by Vince Milam
Cole turned back to Moloch, but the enemy’s tight-smiling gaze had left Cole and now focused on Francois’s approach. His face changed to anger and disdain. Cole remained coiled, hearing the tromping of Francois’s advance on the wooden floor.
Moloch emitted a deep, sibilant, growling hiss—a sound Cole never imagined a human could produce. Every hair on his body stood at attention.
Francois had clearly not considered sitting. He stood at the edge of the table, leaned far forward and placed two curled fists on the tabletop. “Through the power of Jesus Christ!” he spat at Moloch. Francois leaned toward Moloch’s face, eyes boring holes.
“Tell your priest friend to be quiet,” said Moloch, turning to Cole. “You and I have things to discuss.” The table began to shake. Cole smelled something putrid, something long dead.
“Through the authority and power of Jesus Christ!” repeated Francois, hard and commanding. His body vibrated with righteousness, face scarlet.
“Make him be silent, or I will silence him,” growled Moloch to Cole. “You have questions and I have answers. We cannot talk of such things while the priest babbles.”
The table shook with more violence. All three coffee cups spilled over into their saucers.
“I rebuke you. Through the power of Jesus Christ, I rebuke you!” commanded Francois, fists clenched like a boxer’s, and fire in his voice. He leaned closer to Moloch, spitting at his face. “You have no dominion here. By great God almighty and his son Jesus Christ, I command you to depart!”
Cole focused on Moloch’s face, now contorted as a cloth sack full of writhing creatures. Cole’s heart pounded as he gathered his resources, still intent on physically confronting Moloch. The strength of Francois washed over him as the remnants of fear left, replaced by power and conviction.
Moloch’s rage spilled over. The table flew toward Cole and Francois as Moloch stood and pointed a long, hairy finger at Nadine, standing several feet away.
“Too late!” howled Moloch. “Too late for the little chat you just had! Your god won’t listen!”
Cole and Francois turned to Nadine, seeing her stand statue-still, horror painted on her face. The patio door behind Moloch’s chair opened further, and when Cole and Francois whipped back around, Moloch was gone.
Cole rushed to Nadine’s side and grabbed her upper arms. She broke his grip and hugged him hard, repeating, “No, no, no.” Francois bowled through the patio door, searching.
Francois came back and approached them, shaking. “He has fled. A coward, a liar. He has fled.”
Nadine took one arm from around Cole and wrapped it around Francois’s neck, dragging him close and tight. The three of them stood as one.
They released each other as the sole wait staff approached to straighten things. Cole and Francois helped to upright the table. Both saw the claw marks etched in the tabletop where Moloch had sat. They looked at each other, neither saying a word.
Chapter 19
They walked, silent, to another pub that was quiet and mostly empty at this early hour. None of them wanted to remain at the hotel. Francois led the way. Cole held Nadine’s hand.
They went to a waist-high table wrapped around a wooden support column. All three stood, leaned on the tabletop and used the barstools placed around it for footrests. Francois ordered three cognacs and coffee, lit a cigarette, and cast glances back and forth at his friends. He held suspended a shaking hand, the Gauloises pinched between thumb and forefinger, and pointed to it with the other.
“Not fear,” he said. “Consequences. The aftermath.” He had battled evil, one on one. The enemy had fled, to be sure, and as such some measure of victory may be claimed. The encounter provided insight and knowledge if one might reflect. The creature had the ability to foresee their movement. The encounter clearly had been planned. The creature feared—not him, perhaps—but feared the power he brought. Such a thing was to be expected. The creature moved with an inhuman rapidity. The outside porch was large, yet no sign of the creature remained once it had fled. And it had fled, of this he could be sure. The question of conflict and possible outcomes had it remained and fought still loomed unanswered.
“I know it’s not fear, Francois,” said Cole. “I’ve met some tough hombres in my time. You’re one of them. Fearless.” He shook his head and scanned the room, jaw tight.
“He will not reappear among us,” said Francois. The sheriff stood on high alert, but Francois knew such a response was unnecessary at this point. “He has other business here. Business that he does not believe will include us. And so, that is our next task.”
Nadine tossed back the cognac with a grimace. “I could use some help. I rarely say it. But I mean it now. I’m shaking, and it damn sure is fear.” Cole squeezed her upper arm. Francois lit her a smoke. She took the cigarette, hand trembling. “And don’t either of you mentally place this moment in your personal ‘well, she’s a woman’ box. You will mightily piss me off if you do.”
“I don’t think that,” said Cole. “You’re a hard biscuit. This was traumatic as hell. It’s understandable. You should have seen me coming out of the nursing home after all the carnage. I was a mess.”
Cole’s confession appeared to help. Nadine nodded, still attempting to take deep breaths.
“What was all that? For a singular moment, we existed inside a different dimension. A different reality,” she said, as she took a puff and blew smoke at the ceiling.
Francois did not respond, lips pursed, staring into personal space. Cole let go of her arm and signaled to the barkeep for another round.
“What did he mean, Nadine?” asked Cole. “Too late for that chat. What was that all about?”
“Not yet. No,” said Nadine. “Who is he? Did you smell him when Francois got in his face? I’ve never … I mean never ever. What is he? Those three cups of coffee? Do you have another kind of smoke, Francois? These don’t taste good. He was expecting us.”
“And yet you do not inhale, mon ami, so one must question why it matters.”
“I don’t poke myself in the eye with forks, either, so what the hell does inhaling have to do with anything? What was he?”
They were on perilous ground at this fragile moment and yet Francois was certain such a reality must be reinforced. This woman held, it was true, keys to the secular kingdom with regard to tracking the creature and providing details on background and potential movements. She must accept the spiritual ramifications if her contributions were to be fully realized.
“Evil. A creature. Do not be alarmed, but do not doubt, mon ami.”
She leaned back and asked Cole, “Am I going crazy? Did I really see all that? His face—contorting. It’s not so much what I saw. It’s what I felt. The power. It stank. Actually smelled.”
The other two nodded.
“And your power, Francois,” she continued. “I felt it. Stronger. Clean. A surge of unseen power. Except it shone. Somehow, unseen, it shone.”
They leaned silently for a while, their heads close together above the high table. The pub’s lone staff cleaned glasses behind the bar. A slight salt tang filled the air from two open windows.
“He mentioned Martha,” said Cole. “Dead these five years. I want the bastard. I want to throttle some answers out of him.”
“Such a thing will not be possible,” said Francois.
Cole snapped his head toward the priest. “Why not?”
“I have learned,” said Francois. He went on to explain this encounter, his first true effort, had taught him some things. He had acquired a sense the creature would not succumb to coercion or direction. At this point, he could only force Moloch to leave, to run. He still had no clear idea how they would defeat this enemy. Then he gently explained that Cole would not find answers from this creature—only pain.
They all spoke in short, hushed sentences, digesting the encounter. Each snippet of conversation showed him that Cole and Nadine had internalized the scene in some way that made sense to them. Francois recogniz
ed this form of rationalization, and would not allow it.
“It is not terribly complicated,” he said. “He is evil. A creature of evil. Do not use the mind to rationalize. These encounters do not have to take place in the middle of night, in an old house, or on a mountaintop. No. They walk among us. It is not complicated. Do not let it be so.”
“I’m with Francois,” said Cole. “He’s right. It’s taken a while, but Moloch is what he is.” The sheriff squinted into Francois’s face. “But I’ll bet the sumbitch can be taken down.”
Francois sighed and turned to Nadine. “Please tell us, mon ami. What is too late? This chat the creature spoke of.”
Nadine placed her palms flat on the table, stared at the space between them, and told them of her prayer, her first true talk with God.
“Yes! Of course,” said Francois. “I felt it within you. A subtle change. Now this I shall tell you is of the greatest importance. Please look at me.”
Nadine lifted her head, lost.
“It is never too late,” barked Francois. “Never! You have begun on a path. Walk it. Persister! Continue. God listens. God loves you. Do not listen to the deceiver!”
“I agree, Nadine,” said Cole. “Believe. Just believe. But don’t expect immediate answers. Those can be a might hard to come by.”
“You perceive that as helpful?” Francois asked Cole, removing his glasses and waving them toward Nadine. “To cast restrictions?” It was unbelievable to him that the sheriff would add such a personal comment at this point in time.
“It’s personal,” said Cole.
“Mon Dieu! But of course it is personal. That would, in fact, be the entire point!” He turned to Nadine. “No. Continue your path. Answers will be revealed. Perhaps not with the speed and clarity expected by our sheriff, but revealed nonetheless.”
They finished their drinks and formulated a plan. The first step entailed calling on the local police, an activity Francois understood to be integral to the tracking of Moloch. Cole confessed to both of them that he should have done more to prepare the Cardiff authorities for their arrival and, more importantly, the arrival of their quarry. Francois accepted this as a matter of police protocol, but remained focused on the upcoming battle. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Moloch would perpetrate evil in Cardiff.
As they gathered to leave, Cole grabbed Francois by the arm. “Thank you. Merci beaucoup. From the bottom of my heart. If I had tangled with Moloch, I don’t know if I could have handled him without you.”
He patted Cole on the side. “Please forget all of this tangling business. It cannot come to physical violence. But be assured, we are not through, my friend. We are not finished with this thing.”
Chapter 20
Price Jones slid the Welch Fusiliers trench knife into his backpack and went to work, the large leaf-shaped blade honed to a razor’s edge. The time had come. They would see. Someone walked with him—someone inside his head. Kanamel the Crusher emanated hatred, plucking slights and wrongs against him from both recent and long-ago memory. So many wrongs heaped and piled on in the past, delivered by those too stupid to know. Now they would pay. Kanamel held no fear. Kanamel stood strong, righteous, and absolute.
Last night, he’d walked with the tall friend back into Cardiff’s city center. His friend Adal wasn’t a stranger anymore. Adal understood him and all his frustrations. More importantly, he implied he knew how to do something about it.
“Take the bus?” Price had asked last night.
“No. Let us walk. We can discuss plans,” said Adal Moloch.
Jones didn’t know what plans he referred to, but a walk with his friend beat a bus ride. A fine mist moved from the sea, and streetlights few and far between shone this far from the city center. The rejection by that bitch, the constable, still left him seething. She wasn’t that fucking hot. Certainly not so hot that she could reject him as if he were garbage. What a stupid bitch. To compound the shame, several of those pathetic blind students—with their damn acute hearing—had overheard the conversation. They’d talked and laughed about it when he strode along the hall to retrieve the mop and bucket. They rejected him. They laughed at him. Stupid ingrate blind kids.
The darkness enveloped them as they walked. The tang of salt air lay on Jones’s face, and his blood pressure was still sky high.
“What it is, is disrespect. For a bloody fact,” said Jones. “Disrespect from a bunch of damn blind people. And that damn constable, Miss thinks-she’s-so-hot. They can’t treat me that way!” He spat the words. “I deserve better. I demand better.” He used his jacket sleeve to wipe flecks of spittle that formed at the corners of his mouth.
“I know you hate them,” said Moloch. “But you won’t change it, will you? You won’t show them. Show them your power. Your capabilities.”
They approached a lone streetlight. Moloch flicked a finger and the light sputtered off. That was cool. This codger—no, this friend—had capabilities, too. Righteous capabilities. The darkness continued, their wet footfalls the sole sound.
“How?” asked Jones. “They are too stupid to understand if I did show them. Stupid. Stupid damn people.”
An arm took his shoulder and the back of two long fingers touched his neck. Bristly hair rubbed, comforting. They stopped and stood still.
Adal’s voice came loud and clear but no words were spoken. “Hate them all. Show them. Be proud of what you can do. Become powerful. Thrive on the hate you feel. Thrive, grow strong, Kanamel. Show them.”
A new power surged. His power, the power of the Crusher, given by a force inside him. Oh, it felt so good. He could see, now. It was clear what had to be done. What must be done. Now, yes, Kanamel the Crusher lived.
Chapter 21
Rattled to the core, Nadine began to recover. Something inside had changed. On the drive to the police station both Cole and Francois insisted she sit in the front passenger seat. She sensed this was their way of ensuring she wouldn’t feel isolated, and her comments during the short drive were met with affirmations and support. She began to develop, for the first time in her life, a feeling of something bigger than herself—the love of her companions and calm from another source. It was all good, and clean, and too new to completely digest. She thought it best to ride it like a wave and absorb the process. Then there were the bookends—Cole and Francois. Both displayed remarkable courage, undaunted. The whole scene with Moloch had rocked the foundation of her belief system, but those two buttressed it and, most importantly, provided her an empathetic environment to sort things out. All those years as ostensibly a member of numerous teams, she had never felt a real part of any of them. Those past endeavors had relegated her to the geeky sort-the-data and find-the-answers role. But not now. Nope, this was a team, together, and teammates supported each other.
They walked into the South Wales Police office, manned at the entrance by a desk sergeant.
“Hi. My name’s Cole Garza. I’m the Sheriff of Aransas County, Texas. I called earlier today.” Cole presented his badge and ID.
The desk sergeant took a glance and nodded.
“These are my companions, Francois Domaine and Nadine May. We’d like to talk with someone in authority.”
“And now what would that discussion with someone in authority be pertaining to?” asked the desk sergeant, continuing to look at his computer monitor while he worked.
Nadine’s blood rose. She stepped forward and said, “Pertaining to matters of international security. May I assume you’re willing to be held personally responsible for obstructing the information we wish to convey?” Her right hand tapped a triplet beat on the sergeant’s desktop.
She then turned to Cole and Francois. Cole cast glances at the ceiling and Francois shrugged. She turned again to glare at the desk sergeant, who deigned to use the phone and make a call, clearly attempting to rid himself of this crazy American woman.
“ACC Thomas. Sergeant Mills here,” said the desk sergeant. “I have a law officer—an American—here
with some associates who would appreciate seeing you. Yes. Yes. Thank you, ACC Thomas. I’ll send them up.”
The desk sergeant pointed to the elevators. “Fifth floor. Assistant Chief Constable Thomas.”
Cole thanked him, Francois gave a short bow of appreciation and rearranged his teal scarf, and Nadine scowled. Jenni Thomas met them on the fifth floor, introductions were made, and they moved into a small conference room.
“What can the South Wales Police Department do for you, Sheriff?” asked Jenni.
Cole explained the Rockport murders—Jenni let them know she had read about them through the world news outlets—and the pursuit of a possible suspect who had appeared in Cardiff and had encountered them just two hours ago.
“I should have contacted you folks about this suspect the moment I knew he’d landed in your jurisdiction,” said Cole. “My screw-up. I believe this guy is dangerous. This isn’t the right way to do this, showing up out of the blue, and I apologize.”
Nadine knew that was a hard thing for Cole to do, since it painted them in an amateurish light. But the apology would help in her area of expertise—the coordination of information flow.
Jenni apparently decided this was legitimate business and called ACC Gavin Morris, asking him to join them, and explaining that protocol dictated the head of the street cops for Cardiff should become involved.
“And you, Ms. May. Your involvement?” asked Jenni.
“Data. Information. Search criteria, etcetera. Finding answers, primarily,” replied Nadine. “Do you use AHT here?”
She had invented The Advanced Heuristic Toolset. Leveraged by the NSA, CIA, Homeland Security, FBI, and shared around the globe with other law enforcement entities, AHT had become an investigative standard. It allowed discovery through data mining and algorithmic assumptions under less than optimal input ranges. Within the often-murky world of crime, it comprised a valued tool.
