The Blood of the Lamb

by Thomas F Monteleone

The pilot’s standard deplaning message and the instant rustle of surrounding passengers distracted her and she lost the thought. Billy and Laureen had already moved out into the aisle to pull down their carry-on luggage. She followed them out of the plane and into the cattle-herd environs of the terminal itself. The crowds were, as usual, thick and pushy and slightly hostile.

  Having shipped the majority of their luggage ahead to the Westwood Hotel, Marion was glad to be able to avoid the baggage-pickup circus. “Let’s see if we can find the limo we ordered,” she said. “I feel like I need a shower already.”

  “The guilt of an unclean spirit,” said Billy, smiling at her. “Praise the Lord and, shower or no shower, your soul will be clean!”

  Despite the loss of the baby, Billy seemed to retain his strength and his resolve. If his faith in Peter had been shaken, it didn’t show—at least not yet. He remained loyal and utterly dependable. Laureen still suffered. The anguish, the pain and the loss were etched in her pale face. Marion watched her move listlessly through the crowded airport, apparently oblivious to all the noise and color around her.

  “There it is!” Billy said, pointing to a long egg-white car. The driver, standing beside his vehicle, held a sign that said “Windsor.” The car was flanked by other stretch limos and a massive phalanx of taxis. The driver was efficient and respectful as he helped them get comfortable before entering the fray that was driving in Los Angeles. As they drove along, Marion noticed Billy gawking at everything.

  “See anything familiar?” she asked, putting on her sunglasses. The harsh glare of Southern California sun gave the whole vista a calcified, silvery edge. Despite the visible layers of smog hanging over the horizon like layers in a cake, things seemed uncommonly bright.

  “Kind of…” he said, “but don’t forget—I haven’t been here since I was a kid. The only thing I remember is the Hollywood sign and those stars in the sidewalk.”

  “A regular tourist you were! That’s Culver City coming up over there,” she said, pointing off to the right. “The famous Venice beach is that way.”

  “So many cars. How do people stand it?” Laureen shook her head, leaned down and kissed Billy’s neck.

  “Money has a way of making things bearable,” said Marion. “You don’t see a lot of Porsches and Lamborghinis in this town by accident.”

  They continued to head north, past Santa Monica and Century City, exiting the Freeway on Wilshire. Their hotel was south of UCLA’s main campus, surrounded by giant desert palms and lush shade trees. As they checked in, under the aegis of her television network, Marion felt the tension layering away from her.

  “Yes, ma’am, Miz Windsor,” said the clerk, handing them magnetic cards instead of keys. “Suite seven-eighty.”

  “Thank you,” said Marion.

  She wanted nothing more than a shower and a few hours to relax before spending the rest of the day and night at the Palladium. She kept telling herself she didn’t really care anymore who or what Father Peter Carenza might or should be. Having decided everything was way beyond her sphere of influence and control, she would let the forces that swirled around her continue to do so without her concern.

  “Excuse me,” said the desk clerk, looking at Billy. “Are you Mr. Clemmons? William Clemmons?”

  Billy nodded. “Yes, why?”

  “I’ve got a message for you, sir.” The man handed him a sealed envelope with the Foundation logo in the left corner.

  “What is it?” asked Marion. She wanted to move close enough to read it over his shoulder, but forced herself to wait.

  Tearing open the envelope, Billy read the message quickly. “It’s from one of the security guys—Bevins. He wants to meet with me.”

  Marion said, “Bevins? Does he say what the problem is?”

  Billy shrugged, showed her the note: Urgent that I see you as soon as you arrive. Alone. The lobby of the Beverly Hills Hotel. This morning. F. Bevins.

  “How far is the hotel?”

  “Not too far. East on Wilshire, then north on Beverly up to Sunset.”

  Billy turned to Laureen. “Gotta go see what this is all about, babe,” he said. “Be back in a little while.”

  “Okay, Billy. Be careful…”

  He nodded, turned to Marion. “Can you help her get settled in? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  “Okay. See you guys soon,” he said, turning toward the lobby doors.

  Marion watched him leave before picking up her carry-on suitcase and walking to the elevators. A bellhop appeared out of the ether to help her and Laureen. As the elevator doors closed, Marion had a sudden flash of insight, a fleeting impression that something was wrong. Please, God…please make everything all right.

  The prayer skipped across her mind like a stone on a still pond. Please, God, whoever you are…

  Beverly Hills—Clemmons

  Freddie Bevins was sitting in the lobby reading the Los Angeles Times. He wore a gray tweed jacket and a dull tie, which marked him so blatantly as an out-of-towner, Billy wondered if he dressed like that on purpose. His whole “look” clashed perfectly with the ultra-chic trappings of the hotel.

  “Mr. Clemmons,” said Freddie, standing up to shake his hand. He dropped the newspaper to the couch to reveal a large, white tyvek envelope still in his grasp. “Have a good trip?”

  Billy shrugged. He didn’t feel like he had time for small talk. “The plane was crowded. It was okay, I guess. And you can call me ‘Billy’—everybody else does.”

  Bevins smiled, said nothing. He just stood there staring at him.

  “What’s the problem, Mr. Bevins?”

  Bevins drew in a breath, exhaled slowly, dramatically, even arched his eyebrows. “I was told to get to you on this, since you’re always around Father Carenza. Let’s go to the bar. I’ll buy you a drink and explain what I need you to do.”

  “I thought you were staying at the Westwood with the rest of the security people…”

  Bevins nodded. “I am. I have some friends staying here, so I figured I’d kill a couple birds with one stone. You know how that goes.”

  Bevins grinned and Billy reciprocated uneasily. Bevins seemed like a nice enough guy, but there was something oily just beneath the surface.

  The security man led the way to the bar through the lush gardens and walkways, past the pool where nearly naked women posed and pranced and sunbathed to get the attention of anybody important who might be looking for a walk-on bimbette in his next flick.

  Bevins smiled as he caught Billy stealing a look here and there. “Nice, huh, Billy?

  “You know, they say more cock gets sucked in this town than any other spot on the face of the earth! I sure wouldn’t bet against it, eh?” Bevins laughed. He and Billy seated themselves on a pair of plush stools at the bar. Au courant fixtures surrounded them. The room screamed of trendiness.

  The bartender materialized in front of them; Bevins took a Wild Turkey, Billy a Corona.

  “So what’s up, Mr. Bevins?”

  “Call me Fred.”

  “Fred.” Billy just stared at him, waiting.

  Bevins exhaled slowly. “Your boss might’ve made some powerful enemies, Billy. Do you realize that?”

  “I figured it was bound to happen. He’s become very…outspoken lately.”

  Bevins chuckled. “Yeah, I’d say.”

  The bartender appeared with their drink order, then did a discreet fade.

  Billy threw the lime slice in the nearest ashtray, then sipped his sweet Mexican beer. “So what’re you getting at, Mr. Bevins?”

  “Security’s my concern, Billy.” Bevins knocked back his drink, slowly opened the tyvek envelope. He pulled out a small square of white plastic.

  “Here…” He handed it to Billy, who recognized it as an ID badge—one with Peter Carenza’s photo on it.

  “What’s this for?”

  “It’s a Palladium ID,” said Bevins. “Their internal security is issuing them to everyo
ne who’s going to be up on the dais and anybody else on the floor—media, techs, you know—all the gofers.”

  “Okay,” said Billy. “So what’s this all have to do with me?”

  Bevins looked at him with a buddy-buddy conspiratorial expression. “I want you to make sure Father Peter wears his badge today—this badge.”

  “Why, what’s so special about this one?” Billy looked at it closely.

  Bevins chuckled. “It’s a solar-powered microchip scanner and transmitter.”

  “What’s it for?” Billy swallowed hard. He had no idea what the answer might be, but he was certain it was something weird.

  Bevins smiled. “It’s beautiful, kid. This little sucker will let us know if anybody is using ultrasonics or laser/maser aiming devices…”

  Billy nodded. “You mean like on sniper-scopes?”

  “Right. But even more sophisticated stuff too.” Bevins ran a hand through his slicked-down hair. “Get this—if this thing does pick up anything, it sends a signal to us security guys immediately.”

  Billy sipped his beer. “Sounds like a good idea.”

  “It is,” said Bevins. “But I need you to make sure Carenza doesn’t take it off, okay?”

  “Why don’t you give it to him?” asked Billy.

  Bevins chuckled. “Because he’s like anybody else I’ve tried to protect. He thinks everybody loves him, and that he’s invincible.”

  “So why’d he listen to me any better?”

  “You don’t understand,” said Bevins. “Don’t explain all this security stuff to him. Use reverse psychology. Don’t even bring it up unless it becomes an issue—like if he takes it off at some point.”

  “Oh, I see.” Billy took a longer pull on the clear-glass bottle.

  “You got it,” said Bevins. “Just make sure he keeps the friggin’ thing on, okay?”

  “Yeah, I think I can do that.”

  Bevins took the badge, replaced it in the envelope and handed the package to Billy. “Thanks, son…You’re making my job a hell of a lot easier.”

  “No problem.”

  Bevins slipped off his stool, patted him on the shoulder. “Well, I better be getting to work. Lot to do before it’s showtime, huh?”

  “Okay, Fred. Don’t worry about the badge—I’ll take care of it.”

  Bevins smiled. “I know you will, son. I know you will.”

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Rome, Italy—Etienne

  * * *

  December 25, 1999

  Though she lay upon a bed in a white room, the sensation of drifting upon a small raft was overpowering. It was as if gentle waves rock-a-byed her toward an arctic place where white sky met white glacier. Where nothing but the purified expanse of whiteness covered the world.

  What did the whiteness mean?

  Was it the state of her soul? Unsoiled by sin, either in thought or deed? Or was it the world itself, somehow wiped clean and new, unsoiled, pristine?

  No. That was not the world she’d always known about. Especially now.

  Slowly, as she forced herself to keep her eyes open, her vision began to focus. The whiteness resolved itself into the prosaic trappings of a hospital room. A gray form gathered substance, assumed the shape of a human figure dressed in dark blue.

  “Good morning, Sister,” said the figure.

  Etienne blinked. A name floated to the surface of her thoughts.

  “Abbess…” she whispered. “Victorianna.”

  “Very good,” said her Superior. “The doctors said you were doing much better today. You had a relapse. Do you remember coming back here? They said you wished to speak to me.”

  “Yes. I can see…the world. I understand things better now.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Victorianna.

  “I must speak to His Holiness the Pope about this.”

  Victorianna smiled. She was a pretty woman despite her age. “Yes, you have said this before. But you must realize he is a very busy man. He is rarely in the Vatican these days.”

  “Yes, I know. He will travel soon again. I must see him before he does this thing.”

  Victorianna leaned over the bed. Her face was very close now, her breath sweet and fresh. “Etienne, you must speak to me first. You have been very ill. We feared you had lost your mind.”

  “Perhaps I have. Madness might be better than my dreams.”

  “What dreams?”

  Etienne turned away from the Abbess. “No…”

  “Etienne, tell me!”

  Etienne looked at the whiteness of the ceiling. It had an odd but pleasant calming effect on her. She could use it to blot away all distractions most of the time.

  “I am sorry,” she heard herself saying, as though listening to another. “I cannot tell anyone but the Holy Father.”

  “It is about the child, isn’t it?”

  The whiteness hardened, chilled her. How could Victorianna know?

  “Yes,” said the Abbess. “Your eyes betray you. You think I could not guess what all this has been about. We have all known. You may as well speak of it.”

  “He is no longer a child,” Etienne said flatly.

  “No.”

  “He is a man, but he is also more than a man. I think he is a monster.”

  “Yes,” said Victorianna. “And your visions have told you this.”

  “It was not right what you had me do. It was a terrible sin, and only the Holy Father can forgive me.”

  “No,” said the Abbess. “You are wrong. You have no sin, my child.”

  Etienne allowed herself to glare at the old nun. “We all do, Mother Superior. Do not think otherwise. The world writhes in pain, in change. Each night I live through the dying! I feel millions of lives being winked out like stars at morning. Their pain is my pain. And there will be more. Much more.”

  She rolled away from the nun and would speak no longer. They would not let her see the Pope. The knowledge was as certain and final as a door being slammed shut and bolted against the coming night. It was as though she could feel God’s hand withdrawing from her, giving up, finally seeking to touch the soul and the ear of another.

  If only she could face Him and ask forgiveness…

  FIFTY-SIX

  Los Angeles—The Palladium

  * * *

  December 25, 1999

  Windsor

  Marion could sense the presence of the crowd beyond the entrance gate as though it were the heaving, sweaty body of a great beast lying in wait for the huddled group of participants and media types who would be soon dumped into the giant caldron of the Palladium.

  She stood with Billy, Peter, and the small video crew who would be waiting to serve her every broadcast need. Each guest and his immediate entourage were encircled by Palladium security personnel, plus undercover and uniform cops from the LAPD.

  An amplified voice relayed last-minute instructions to everyone as the entrance procession began. Marion wasn’t really listening. Billy had already told her about their seat assignments in the first few rows in front of the rotating dais.

  He seemed overly concerned about the crowds at the Palladium. After he’d made several references to the number of people jamming the place, Marion had asked him what was really bothering him.

  “I don’t know,” he said abashedly. “It’s just that I have this feeling that things are going to screw up. That something bad is going to happen.”

  She nodded, recognizing what he meant. The high-octane rush of Peter’s rise to popularity and the excitement of bringing the world to a new level of understanding had been slowly eroding, gradually being replaced by something darker, something undefinably wrong. Maybe she was too close to the whole phenomenon to see what was really going on. Maybe Billy was too, but he’d said something to the effect that things would be better once they got through the ordeal of the Convocation and the coming turn of the century.

  Ordeal.

  An accurate word choice.

  Targeno

  For the last
two hours, the crowd had been filtering into the massive bowl. Outside, traffic twisted and curved in upon itself like non-Euclidian math, creating jams and gridlocks of classic beauty. People streamed through every access to the Palladium, wearing the robes and garments of their various faiths and occupations. The sheer spectacle was impressive even for someone jaded by the pageantry of the Vatican. The crowd eddied in vast whorls of color and motion, and the air crackled with the languages of a hundred different countries.

  Wearing the invisibility cloak of a technicians’ coveralls, Targeno shifted through the crowds with impunity. His forged security badge and the way he moved confidently past the checkpoints provided him with unlimited access to every inch of the gigantic arena.

  So far, though, it had done him little good.

  He had placed portable scanning devices at strategic points throughout the Palladium, multiplexing them to detect a variety of transmission/reception modes, but there was no way to adequately cover the entire space. It was simply too big. He could only hope for a little luck and trust in the intuitive abilities which had kept him alive for more than twenty years in the business.

  The opening ceremonies had finally begun, only fifteen minutes behind schedule. Too bad, actually—it gave him less time to scope out the operation. Bevins might look the part of the workaday sap, but he was a very competent covert operations man. Targeno had uncovered enough dirt on Frederick G. Bevins to know he was a careful, thorough operator—and therefore very dangerous.

  Stationed on the platform by one of Cooper’s church uplink dishes, Targeno slipped on a pair of sunglasses that were actually hi-rez binoculars. His view of the entrance gangway was unimpeded, and he could clearly see the mini-processionals of each guest entering the vast space and navigating toward the huge central dais. The PA boomed the names of sundry dignitaries across the artificial canyon and the crowd cheered perfunctorily, like dogs salivating to a gigantic bell. The list ranged from the mayor and his fellow politicos to the seemingly endless roster of religious pundits and churchly demagogues.

  Only a dunderhead would not recognize the precise order in which the guests made their appearances—a gradually ascending order of importance, or more pointedly, of internationally visibility. But Targeno could anticipate problems as the procession reached the upper end of the spectrum. Idly, he tracked the audience responses. The pathetic, doddering Bishop Tutu was met with polite applause, but Gerard Goodrop and several of his political cronies, following the bishop, were greeted by a thunderous ovation.