by Vince Milam
The stranger glanced at Cole and popped a large hand open in a peculiar flicking gesture before he looked back down the alley, trembled, and crouched to flee. Nausea swept over Cole, coinciding with the stranger’s hand gesture. He staggered, leaned over, gagged, and recovered to hear a scream from an open window.
It was a no-brainer to go inside the burning building—lives were at stake in there. The stranger would have to wait for another time. He committed to the back door, first checking for a pulse from the body of a downed nurse as she lay in a halo of her own blood, eyes open to the sky. Smoke poured from a back window and alarms wailed. Gotta move, gotta move, gotta move.
Another man sprinted to the edge of the alley’s deep shadows and slammed to a stop, casting a hard focused search. The tall, hairless stranger had vanished.
Think, think, think, and keep moving! Someone had attacked the nurse. The perp, if it wasn’t the tall stranger, still lurked inside. People could be saved. A final glance at the new guy standing in the alley gave a quick snapshot of a man very different and very old—pale but illuminated—with ’50s garb and a long gray ponytail. No way this guy was a resident of the nursing home. He had the profile of a warrior, ready for battle. Move, move, move.
Cole flung open the back door to enter hell. Gun drawn, he checked for a pulse on the downed cook lying next to a deep-dish pan and its scattered ingredients, then led with the .40 caliber pistol out into the hallway. The screech of the smoke alarms, the wail of emergency vehicles, and thick smoke filled the air. All signs indicated that this could only get worse.
He shielded against the fiery hallway with his gun-free hand. The not-yet-on-fire short passage to the right offered an avenue to find survivors when a man came from the left, straight through the flames.
Face covered with blood and bits of flesh, he flipped some kind of club as he walked. The intense heat of the flaming walls and ceiling curled and melted his hair, while his gore-drenched shirt began to smoke.
Cole stood inside the hallway and pointed the pistol at the approaching specter.
“Freeze!” yelled Cole. Stupid, stupid.
The man increased his pace and accelerated into a run, prompting his clothing to burst into flames as he headed straight toward Cole.
He fired a double tap—two bullets in rapid succession. Each hit the target’s chest, three inches apart. The man slowed, staggered, and fell to his knees.
Then he smiled, freezing Cole. It was the same smile and the same look his wife’s murderer had given five years ago. A picture of pure, unadulterated evil.
The dead man collapsed forward, on fire. Flames lapped the walls nearby. Cole kept the gun trained on the fallen body and backed into the kitchen.
Breathing hard, he made a gradual turn, holstered the pistol, and carried the body of the cook out the back door. Sheriff’s deputies and firefighters surrounded and led him away from the inferno.
Chapter 5
“Francois Domaine?” asked the Air France ticket agent in France.
“Oui,” replied the priest.
“Corpus Christi?” The gentleman behind the counter confirmed his destination.
“Oui.”
Such a curious name for a Texas town—Body of Christ. He had traveled to the States several times, but always to either New York or Boston and once to Chicago. Corpus Christi was the nearest commercial airport to some place called Rockport.
It would make for a long flight, but first class seating helped accommodate a short, stocky body and a hip that would, on occasion, throb due to an old injury acquired on the rugby pitch as a youth. Such was life, and so many had far greater issues to deal with.
A miniature tug-of-war ensued over the boarding pass as the ticket agent reiterated Air France’s no smoking policy. It made for a great irritant, given the airline people had already admonished him as he stood smoking in the ticket queue.
One remained celibate, abhorred the scandals that had wracked the church, maintained a keen sense of proportion, and attempted to inject style even within the constraints of priestly attire, yet not a single comment from the airline employees on his yellow-paisley silk pocket-handkerchief or his custom Italian shoes. Clearly, the Air France hiring practices had become shoddy. A burden to bear, yes, but he would forgive them.
Francois dedicated life to God. The youngest of five children, he had entered the seminary, fascinated by the study of evil and its manifestations. The research of how evil survived and thrived within God’s world created a metaphysical grappling with the age-old dichotomy of an all-powerful loving deity and earth-bound malevolence. Daily ministry bored him; to understand God and the why of evil was his passion.
A path revealed at an early age now culminated in the flight to the wilds of Texas. During seminary studies as a young man, he’d experienced a brief encounter with a creature inside his stoic room at the ancient Abbey de Cluny. The creature had crouched on the margins of awareness as Francois woke in the dead of night. Its presence—its reality—washed the room. He sat upright, flung off the blanket, and stalked the thing, surprised at his own aggression. He knew better than to assume the mantle of battle himself, but instead invoked the name of Jesus Christ and ordered the demon to depart. The apparition diminished and left.
He’d prayed until dawn. Dressed in monastic clothing to greet the day with the other seminary students, thoughts of denial and rationalization crept in. Such physical creatures belied all priestly training. Just prior to leaving the tiny room, he leaned through the stone window to appreciate the new dawn on the Abbey’s manicured grounds, as he had done on so many other mornings. The air carried a spring freshness. In the midst of that peaceful reflection, Francois lifted a hand as if burned. There were claw marks on the stone sill, etched. Fresh claw marks.
Although devout and brilliant, he was viewed by the Vatican as an outlier. They allowed him to study and travel, satisfying the arm of the church that kept alive the traditions of exorcism and demonology. The church under Pope Francis had reinvigorated both the actuality of demons and the war against them.
Francois had worked with exorcists and experienced individual possessions. Demons were cast out. It constituted harrowing work, and he gained some measure of satisfaction among the draining physical and emotional processes. Knowledge came with the calm of one who did not fear a fight. The exorcism rituals assumed that the possessed person still had their free will, though the demon may hold control over their physical body. Free will, evil, and the vagaries of that interface caused much reflection.
Still, the element of “the others” continued to haunt him. The creature that visited the room at the seminary, evil that manifested as earth-bound entities, evil that acted and killed—these creatures existed, a worldview on the fringe of church dogma.
Research of this nature created unease among church superiors, yet plenty of evidence buttressed such viewpoints, much of it ensconced among the musty hidden archives of the Vatican. During ecumenical discussions among peers, Francois did not emphasize the esoteric parts of his belief system. There lived among the church hierarchy a few rare exceptions with whom he remained comfortable discussing such things.
Through prayer, he became convinced that God’s path for him lay in the confrontation of this evil that walked among us. How to confront it and with what results gave him pause, but did not alter his resolve. He prayed for answers—a guide, probable outcomes, and best approaches. God chose not to edify him on these things.
He read and then reiterated the Rockport massacre to church superiors. They allowed him, after all these years, to pursue his contentions. To find a pattern, a trail, or a path would constitute the initial efforts. He would chase evil. It was an awesome realization.
He acknowledged the human element of hubris on the fringe of his mental makeup, justified, of course, by the inarguable fact that expertise in such areas resided in only a few. The mantle of a solo warrior, a burden to be sure, rested on broad shoulders.
His immedia
te superior, Bishop Alehandro from Paraguay, showed skepticism yet remained supportive.
“And to what purpose, Francois?” asked the Bishop.
“I do not know.”
“And does God lead you in this direction?”
“That, I do know. It is my path.”
The bishop sighed. “You know I hold a strong belief toward God’s miracles, and the opposite expression does not stretch my faith. But does this path have boundaries? Some framework for God’s plan?”
“This, also, I do not know.” Francois looked at the ground and stroked his mustache. They stood in a small vestibule, alone. The Vatican, for the moment, carried a sense of quiet and this small hideaway more so. Light filtered through from a small stained glass window. “I carry the power of God, through his son, Jesus Christ. It is all I have for guidance—for direction. Surely it is enough.”
“It will have to do, my friend. It will have to do.”
Bishop Alehandro blessed him, prayed with him, released him, and observed him walk away with that peculiar declarative gait.
Francois began his first quest.
Chapter 6
Cole stood at the end of a rock jetty that extended into the Laguna Madre. The sun set behind him, and the soft hues of beginning twilight covered the bay. A school of dolphins surfaced, riding the intercoastal canal that cut through the one hundred and thirty miles of the shallow Laguna and allowed barge traffic to pass. Panicked baitfish surfaced near the jetty, chased by unseen predators, and a flock of pelicans, flying a sentinel formation, hung suspended against the Gulf breeze.
This is a tough row to hoe, Lord. Five years. I still don’t get it. No answers. Nada.
Martha Garza had gone into Corpus to shop. A young man had confronted her at gunpoint in the mall parking lot and shot her dead. The killer later admitted an intention to continue a remorseless shooting spree. An off-duty cop at the mall ran to the sound of the gunshot and wounded the shooter before he could do more. The authorities allowed Cole to see the jailed killer, pending trial. The young man exhibited no remorse—just a bright, intense look and a maniacally evil smile. Cole chalked it up to crazy. Crazy nonsensical evil.
I saw that look again. I saw it. That crazy bastard at the nursing home. What the hell? Killing helpless old people? In my town. In. My. Town.
Martha’s murder had created a crisis of faith. Five years of wrestling with the pain and anguish made for a spiritual observer status. Prayer continued—an exercise in internal dialogue and a hope that prayers would help others. Maybe they did, but it was damn hard to tell. His belief in God remained, but any semblance of a personal walk with a higher power evaporated. Martha was gone. The pain never diminished.
None of it makes a lick of sense. It ties to the past somehow, and that weird tall sumbitch with the hand flicking BS had something to do with it. I’m mad as hell about the whole dang thing but you aren’t givin’ me diddly-squat to help figure it out.
The verdict delivered death by lethal injection for Martha’s killer. The state executing people made for mixed feelings, but he attended the execution two years later to bring what he hoped would be closure. It did not. He raised his children through their teen years and became immersed in their lives. Much admired by the community, he ran uncontested in the sheriff elections.
I’m lost. Plain and simple. How about the big picture. Give me something. Something to hold onto. Because where you have me now is a hard place to be.
The taste of a fresh saltwater breeze signaled an easing off of the heat, and the muted rumble of a Gulf thunderstorm draped the day’s end.
Chapter 7
News crews, both local and national, swarmed the town. Microphones were thrust at Cole’s face and shouted questions rained. The grand total consisted of twelve dead, either slaughtered or killed by fire. Rockport had never seen anything to compare with it.
Cole holed up and worked the crime. The governor sent the Rangers to help. They told him it was best to face the media now, and to get comfortable with the answer “I don’t know.”
Rockport’s mayor, Adele Remmy, made a point to meet with him several times each day during this maelstrom. She worked hard to establish Rockport as an eclectic destination for both visitors and those looking for a place to live full-time. The fishing—both commercial and sport—provided excellent attractions, along with the winter weather, but she pushed hard to emphasize the growing writer and artisan community.
“Madness, Cole. Madness,” she said, entering his office through the now-opened door. “My heart goes out to the victims, but I cannot emphasize enough that you need to figure a way to weave into your press conferences the tranquility of our community and the vibrancy of our arts scene. Hell, everyone knows about the fishing and bird-watching here.” Whooping cranes returned to the area every year on their winter migration and attracted nature enthusiasts from all over.
The two worked well together in a relationship he found weird but one in which she apparently thrived. A year ago, Cole and Adele had a brief one-time affair. The implications so weighed on him that the relationship couldn’t continue. He had a profound sense of obligation once a relationship became physical and the candor of his deep-felt sentiment caused an unlikely reaction. She chided him for living among the Neanderthals. As adamant as she indicated her desire to keep things casual, it just didn’t work that way. They called a truce, never dated again, and kept their professional relationship on positive ground.
But the horror that had currently visited them fell in his court, and his tolerance at the moment for rah-rah-Rockport was at a low ebb. “I’m focusing on the investigation, Adele. I’m up to my ass working this thing, so you’re fixin’ to be sorely disappointed with my lack of community flag-waving for the press.”
Adele sat on the edge of his desk, suspended a hand over a bowl of hard candy, perused the selection, and popped a cinnamon ball into her mouth. She had shared with him, repeatedly, the studies that showed many Americans looking for a vacation destination or to resettle usually bypassed the Texas coast. Fellow Texans and some snowbirds from the upper Midwest constituted most of the influx. She worked hard to change that and enlisted him to turn a blind eye toward some of the antics by the local “artisans.” It wasn’t a stretch to help her out. He knew those folks might be a good half-bubble off plumb, but they didn’t hurt anyone. Adele consistently let him know that this laissez-faire approach toward minor infractions was a blessing to her efforts.
“Alright. I know that. Believe me, I’m glad I’m not wearing your boots,” she said. “All I’m saying is that part of your story might include how aberrant this situation is for such a peaceful community. A peaceful, laid back, and artsy community.”
He gandered out the window at the satellite trucks of the media, stacked bumper-to-bumper and ready to stream worldwide. “You want a drink?” Cole opened the bottom right drawer of the desk.
“No. And you don’t either,” said Adele. Cole closed the drawer. “Why don’t you let the Rangers report on the investigation and you speak on the normal tranquility of our town. The vibrant tranquility,” she added.
The Rangers had come to help. They brought major crime experience and the most modern of technologies, neither of which resided among most Texas rural counties. And help they did, although they stated from the get-go that outward-facing investigative communications belonged to him. Tag, you’re it, Sheriff Garza. The Rangers worked the crime, not the media.
“The Rangers have made it abundantly clear to me that I’m responsible for dealing with the news folks. They aren’t going to do it,” said Cole. “And I wish you’d stop lobbing the tourism thesaurus at me. I’m not that susceptible to implanting.”
The mayor joined him in staring at the flock of news people gathered in their town.
“Fine,” she said. “I get it. Fine. I’m just saying it wouldn’t hurt you to juxtapose the normal tranquility of our town with the horror that took place. That’s part of the story. And those p
eople with their satellite receivers extended want a story. That’s all I’m saying.”
She slid off the desk then turned to take another cinnamon ball candy.
“I’ll try, Adele. You have a point.”
“Thanks, Cole. Good luck. And by the way, you’re a handsome so-and-so on television.” She winked and left the office, lips pursed as she sucked the candy, closing the door behind her. A discernible decrease of hallway chatter preceded Adele. Politicians made the deputies nervous.
The work of a madman became the company line. The media accepted it for such a nonsensical horror. Cole emphasized the bravery of the staff and the citizens who’d rushed to help. He mentioned several times how the quiet town of Rockport had never, ever seen anything similar. He left out some details and obfuscated the manner of Burt Hall’s death. He became a local hero who had stopped the lunatic from more killing. Someone said his tight good looks and natural reticence came across very well on television. Still, he refused to face any camera except for the twice-daily scheduled press conferences.
Serious questions arose about security at all nursing homes, nationwide. AARP and other seniors groups joined the outcry. These protestations were directed at the big picture rather than Rockport. None of this ameliorated his anger. That murderous SOB did this in his town, to his people.
Cole and Deputy R.L. Harris worked with the Rangers to try and provide motives and framework.
“Check on Burt Hall’s prior whereabouts,” Cole instructed the deputy. “And I’ll find out who the hell that tall, pale sumbitch was.”
He came up short on witnesses who had seen the tall, pale stranger at the nursing home. He asked R.L. if he’d seen another stranger with a long gray ponytail wearing ’50s garb. At first, R.L. said he had not, but later that day he approached and said, “That fellow you asked about. Long gray ponytail?”
All ancillary activities ceased and he focused on R.L.’s face. “Yeah.”
