The Blood of the Lamb

by Thomas F Monteleone

  “I felt so in synch with them, couldn’t you tell? They really needed me tonight. They want me to come back when the rest of the congregation can be there.”

  “Aren’t we supposed to be moving on?” asked Dan. “Keeping a low profile?”

  “I know,” said Peter. “It’s hard to explain Dan, but I feel like I’ve got to talk to these people. They’re so hungry for guidance. They’re scared, uncertain. Confused.”

  “Kind of like us, eh?” said Marion.

  Ignoring her remark, Peter continued ebulliently. “Maybe this is what I was chosen for—to get out in the world with the people, to get my hands dirty and help everybody, any way I can!”

  “You’ve got a point there. Maybe.”

  “Out here, on the road, the thought of being cooped up in that rectory for the rest of my life seems silly. This is where I belong.”

  “What about the Vatican?” asked Marion. “What about the guy in the black suit who almost killed Daniel?”

  “I know, I know,” Peter said, “but…”

  Dan looked at his friend. Peter’s eyes were like beacons, so suffused with energy did he seem. His soul seemed to be shining. Marion was right. Peter was changing.

  Dan said, “But what? Do you want to get caught?”

  “Yes,” said Marion, “I thought that was the whole reason we ran off with you—to help you stay hidden, to protect you.”

  “I know,” said Peter. “I realize all that. I haven’t forgotten. It’s just that I’ve been thinking, and maybe low-profile isn’t the best way to play it.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Dan.

  “I mean if I get out among the people, and let everybody see me, then maybe the Vatican will be afraid to make a move on me.”

  “Hmmm,” said Marion. “He has a point. Maybe.”

  “Sure! Listen, if we keep low, don’t let anybody know us or see us, and the ‘Man In Black’ finds us—what do you think’s going to happen?”

  “He could sic the Vatican on you, and kill Marion and me,” said Dan. “And nobody would ever know it.”

  “Right. Our anonymity can work against us as much as for us. Think about it.”

  “I don’t know,” said Dan. “I think we’re taking a terrible chance. You didn’t see this guy. You don’t know him like I do.”

  “Well,” Peter said, “I have a few ‘talents’ of my own, don’t forget. I don’t think we have anything to fear from anybody.”

  “Except maybe ourselves,” said Marion. She didn’t turn her head away from the dark road ahead. Dan could see the tension in her features.

  “Huh?” Peter looked at her. “Why do you say that?”

  Marion looked at him, then Dan. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m still scared.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Clearfield, Pennsylvania—Targeno

  * * *

  August 30, 1998

  “That is correct—Clearfield,” he said. “It is a very small village in Pennsylvania.”

  This call to the Vatican was his first report since coming to America. Targeno was shaken by what he had learned, but his training and his years of experience kept him from letting it affect his performance. But he did not like the implications of that knowledge…

  “Have you had trouble tailing them?”

  “Of course not. The bug in their car transmits everything I need to know.”

  “Excellent. When will you bring him in?”

  “Not so fast,” said Targeno. “There is much to do. And some interesting things you should know first.”

  “I am waiting,” said Francesco.

  And wait you shall, thought Targeno. Until I am ready to give it to you.

  “They have stopped for the night. Tomorrow, I shall interrogate some of the villagers.”

  “For what?” The Jesuit sounded impatient.

  “Because I need to know what he has been doing. I have not dared any close-up surveillance since he left New York. He’s traveling with two other people. I need to know more about their arrangement.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the ‘arrangement’! I just want him back,” said Father Francesco. His voice was so clear, he could have been in the next room instead of thousands of miles distant. Despite Americans’ complaints about their phone companies, the technology was superior to any in the world.

  “I know, I know,” said Targeno.

  “Very well. Tell me…who are these people he’s traveling with?” The Jesuit’s voice was colored by anxiety, but he was doing his best to disguise it.

  Targeno exhaled slowly. “His friend from the seminary, Ellington. You should have a file on him already.”

  “Affirmative. Who’s the other one?”

  “Marion Windsor. Local TV journalist in New York. There was no record of Carenza knowing her. Either he has been very careful about it for some reason, or their friendship is something new.”

  “Your feelings on this?”

  Targeno lit a Turkish cigarette. The smoke drifted up into the cool air. On the road, an eighteen-wheeler punched a hole in the night. Noisy as hell. “I believe,” he said, pausing to take a drag, “they met recently. The most obvious conclusion is that she was investigating the incident with the mugger.”

  Francesco’s veil of control and detachment began to slip. “You don’t think he is fucking her, do you?”

  Targeno chuckled. He knew it was irritating his superior. “Such language from a prelate!”

  “Don’t shit around with me,” said Francesco. “Just answer my questions.”

  “I have no idea at this point. But I tell you—having seen her, if he is not, he is truly a fool…”

  “You dare to blaspheme so casually?” Francesco’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

  “Is it blasphemy if I do not believe he is who you claim he is?”

  “You do not believe?”

  Targeno inhaled, exhaled heavy, acrid smoke. “I do not know what I believe. I have heard your story and I confirmed the incident at the airport, but I do not know what to believe.”

  “You pragmatic ass!” said Francesco. “How can you doubt the facts?”

  Targeno chuckled again. “And I have not even told you the latest.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I interrogated his friend, Ellington. He broke my hypo, so no drug-therapy.”

  “Meaning?” Francesco’s tone became one of concern.

  “Meaning I had to get out the toolbox.” Targeno smiled.

  “You disgust me.”

  “And yet you keep coming back to me. I must be doing something right.”

  “Enough!” said the Jesuit. “Tell me!”

  Briefly, Targeno listed the degradations he’d inflicted on Ellington. He told Francesco that after the torture session he’d kept the priest’s apartment under surveillance until Carenza and the woman arrived.

  “After I planted the bugs on the woman’s car, I waited. When they departed, Ellington went with them.”

  “What are you saying?”

  Targeno said smiling. “He was completely healed.”

  “Healed?”

  “There wasn’t a mark on him. It was like I had never touched him.”

  “So Carenza restored him!?”

  “What else could have happened? I’m telling you, ’Vanni, I carved him up like a goose!”

  “The Lamb of God,” said Francesco. “We’ve really done it!”

  “So you say…”

  “You’re a fool,” said the Jesuit. “He burns off your mob-buddy’s arm, he heals one of your victims, and still you do not believe!”

  “I only believe in myself,” said Targeno. “This man is just a freak to me.”

  “A freak with a power you do not understand. A power you cannot match.” Now it was Francesco’s turn to chuckle. “I think you fear this man.”

  “Perhaps. A man who knows no fear usually does not grow old.”

  “All right,” said Francesco. “What next?”

 
“I will continue to track him electronically. I can follow up on his activities by asking the right questions. I need to learn more about my prey before I bag him. Habits. Needs. Plans. All this will determine my strategy. I cannot just walk up to him and order him back to Rome. And we already know force will not work.”

  “Whatever you do, Targeno, no harm must come to him.”

  “I understand that. Do not insult me.”

  Francesco laughed softly, briefly. “I didn’t think that was possible. Nevertheless, I must tell you—if you damage the goods, you will be punished with what you would call ‘extreme prejudice.’”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  “Good-bye, Father,” said Targeno. “You will not hear from me until I can tell you something new.”

  Terminating the connection, he returned to his rental car, a low-slung, black wedge with opaqued windows and a high-performance engine. On the front seat, his briefcase lay open, revealing his KU-band scanning device. The blinking cursor on the map-display grid indicated the position of Windsor’s vehicle. He had planted two bugs on it when she parked on the Fordham campus—one a clumsy counterfeit. He knew if it were found, the odds were whoever did the checking would assume he’d successfully cleaned the vehicle. Only a high-level pro would even think to look for a wafer-thin ceramic beacon that looked like nothing more than a speck of dirt on the license plate.

  Targeno leaned back in the reclining seat behind the steering wheel, to light another cigarette. As he savored the harsh, heavy taste of the latakia blend, the scanner beeped. The cursor pulsed as the grid map coordinates began to move and change.

  They were moving out, but they would not be lost in the wilderness.

  Targeno’s thoughts were calm, but there was an unwelcome edge to his emotions. Something the Jesuit had said was repeating in his mind. There was no doubt—Targeno feared his prey. This was a healthy posture when dealing with the unknown. But did he really not care about Carenza’s true nature?

  Could this man really be Christ?

  If so, then the whole game of cat-and-mouse was reduced to plain silliness. There was an old American saying: You don’t fuck with King Kong. Surely a corollary would be that you don’t fuck with the Son of God…

  TWENTY-SIX

  Warrenton, Indiana—Windsor

  * * *

  October 14, 1998

  After the “Miracle at Evansville,” there was no keeping a lid on the story. Events moved at a geometric rate, and Marion had to fight the feeling she was going to be overwhelmed by what was happening.

  Unbelievably, the small group of travelers had spent more than six weeks in Pennsylvania, stopping in one small town after another. Daniel had wanted to get away from New York, but Peter had warmed to his audiences. Finally they’d headed west again. Marion drove her Mazda into Ohio via Interstate 80 at Youngstown. Billy and Laureen, on their Harley, followed them west through Akron and onto I-71, angling southwest into Columbus. Autumn was in full swing and the college town looked good in orange and brown.

  Marion and her merry band stopped for lunch and gas at a diner just south of the town center, then resumed their journey on I-71. The day’s plan was to put as much distance between themselves and New York as possible. They bisected Cincinnati and rolled on into Kentucky, hugging its western border, along the Ohio River basin, until they reached Louisville. Marion had never been through that part of the state. The grass really did look blue.

  At that point, a decision was needed—west to St. Louis or south to Nashville. Billy and Laureen wanted to see the country music capital of the world; Daniel had no preference. Peter had been oddly quiet through most of the day, staring out the window for hours at a time. He voted for St. Louis but without much enthusiasm.

  As the tie-breaker, Marion let her prejudices rule. For no other reason than her absolute loathing of country music, she opted for the Gateway to the West, and guided her car onto Interstate 64, heading into Indiana.

  Southern Indiana is as flat as a pool table and, other than the Hoosier National Forest, almost as barren. When the sun hits the horizon, Marion discovered, it gets dark in a hurry. As evening covered them like the dome on a fancy dinner plate, the talk drifted onto subjects like food and sleep. Great ideas. Marion loved her car, but after a long day at high speeds, tension and fatigue had pushed her to her limits. Time to call it quits.

  She planned to keep a journal of their trip, and had been mentally composing some entries as she drove the endless highway. Though she’d made a few notes on their sojourn in Pennsylvania, she needed to do some serious work, to get some of her impressions, memories, and maybe even some of her apprehensions, down on paper.

  When she exited the interstate at a forgettable place called Warrenton, the local radio station’s evening news segment reported the latest developments in a labor riot taking place in nearby Evansville. A large Korean automobile manufacturing plant had been plagued by factory workers’ unrest for the last three days, following the announcement by the Yusang Motor Corporation that all plant employees would be required to participate in mental and physical fitness regimens. Local news spots relayed tales of bloody violence between state police, Yusang security personnel, and the several thousand employees demonstrating just outside the auto assembly facilities. One worker had been killed by security employees, and the factory had essentially been under siege ever since. Marion had been assigned to powderkeg scenes like that, and she felt immediate empathy for her colleagues down in Evansville.

  “Sounds pretty bad,” she said as they pulled up to a Po Folks restaurant just off the exit. The deep rumble of Billy’s cycle resonated through the car’s interior as it nestled in beside them in the parking lot. Marion got out of the car as Billy and Laureen climbed off the bike.

  “Yeah,” said Daniel as he pushed her seat forward, and climbed out. “I’m starving. And if you don’t mind my quoting Billy, ‘I gotta pee like a racehorse.’”

  Billy laughed, slapped Dan’s shoulder.

  Marion smiled, slammed the car door. She wondered if all Jesuits were like Dan. Everyone turned toward the restaurant entrance—except Peter, who remained seated in the Mazda’s passenger seat, staring straight ahead.

  “Peter, is something wrong?” Marion asked, leaning down, looking at him. He looked relaxed, well-rested, and as usual, handsome in an unobtrusive, Gregory Peck kind of way.

  “No, not really. I was just thinking about that riot. It’s so close. Maybe we should go down there and help.”

  “Help? What could we do?” Marion’s pulse jumped up about twenty beats per minute.

  “Use your martial arts?” He looked at her and smiled.

  “Oh, Peter…really.” She laughed, shortly and without humor. “Everybody’s hungry,” she said, trying to remain casual. “Are you coming?” No one else had heard his remarks, and she wanted to keep it that way. Peter had been so quiet all day…It was unnerving, and for some reason his interest in the labor riot deeply disturbed her—though she didn’t know why.

  “Sure, I’ll be right there. Go on in.”

  He made no effort to move from his seat, still gazing at a distant horizon, as though he could see something she couldn’t. Well, maybe he could. She considered waiting for him, but didn’t want to seem pushy. Against her better judgment, she left him and walked into the restaurant.

  Daniel, Billy, and Laureen were sitting at a table near the door, perusing menus.

  “Where’s Peter?” Daniel asked, pushing a length of blond hair from his forehead. He looked like an eternal surfer-boy.

  “Still out in the car. He’ll be right in.” She picked up her menu, scanning it, but not reading a damned word. “Dan, did he seem funny to you today?”

  “I don’t know. Kind of quiet. Moody, maybe.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, Peter can act any way he wants,” said Laureen. She spoke with such reverence, it was almost comical, especially with her words so opposed to her
look: archetypal biker-chick.

  “Yeah,” said Billy, holding up his hand as if offering proof of his newfound devotion.

  Marion looked at Daniel. “You know him better than the rest of us. Would you say he’s moody, unpredictable?”

  “Heh!” Daniel shook his head. “I’d say he’s usually exactly the opposite.”

  The waitress appeared wearing a blue calico dress and a white apron. She smiled through her myriad freckles. After ordering the perfectly outrageous chicken-fried steak, Marion looked toward the entrance for Peter.

  What was he doing out there?

  “I’m going to go get him,” she told the others as she headed for the door.

  When she found the car locked and empty, she was not surprised. She’d expected it since she’d stepped into the restaurant.

  Route 41 was a four-lane highway through nothing but dark, desolate farmland. They found a campground and dumped the trailer before heading south in search of Peter. Between Warrenton and Evansville towns were infrequent and practically invisible. Billy and Laureen pushed their bike up into the nineties, tail-lighting off into the night. More wary of Hoosier state troopers, especially as they got closer to the riots, Marion kept the aerodynamic RX-7 just under the speed limit.

  Daniel sat beside her, watching the road and gnawing on a burger from McDonald’s. The waitress at Po Folks had been stunned to see them bolt the place so fast.

  They drove in silence for almost ten minutes, both lost in thought. Marion wondering what they would find at the factory, and what they would do about it. She wondered if Daniel’s thoughts were similar. A luminescent green highway sign announced Evansville’s city limits. They passed the municipal airport and lots of small cross-streets. Billy and Laureen were waiting for them at a Union 76 station at the intersection of St. George Road. Marion pulled in and asked the attendant for directions to the Yusang plant.

  “You don’t wanna be goin’ there, lady. ’Less’n you’re a reporter.”

  “I am a reporter.”

  “Figures…” The guy smirked at her, looked at Billy and Laureen on the touring bike. “Okay, stay on Route 41 ’bout a mile to Division Street, then hang a left. Take Division all the way out past the hospital, just keep going till you see the plant. And believe me, you won’t be able to miss it.”