Sanctuary Creek

by John Patrick Kavanagh

  “Uh-huh,” he admitted, the Skyy paving the way to his follow-up. “And also how your chest pressed into… what were you wearing under that blouse? I was scared it might puncture my lung.”

  “I’m a little self-conscious about my… no, I’m very self-conscious about my… I’m a B on good days, but those only happen on… maybe a week a month, soooooo… wanna see?” she said, swaying over then planting herself beside him, her hands moving to his face, a delicate peck arriving on his cheek.

  “Annie? I really like you but this is… “

  “I’m not askin’ for you to… you know, Terrrrrance. I just wanna fool around. Just a little necking.”

  “I really like you a lot but… “

  She set a finger against his lips to interrupt the rejection. Then took a deep breath, steadying herself. “Just one kiss? You can tell me to stop after that. Is that too much to ask?”

  “Not too much,” he’d agreed.

  Right concession, wrong result.

  Her mouth was a miniature theme park.

  Her lips were soft and full, tasting of pineapple he’d thought, complimented by perfume of an undeniably tropical scent. Small noises coming from the back of her throat. Reserved but eager, shy though very sensuous—quick breaths taken through her nose changing their tenor. She raised then lowered her lips to bare her teeth so they met his, as if attempting to ease them out of the way.

  But her tongue was the centerpiece, its kaleidoscopic range overwhelming. Limpid then mysterious; pliant as putty, then hard as diamond. Rounded then pointed; cool then scorching. She explored with it, probed with it, retreated with it, attacked with it. “Okay, I had my one kiss,” she moaned as she raised his hand to her breast. “Want me to stop now?”

  They were down on the plush carpet in a twinkling, all clothes quickly discarded except for his checkered boxers and her purple thong.

  She grinned. “I have a suggestion.”

  He eagerly waited for it, his arousal fierce.

  “It’s such a beautiful night. Let me take you out onto the balcony, sit you down in that comfy rocker and… I missed church last Saturday so have some kneeling to catch up on.”

  The main event was over in less than a minute. Then tender female whispers broke the silence. She chuckled, motioned for him to keep quiet, and then gestured to the far end of the terrace. He nodded so on hands and knees they scooted to the railing. All he could glimpse as he peeked around the corner was the back of a woman’s head. Straight blond hair three feet long. Seated in a chair and evidently being administered to by someone else who’d missed mass the previous Saturday.

  The woman in the chair climaxed, muffling her scream with a well-placed wrist.

  In a moment, the woman on her knees called: “Okay. Your turn with Margie.”

  A voice inside the suite protested: “No. No. This is too kinky.”

  The door of the suite slid open further and the trois of the ménage stepped out, wearing only a short black robe, her braid undone. Julianne Pratt rose from her knees and kissed Angelique.

  Annie sneezed and the pair looked across.

  “What an interesting couple,” Pratt said, moving toward them to get a closer look.

  The woman in the chair, wearing only a short black robe, stood, then turned. She was the singer, too.

  Identical twins? Samson had thought.

  The five stared until Angelique the First broke the standoff.

  “Mrs. Knight? I think it would be best for the five of us forget this unusual encounter.”

  “You have my word.”

  “And you have mine.”

  * * *

  “Now that we all know each other, and I believe we are all the people we will have to know for this pleasant evening the Pontiff has graciously arranged for us,” Knight said, “why don’t we get Secretary Samson something to sooth his parched throat and then if you would, Angelique? Continue to enlighten me about this wonderful way you have of translating the Lord’s words into enjoyably crafted and important messages to the masses.”

  Samson was well acquainted with Knight’s flowery platitudes and hoped the rest of the night wouldn’t be devoted to the onerous task of appearing to be enchanted by the self-indulgent crap that flowed so effortlessly from the man’s mouth. There was no doubt he was a genius, a consummate businessman, the largest contributor to the Sanctuarian Party and one of the wealthiest ten humans on the planet. But despite his rank and bearing, Samson felt a conversation with a golden raisin would be more interesting than one with the Sancters top civilian member.

  After his cocktail was delivered, along with refills for everyone, the assembled spent 15 minutes discussing Angelique’s recording career, Knight’s collection of antique electronic gear and Annie’s recovering Arabian thoroughbred. Knight was in the midst of waxing in his peculiar brand of eloquence about the pair of ten carat blue diamond earrings he’d purchased for his wife the past Valentine’s Day when Emmanuel announced: “His Holiness, Pope Peter the Second,” with a slight motion of his head toward the far entry.

  Everyone turned as Peter and Clarence, decked in black tuxedos, stepped in. Knight lunged forward, exclaiming “Your Holiness!” as if he’d never seen the Pontiff before, grasping Peter’s hand and kissing his ring, the show of cloying formality clearly making their host ill at ease. Annie followed Knight’s lead, as did Angelique, then Pratt. When Samson moved forward to continue the ceremony, Peter winked, said: “Mr. Secretary,” then turned to Mary Beth and added: “Pontifical sisters are excused.”

  “Thanks, big brother.”

  “Now that we’re all here and I haven’t had anything to eat except half a sandwich today, might I suggest that we make our way to the dining…”

  “An excellent suggestion, Holiness,” Knight interrupted.

  “Thank you, Archie.” He paused. “I see, including me, we have an even number for dinner and my mother… you can back me up on this, Sis… our mother always said you should have an odd number when possible to keep things interesting. Seeing Clarence has gone out of his way to put on his tux, I think it would be appropriate if he joined us.”

  “Holiness, I…” Clarence began, embarrassed by the suggestion, eyes darting toward Samson.

  “Hey, this is my house,” Peter admonished, adding a soft punch to his bodyguard’s heart. “It’s not like this’ll be the first time we’ve shared dinner.”

  “I’d be happy to just wait where I usually…”

  “Nonsense, Clarence,” Knight said, stepping to him, draping an arm around his shoulder. “After all, were it not for the courage, temerity and manliness you’ve so unselfishly demonstrated in the past, we might not all be here this fine evening, privileged to be breaking bread with the man who,” he continued, glancing to the host, “does it like no other can.”

  “I don’t think I’d have much to add to whatever you nice people will be talkin’ about.”

  “It’s fine, Mr. Johnson,” Annie said.

  Clarence looked to each of them, settling on Samson who chuckled, “You can tell Mr. Knight all about Screaming Boogies.”

  I don’t know if you’re listening, Sir. Old Arch is one of the biggest sacks of shit you have ever created and I don’t give one of my own for his pleasant things crap. And now that we’re on this, I’d like to thank you for allowing his wife to give that Academy Award-winning performance in LA after having to put up with this asshole. Send me to hell if you want, and just to make it worse, make sure you send him there too, because God knows… I mean you know… I deserve it. He killed Juan, didn’t he? Not with an axe. He killed Juan with his frigging insistence on owning everyone and everything he touches.

  The private dining room was comfortable and intimate, a far cry from its sterile relative on the far side of the foyer. Aside from the long, narrow teak dining table set for ten—quickly changed to 11—it contained a small bar, its own recessed micro-electronics hutch and three matching display cabinets holding a priceless collection of dishes
and utensils spanning the history of human eating and drinking. Peter directed the headwaiter to fetch wine goblets from the mismatched treasures resting in one of the cases.

  “I don’t think those are supposed to be used, Holiness,” Knight recommended as they were brought out.

  “I think you ought to let your hair down a bit, Archie,” Peter replied. Not that it would be an easy task for Knight as his crop was a distant memory.

  Peter sat at the head of the table, everyone else standing silently as the cups were placed. “I don’t care where you all sit,” he smiled. “I forgot to have Emmie prepare a seating chart.”

  Pratt evidently took the comment at face value so leisurely stepped to the chair to the left of his, pulling it out and taking. “I like your spunk, Julianne,” Knight said as he grabbed the back of the chair across from hers. But before he could maneuver himself in, Annie grinned, “Why, Archie. I can’t remember the last time you held a seat for me so I could be next to the Pontiff.” Knight shrugged, then sat down next to her. Mary Beth took the chair next to him, Samson the seat next to her. Angelique moved to sit beside Pratt as Clarence cast a confused look to Samson, who pointed with his eyes to the chair beside her. Mitchell, Carter and Primovich took what was left.

  “Now that we’re at our stations,” Peter said. “Emmanuel?”

  “Holiness?”

  “Aperitifs?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Suggestion?”

  “A Sercial Madeira?”

  “Vintage?”

  “We have a phenomenal ‘71. Opulent. Pale. Extraordinarily seductive.”

  “Sound okay to you, Clarence?” the Pope asked.

  “Like to try it, whatever it be.”

  “That’s fine, Emmie. Thank you.”

  After the potion was poured, the Pontiff stood. “To Juan Castro.”

  Everyone raised theirs in response, Knight adding solemnly: “Here, here. A man who was a dear friend I’ll greatly miss.”

  “And I’ll miss him, too. Now before Emmanuel brings out the usual, I have an announcement I’ll share with you, and after Council formalities tomorrow with everyone else. Following mass, Bishop Mitchell will become Cardinal Mitchell and also the Secretary of Finance. Congratulations, Mitch.”

  The bishop must have been told about it earlier because he showed no sign of surprise. Standing, he hoisted his cup. “I’m very honored and very grateful, Holiness.”

  “Johnny?” Peter asked as he sat down.

  Primovich rose.

  “Yes, Holiness. Thank you. This afternoon, Jeffery Gayle tendered his resignation as the Executive Director of the Sanctuarian Party. Without going into detail, Jeff feels it’s time to explore other professional opportunities and felt we should have a new leadership team in place for the primaries and the general elections.”

  Samson and Carter looked to each other.

  “Though I attempted to dissuade him, his mind was made up. So I asked who he’d pick as a replacement.”

  Samson’s face tingled. Carter looked like the proverbial canary-swallowing cat.

  “Jeff told me that… let me back up a moment. Over the past months at our weekly meetings, Jeff kept returning to a topic that troubled him. He felt, and I had to agree, that the financial and strategic functions were causing some unnecessary friction within the apparatus due to their distinct missions. The metaphor he seized on was the contradiction on the seal of the United States, the eagle holding arrows in one talon, olive branches in the other. He said, and I knew, that much too much of his time was being spent putting out fires inside Party when he should be starting them outside of Party.”

  “Yes,” Knight said. “Yes, Cardinal. I’ve often thought exactly the same.”

  “So I asked Jeff for a remedy and his suggestion is one that I’ll follow.” He raised his mug first to Carter, then to Samson. “Carter? Terry? As soon as Secretary Samson relinquishes his duties with Administration, I will appoint you to the newly created positions of Co-Executive Directors of the Sanctuarian Party.”

  One of the women whooped—Samson couldn’t tell which—and everyone else chimed in with crosstalk, applause and congratulations. Carter was first to his feet.

  “Thank you for the vote of confidence, Cardinal,” he offered, then switched to Samson and in a passable Bogart imitation said: “Pelican? I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

  “Thank you for the vote of confidence, Cardinal Primovich,” Samson said. “And as for you, Woodpecker, I hope it’s not the beginning of the end of a beautiful friendship.”

  The meal lasted a shade over an hour. It started with the usual as Peter indicated it would: a nutty assembly of appetizers that could be counted on as surely as the bells in the steeple of the Cathedral marking 6:00 a.m., noon and 6:00 p.m.. Guacamole made from a recipe perfected by Peter and Mary Beth’s great aunt Lynn, augmented with freshly baked corn chips; bruschetta served on toasted sour dough bread; tiny bowls of Mom’s Famous Macaroni and Cheese; queen olives stuffed with bleu cheese, honey roasted cashews or sun dried tomatoes. And finally, “The pieces of resistance,” as the Pope christened them: half inch cubes of filet mignon and chicken breast marinated in a sauce for which Food & Wine had a standing $50,000 reward if the exact ratio of ingredients could be delivered. Tasted almost sugary at the tip of the tongue. But by the time one hit the back roof of the mouth, had moved into three-alarm territory. Only the bravest could refuse the shot glasses of cold, pure cream served opposite them.

  The entrée was Juan’s Famous Baked Tilapia, a dish he and Peter had perfected back in seminary—rumor being a joint was sometimes inhaled before the next experimental batch began concoction. Complimenting it were Pete’s Famous Tangy Marmalade Sauce, Johnny’s Famous Garlic Mashed Potatoes and Pedro’s Famous Marinated Asparagus Tips. Eight dessert options were offered by Emmanuel and everyone picked his recommendation: Heavenly Chocolate Cheesecake with strawberries on the side. The pair of wines—one for the fish, one for the cake— chosen from the possibly real, possibly fictional Dr. Rit’s List—pulled it all together like a Monet.

  “We really need to address those issues before the opening of business tomorrow, Holiness,” Knight said, setting aside his napkin.

  “Can’t wait until after the requiem?”

  “We really need to address them.”

  “Ah, all right,” Peter replied, standing and looking to his guests. “Folks? Got a little business to discuss before Council joins us.”

  The Pope and Knight made their way to the near entrance. Peter hesitated and turned.

  “Clarence? Terry? Duty calls.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  As they stepped into the waiting area, Fannie, Rosalita’s stand-in when the Pope was socializing, hopped to her feet and greeted, “Your Holiness, Sir.”

  “Use your discretion on incoming and tell Emmie I want to know when Council has arrived.”

  “As ordered,” she saluted.

  “So young, so supple,” Samson thought he heard Knight say.

  The only lights Peter turned on after Clarence closed the doors were the dedicated halogens for seven of the paintings, leaving Picasso in the dark.

  “Holiness,” Knight said as he regarded RISK and adjusted the frame a fraction. “The issues I have to discuss with you are of the highest degree of importance and confidentiality. I’d appreciate your dispatching your aides so we can explore them privately.”

  “And they involve what?” Peter replied from his desk.

  “For one, a serious threat to the institution of the papacy.”

  “Clarence? What’s… what do you fill out as your job description when… I don’t know, on a credit card app.”

  “Protectin’ the Pope.”

  “What else, Archie.”

  The man went livid. “Don’t condescend to me, Peter. I won’t tolerate it.”

  “What else.”

  “Extremely serious matters involving… Peter? Just send them awa
y.”

  “Extremely serious matters involving what.”

  “AMI. The Supernet. A threat of unimaginable proportions.”

  “AMI is part of Secretary Samson’s portfolio. Isn’t it, Terry?”

  “Yes, Air.”

  Knight looked about to detonate, then did.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, Peter! If you absolutely have to have someone hold your hand, get Mitchell in here and get this fucking amateur out of here!”

  “Bishop Mitchell doesn’t assume Finance until tomorrow,” the Pontiff replied. “And I’ve got 11 Cardinals arriving in minutes, many of whom I need to chat with prior to Council. If you want to talk, start talking. If not, you’ll have to excuse me.”

  So Knight did.

  He said there was a vid the Cult, with help from the Acers, possessed showing someone very close to the papacy or perhaps the Pope himself in a compromising situation. Peter responded it couldn’t be him and that he couldn’t speak for the actions of others. Knight then said “the someone” very close might be Juan Castro and his personal secretary, Ms. Esposito. Peter responded he’d heard the Cardinal’s confession recently and had absolved him of his sins.

  “I’m not interested in that prick’s afterlife, Peter. I’m interested in the survival of the fucking Church!”

  The Pope looked to his right at a device he called a fluxion clock. It was black plastic, an eight-inch wide square rising perhaps four feet, topped by a slanted panel through which digital numbers advanced with each passing second. 1626254966… 1626254967… 1626254968… ticking off the number of seconds the Pontiff had been alive. “Continue.”

  Knight said that the Cult was in possession of a virus called Iscariot that could bring down the Supernet and in the process decimate the value of the AMI stock held in the SPPT, not to mention his own. Peter responded Juan Castro had known about Iscariot for months and had been working on a counter to vaccinate against it, a program called Silver Piece. Knight said his contacts had informed him the attackers had a proto of Silver Piece and that there were enough flaws in the firewalls to only delay but not stop the inevitable if and when Iscariot was released.