said. “The feds also tell us that in evidence rooms around the country there are partial remains of more than 40,000 people they can’t identify. Can you give me a hint of what the hell...pardon me, sir....is going on? If we knew more, perhaps we could help more?”
As they turned a corner, Malachi stopped abruptly and the two soldiers did likewise. “I’m sorry Colonel Rutlege. If I could tell you, I would. Suffice to say that your lieutenant is a very lucky man, and I’m looking into what made him so lucky. That’s about it.”
“And our part-time Chaplin? How does he fit into this?” The colonel was suspicious.
“He was...is... an old friend,” Malachi answered. A partial truth at best.
“Do you need us anymore, Father?” the captain asked, much younger than the colonel but with a certain hardness and directness that said he didn’t appreciate being kept out of the loop any more than the colonel did.
“No...that’s everything I needed, gentlemen. I can find my own way out.”
Both men stepped back and for some reason saluted. “Very well,” Colonel Rutlege said. “If there is anything else we can do for you, please just let us know. You have our cards.”
“You’ve been most kind, truly,” Malachi said. He shook both their hands exuding a warm smile that both intrigued and captivated the men who suddenly felt a kinship for the priest which they couldn’t readily explain. By way of apology for any abruptness they might have perceived, he threw them a nugget. “If it puts your mind at ease, this is strictly church business...nothing to do with the army.”
“Thank you Father,” they answered, almost in unison, and smiled back at him.
“Good! Now you gentlemen, be at peace and stay out of harm’s way. I’m going to get a coffee in the cafeteria and do a little thinking.”
“Good-bye, sir,” they said, again almost together, and marched off.
Malachi sat in the cafeteria sipping a sour-tasting, acidic liquid claiming to be freshly brewed coffee out of a state-of-the-art vending machine. He watched the comings and goings of nurses, doctors and orderlies as they juggled food trays and kibitzed with each other. A familiar shakiness throughout his body signaled low blood sugar, and he took another bite of a doughnut. He should be eating crackers and cheese he realized but this would have to do. In a few minutes he would return to two priests sitting outside the hospital in their rented automobile and give them their orders. Having met Clay briefly, he had pegged him as a serious young man and not one likely to make up tales. He wished he’d been able to press him further on what happened the night of the ambush but confidentiality was paramount at this point in his investigation. He had settled for a quick meeting where he was able to assess the man.
The previous month, before Gallo called, Malachi had received news that he was one of 44 candidates appointed to the College of Cardinals and would soon officially become a Prince of the Catholic Church. He’d sent an email to a few of his church brethren, including Father Gallo, telling them of his upcoming appointment. Congratulations flowed in, all saying it was well deserved. As a member of the Romana Curia, he would be appointed a Cardinal Deacon. In fact, his appointment meant he would be by-passing the usual hierarchical route of becoming a bishop first, courtesy of a special dispensation. Malachi felt he had certainly earned it. He had paid his dues and his reputation had survived intact despite some controversies over the years.
When his old friend Gallo had called from America, he felt obligated to make some inquiries about the legend of the Hellspawn. Rather than being treated with amusement, contempt or benign neglect, he had been surprised at the reactions he received. In fact, it seemed that his questions had served as a catalyst, and galvanized some inner church workings since it hadn’t been long before he’d been summoned to the Chamber. When he found out the reason for the summons, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to deduce that his questions led to the summons.
On his first visit, Malachi had been accompanied by Brother Fagan, a serious looking and well-fed Christian Brother who moved surprisingly fast for his bulk. The man led him through a series of concealed entranceways and low tunnels which, his ample-girthed guide had needlessly explained, were secret passageways constructed for ancient Popes who often had to flee from potential assassins in the Vatican buildings. After they traversed a final brick-lined corridor and reached a well-hidden anti-chamber that appeared to be an ex-dungeon of sorts, the brother vanished; he was left staring at a group of six clerics clustered around a heavy oak table. One tall man welcomed him and said with tongue in cheek that they were known as “The Seven.” When, with a hint of humor Malachi pointed out the mathematical discrepancy, he was informed there was none since they hoped he would become number seven replacing one Cardinal Cal Brott, a 70-year-old member suffering from terminal cancer and unable to attend.
Rather presumptuous, Malachi had thought, puzzled but interested. Still, to their credit, when he pressed them as to their mandate, they hadn’t hesitated. The tall man with a squared off crew cut introduced himself as Monsignor Heinz Rautenberg. He had looked Malachi in the eye and said that it was their collective, sworn and holy duty to track down and kill for all time an earth-bound demon known as the Hellspawn.
At first, Malachi had been somewhat amused by the obvious link between his inquiries and the summons. But as one-by-one they spoke to him about the seriousness of their purpose, individual duties and specializations, as well as their need for new leadership, he had also become intrigued.
And now, here he was, smack dab in the middle of it all. Somehow he had been recommended as one who could provide leadership, no less. Not that he wasn’t up to the task. Rather he had seen it as a chance to clarify things, to put an end to wild speculation and rumor, and reveal this Hellspawn for what it really was – a series of evil men throughout history who had been mistakenly lumped together as one and attributed with “devilish” powers.
Malachi felt he was getting a little long in the tooth to believe otherwise. After, all, he was an educated man having studied at the Catholic University of Louvain in Belgium where he received doctorates both in Semitic Languages and Middle East History. Not to mention the numerous seminars and auxiliary courses he had attended, and the impressive number of papers he had authored including: The Church and Modern Man; Vatican II: An
Appeal to Modernity; and, Living Saints of the Catholic Church, a dissertation that had caused some concern within the Vatican since it was “they” who would decide who was a saint and who was not.
He reached over to try to cut the acidity of his coffee by dumping more whitener in it as he marveled that an English lad such as himself, who had come through the orphanage system when his parents died in an automotive crash, had come so far in life.
His family had been living in the small English village of Bath when the motoring accident happened and his life changed forever. Because he was an only child, and authorities could not find any living relatives, he was ultimately consigned to the British orphanage system with his parent’s assets put into a trust for him. An independent spirit, he couldn’t wait to grow up and be free. But then fortune smiled on him when he was thirteen-years-old.
An aunt, whose husband had recently died, had looked into her husband’s family tree and found that, contrary to his assertions, he did indeed have a sister in England. From what she could determine, because of a family squabble, they were estranged and he had told his wife that his entire family was deceased. However, she now had proof that her husband did indeed have a living relative. But when his Aunt Helen, who was living in Boston, found that her husband’s sister and her husband had been killed, and had a living son, she immediately sought custody. That was how young Mustavias Malachi originally came to America to live in Boston, Massachusetts.
In fact, it turned out to be an extremely good life for him. His aunt had inherited a considerable fortune from her husband who purchased substantial stock in a popular bank and other start-up companies such as Apple, Microsoft and some unknown called Wal-Mart. She both loved young Mustavias to a fault, and devoted her life to seeing to his welfare and education. In fact, she had used her financial influence to get him into England’s famous University of Oxford, and despite her loneliness, had suffered stoically through his absences looking forward to the holidays each year with great expectation. In turn, Malachi had grown to love this charitable and upstanding woman who had taken him into her heart and home. At the same time, however, he was noticing a change in himself during his university years. No longer was he playing rugby, interested in films or even trips into London to go clubbing. Rather he was becoming more introspective all the time. And, one small event in his life began to assume a renewed importance and a strange significance.
As a lad in Bath, before his mother and father’s death, he’d been playing on a soccer field with his friends most of the day. The sun was gold and low in the sky, the sweet scent of newly mown hay in the air, when he heard his mother calling across the field that his tea was on. As he made ready to head home, he felt a hole in his pocket and realized he’d lost his prized pocketknife. Despair flooded his young being: how could he possibly find it on such a vast field? He began to wander in an aimless grid of sorts, desperately searching the grass. His mother’s voice drifted across the green once more, a note of finality in her tone. His father would soon come searching for him.
Close to tears, young Malachi asked the only one he could ask at the time for help – God. He’d closed his eyes, stuck his hands in his pocket and whispering prayers, allowed himself to continue to wander about the field. He moved far and wide, stumbling now and again, his eyes remaining tightly closed, saying to himself that when he stopped and opened them, the knife would be there. Again, his mother’s voice shouted for him, her irritation at his continuing absence and perhaps a small hint of concern growing. Malachi stopped, opened his eyes and looked down. The green shell-sided pocketknife lay directly between his two running shoes.
Heart pounding in joy, he scooped up the knife, said a thank you to God, and bounded home to supper. He was now a youngster who knew there was a God in Heaven, a God who took a moment to answer a cry for help from a small boy.
When, in his final year of Oxford, it was time to pick a vocation, he knew with certainty that his calling was not necessarily in the business, arts or scientific world. His interests were more spiritual. Indeed, as Malachi’s fascination with his Catholic faith had blossomed, his Aunt Helen had fully supported him there too. Later, she financed his post-graduate studies at Louvain and was immensely proud of his choice to enter the priesthood. Her hope was that he would one day be assigned to a diocese in Boston. For Malachi, however, his focus was on serving God wherever he was needed. And while he had not always been a scholarly sort, and more a person with a healthy skepticism for many of life’s mysteries, doubt did not extend to his faith. Somehow, he knew there was a God in Heaven, a tangible, reasonable being who gloried in the good deeds of His people and experienced tremendous sorrow when they transgressed. How he knew it, he didn’t know. He just knew.
After his graduation and ordination, however, he had been assigned to the Holy See in Rome. It was an opportunity, his aunt agreed, that he could not turn down. As personal secretary to a number of Cardinals at different times, he worked in a variety of departments of the Romana Curia for many years. He made it a point, however, to travel back to Boston to see his Aunt Helen every three months, and have her come to Rome each June when they would explore the marvels of the ancient city and the Italian vineyards and countryside, enjoying the sun and the better vintages.
Unfortunately, this lasted only for a few years. Aunt Helen had passed in her sleep of a brain aneurism. Malachi soon found that she had placed her fortune in a trust for him in case he left the priesthood early or retired. While he had full access at any time, she knew that due to his vows of poverty and obedience he would not use the money during his tenure.
As a Jesuit, he had learned sacrifice and discipline that served him well in the Vatican. And, as his experience and knowledge increased exponentially, he had been repeatedly sought out for his wisdom and perspective on many practical, ecclesiastical and even philosophical matters. His reputation had grown and, in truth, he wasn’t surprised that his appointment had come by way of a dispensation. Only that it now appeared to have come with a price – an appointment to the Chamber.
His thoughts returned to the present and the course of action he must now choose after having met the ex-lieutenant. The problem with his current challenge was that after some initial research and counsel with his dying predecessor, who had largely held this “demon-hunting” duty as a ceremonial post, he finally believed there might be something to it. Without knowing it, Father Gallo’s call to Malachi had initiated a defined protocol that necessitated The Seven exploring the validity of the news. And so here he was in upstate New York.
He sighed, finished his coffee and consigned the cardboard cup to the proper green waste bin on his way out of the veteran’s hospital.
A few minutes later, he sat in the backseat of a dark blue Mercury Marquis while two middle-aged priests sat in the front. Father Dermott Murphy and Father Ronald Langevin were on special assignment, and charged with keeping watch over Lieutenant Clay Montague. They would become part of a group of Watchmen managing his surveillance.
“He remembers nothing,” Malachi said to the priests who sat staring straight ahead.
Without turning, Father Murphy asked, “So what now?”
“We watch him. Like a hawk. Day and night. Sooner or later it will come.”
According to Malachi’s predecessor, it was unusual to have a live victim of the Hellspawn and if this was indeed true, they might have been handed an extraordinary opportunity to bait and kill it.
~ 15 ~
The wailing began again.
Father Gallo sat up on his mattress and began to tremble; he looked in fear towards the five slits in the curved stone wall of his cell. The sounds of suffering erupted periodically only to fade away after a few moments. They were filtering in through the openings where he could see a few twinkling stars and a crescent moon against a mauve evening sky. The window slits were too high for him to access even if he had the will or the strength to hoist himself up. He still had no idea where he was, only that he had b
een confined in a small cell for an outrageous amount of time. And, that he could smell salt air, hear the shrieks of sea gulls and occasionally the sound of waves breaking on a shoreline; he was certainly near the sea.
He looked at the wall in the faint moonlight and again counted off the days he’d been held prisoner – 104. More than three months. And yet, no contact with his captors, and no attempts at rescue. Whoever had kidnapped him had done a good job of making him vanish and keeping their identity secret. Whenever he slept, his jailors crept into his cell. He would invariably awaken to find a tray of non-descript food that resembled pig swill and some hunks of bread beside the door. Still he was grateful for it and ate every sop.
Occasionally, when needed, he also found rolls of toilet paper beside the tray, a bar of soap and a metal safety razor welded shut so he couldn’t use the blade on himself. And though he stayed awake for up to 24-hours at a time, and even faked sleep, he had never glimpsed the steel door open or the faces of his jailors.
His space consisted of an 18-by-18 foot stone cell furnished with a foam mattress and a few worn and putrid smelling blankets. In one corner was a stainless steel toilet. There were no facilities for cleaning, even a basic sink, so he washed and shaved as best he could over the toilet. Other than his daily tray of food and two liters of water in a plastic jug, nothing else entered his cell. He had been using a piece of black candle wax he’d found in an unused iron sconce bolted to the wall to make marks on the stone and count the days. From the stone and the curve of the wall, he wondered if he was in some sort of turret, possibly in a castle-like building. But where in upstate New York would you find a castle and salt air, he mused? There was Boldt Castle in the Thousand Islands, but it was a tourist attraction. And, then there was the smell of the ocean. There was also the possibility he was no longer in New York State.
Gallo passed the time in prayer and meditation; there was nothing else to do. The days and nights proceeded endlessly. His last conscious memory before he had awakened in his cell, was standing in the lieutenant’s hospital room about to give him Extreme Unction. Though he tried diligently to remember what had happened after the soldier awakened, everything was blank.
The Plan Page 8
