The Glory

by J. R. Mabry

  Cain closed his eyes. Then he opened them again and wrote some more, careful to keep his face frozen in place.

  “Then we named our gratitudes and threw the corn into the fire as an offering.”

  “To the god-forms.”

  “Yeah. And that’s when it happened.”

  “What happened?”

  “I felt like someone punched me in the gut. Everyone else said they felt something similar. And all the energy we’d raised, it was just…gone.”

  “The energy was gone?”

  “Yeah. Just gone.” Mikael leaned in and whispered, “We think someone might have stolen it.”

  “Stolen your energy? Uh…did you file a police report?”

  Mikael shook his head. “Should we have?”

  Cain blinked and cleared his throat. “Okay, then what?”

  “Well, we were all pretty shook up. We closed the circle and scattered.”

  “Scattered?”

  Mikael shrugged. “We went home.”

  “Did you put on your clothes first?”

  “Yeah, of course. We put on our clothes, and then Kat and I got in our car, and we came home. And Marco was there!” Mikael brightened up.

  “Marco? Who’s Marco?”

  “He’s a friend. He’s staying with us for a few days. But he said it sounded like we got sapped.”

  “Sapped?”

  “Yeah. Like, someone stole our energy, our tapas.”

  “Isn’t that a Spanish food thing?”

  “No, I mean maybe, in Spanish. But I mean it from the Sanskrit.”

  “Huh.” Cain pointed at the photos. “This happened less than a hundred feet away from your celebration, at exactly the same time. The M.E. puts the time of death at the same time you say you were doing your Mabon thing. Can you tell me anything about this?” He held up one of the photos, showing a girl in the fetal position, ornamented by what looked like blood.

  Mikael glanced at it but then looked away. “Please,” he said. “We don’t know anything about that. I sure don’t. I know Kat doesn’t.” Mikael suddenly looked into Cain’s eyes, and light dawned on his face. “Maybe the person who did this was the same one who sapped our energy! Maybe, they did this—” he pointed at the picture without looking at it, “to amplify the energy we raised and to direct it toward…” Mikael trailed off, mouth open. Cain could almost hear his brain churning, trying to work something out.

  “Wait, let me be sure I understand your theory of the crime,” Cain said. “Whoever did this sapped the energy your group had raised, then murdered this girl in order to amplify that energy?”

  Mikael nodded. “I’ll bet that’s exactly what happened. Like a step-up voltage regulator!”

  Cain shook his head. “What?”

  “Like in electronics. A step-up voltage regulator.”

  Cain heard a rap at the mirror. “Excuse me a minute please, son.”

  Mikael nodded absently, still lost in thought.

  Cain stepped through the door and shut it gently behind him. Perry was there, biting her thumb. “What do you think?” she asked.

  “I don’t understand half of what this kid says, but my gut says he didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “Same here. Let me see your notes.” Cain handed his notes to her and she scanned them. “Well, their stories line up.”

  “I have to say I’m relieved. This kid is weird, but I kind of like him.” He smirked. “He’s got good energy.”

  Perry nodded but didn’t pick up on his joke. “Yeah, she’s sharp as a tack and eager to help. I don’t get a whiff of guilt off either one of them.”

  “What about the Tomlinson kid?”

  “He’s harmless,” Perry opined.

  “Do we charge them with public nudity?”

  “In Berkeley? Are you going to arrest the dykes-on-bikes with Band-Aids on their nipples next?”

  Cain shrugged. “Okay, okay. But what do you think of Bloemink’s theory?”

  She read from his notes again. “That someone siphoned off their energy and amplified it with the murder?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It sounds crazy.”

  “I know it does. I’m not saying it’s true, I’m just saying that they might think it’s true.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Look, something like this sounds crazy to us, but it’s not crazy to them. And it might not seem crazy to the perp, especially if they come from the same kind of religious community.”

  “Or at least share some common religious assumptions,” Perry said.

  “Okay, that works. I’m saying that the perp might have actually done it with the intention of…sapping and amplifying their…energy.” He shuffled his feet, realizing how ridiculous he sounded.

  “Let’s say you’re right. What’s the motive? The perp amplifies that energy toward what end?”

  Cain shrugged. “Maybe that’s what we need to find out.”

  10

  Richard, Dylan, and Terry tumbled out of the Order’s beat up Corolla, and straightened their cassocks. Richard looked around, noting the weather-beaten Victorians badly in need of paint, the overgrown weeds in the front yards, the broken cement in the sidewalk, and the rusty, dismantled car at the curb. Tennis shoes hung from their strings from the telephone wires. “There’s no getting away from it. This is East Oakland all right,” Richard noted. “Hey, I’ve been here…” He pointed at the Victorian in front of them and his face brightened. “This is the food bank place.”

  “Actually, Ah think the food bank is there,” Dylan pointed at a nearby storefront. “It used to be here. Maybe it got too big.”

  “But this is the address the archdiocese gave us,” Richard said, double checking the post-it note stuck to one side of his open wallet.

  Terry stared at his shoes.

  “Waal, let’s knock on the door and see what happens,” Dylan said and began climbing the stairs to the faded blue Victorian.

  Richard and Terry followed, and Dylan rung the bell. Richard did not hear it ring inside, and apparently Dylan didn’t either, because a moment later he pounded a chubby fist on the wooden door. In a few moments they heard approaching footsteps. When the door swung open, they saw a small, dark woman in full habit. “Yes?” she asked.

  Richard studied her face and decided that the woman must be Filipino, or from some other Pacific Island nation. She was about his own age, and so slight it looked like the wind might blow her off the landing.

  “Hello, Sister. We’re the Berkeley Blackfriars,” Dylan said, flattening his cowlick unconsciously. He was sweating, even though it was mild out.

  “Who?” she asked.

  “We’re supposed to meet Monsignor Bondi,” Dylan said.

  “Oh.” She looked down. “Wait here.”

  She shut the door, and a few minutes later it opened again with a jerk. A tall man in a red cassock glared down at them. As his eyes wandered from one to the other, he softened. “You must be the Blackfriars,” he said.

  “That’d be us,” Dylan affirmed.

  The Monsignor stepped out and looked around, apparently worried he might be seen by someone. “Please come in,” he said, holding the door for them. In the foyer he closed the door and offered his hand. Richard took it and introduced himself and his Order mates.

  Bondi glowered at them. “I want you to know, I did not approve of the bishop’s decision to involve you. I don’t understand why involving schismatics in such an unfortunate affair helps us.”

  “Schismatics is sometimes the best friends you ken have in a sitcheeation like this,” Dylan offered cheerfully.

  “He’s right,” Richard acknowledged. “The archdiocese doesn’t call us in lightly. But they know that there are certain kinds of…affairs…that we can dispatch without the trouble or embarrassment that might otherwise attend them.” Richard smiled gravely. “But I’m grateful for your candor.”

  “Ken we, uh, take a look at the scene?” Dylan asked.

 
“Of course. The police have already come and done their thing, and the bodies are gone. But there’s still plenty to see.” He led them around the corner. The light coming through the living room window cast a warm, golden glow over the room. Just before them was a kitchen table, completely set for dinner—a dinner that must have happened many days ago, as the meat had started to turn a bit green, and flies buzzed around in small swarms.

  “Watch your step,” the Monsignor suggested. Richard looked down to see fifty or more dead birds littering the hardwood floor.

  “Ravens?” He bent down.

  “Or crows,” Dylan said. “Ah can’t never tell the diff’rence.”

  “Ravens are bigger,” Terry pronounced. “These are crows.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Richard said, studying one of the birds. “Look, its feathers aren’t articulated. It’s like a cheap plastic knockoff of a crow.”

  “But that’s not plastic,” Terry knelt down beside him. “That’s some kind of organic matter…or something mimicking organic matter.”

  “Could be an elemental manifestation,” Dylan opined.

  “I guess we’ll find out. If these things fade out or disintegrate over the next few days, we’ll know. I think it’s a good guess.”

  “Do you mean they will simply disappear?” The Monsignor asked.

  “Prob’ly,” Dylan shrugged. “They’re not whatchacall real. Ah mean, they’re real, but they’re not real real.”

  “I’m not following you,” the Monsignor said, cocking his head.

  “He’s saying that they’re probably ectoplasmic, taking temporary solid form. They’re made of will, when you come right down to it,” Richard explained.

  “But I could wish for a crow to appear until I turned blue. Nothing would materialize,” the Monsignor said, looking dubious.

  “Waal, that’s a relief,” Dylan said, not bothering to look at him. “At least we know that yer not a demon.”

  “He’s right,” Richard nodded.

  “He’s usually right,” Terry added.

  “Now you boys’er gonna make me blush,” Dylan said.

  “Can you lay out the timeline for us?” Richard asked.

  “Last Wednesday night, the Sisters of St. Joseph were sitting down to dinner—” the Monsignor began.

  “What time was that?” asked Dylan, gazing at the pictures on the wall.

  “About 6:30 p.m. The coroner said that by 7 p.m., they were all dead—all except Sister Timothy Mary. She’s at Highland Hospital.”

  “How did they die?” Richard asked.

  “The Medical Examiner said they were poisoned. Rat poison, to be exact. From the box they kept in the laundry room.”

  “I assume the rat poison was an additive to one of their dinner items?”

  “Yes,” the small nun answered. “The lumpia.” She pointed to a dish, but the police had apparently emptied it of evidence.

  “And Sister Timothy Mary?” Richard asked. “How did she survive?”

  “It appears that she made the lumpia,” the Monsignor answered.

  “That’s cold,” Dylan said.

  “Is there any reason why Sister Timothy might have wanted to kill her sisters?” Richard asked.

  “None. By all accounts, it was a very harmonious house.”

  “Where did the birds come from?” Richard asked. The Monsignor shrugged.

  Richard looked up…and froze. He crossed the room to the far corner and grabbed one of the chairs from the table, swinging it around to face the wall.

  “Whatcha doin’?” Dylan asked.

  Instead of answering, Richard stepped up on the chair and reached up to where the two walls met the ceiling.

  “What is that?” Terry asked, sounding almost interested.

  Richard grabbed at a small black sphere set directly in the corner and pulled it loose. He inspected it, then stepped down from the chair. He handed it to the monsignor. “What is it?” Bondi asked.

  “It looks like a camera,” Richard said. “Did the sisters have a security system hooked up in the house? I didn’t see a sign outside.”

  “I don’t believe so, no. I’ll check, however. It doesn’t seem like something they would do, though.”

  Richard pointed at the table. “Someone…someone was watching.” He put his hands on his hips indignantly as he thought. “Do you mind if we take a closer look at the house—at the other rooms?”

  “Not at all. I was instructed to give you full rein,” the Monsignor said with barely disguised distaste.

  Richard ignored it. “Dylan, take the rest of the rooms on this floor. Terry, check out the upstairs. I’ll take the garage and whatever’s underneath,” Richard said. “Shout if you find anything.”

  With curt nods, they each headed in a different direction.

  Richard followed Dylan toward the kitchen, but then swung open a door, revealing a staircase that descended into gloom. Richard toggled the light switch just inside the door and a naked bulb hanging by its cord illuminated the stairs with harsh yellow light. Richard descended without hesitation. At the bottom, he found another light switch and flipped it, revealing a large room with a cement floor and an exposed wood ceiling. Looking up, Richard could see the nails poking through the boards above him. A large, industrial-sized washer and dryer sat against a far wall, looking like they had been in place since the mid-1960s, at least. He backed up and began a systematic search of the room, from left to right. He shivered slightly from the chill. It’s at least ten degrees cooler down here, he thought. Halfway along the first wall, he saw a door, its blinds drawn and backlit from the outside. Richard pulled on the knob and it swung open easily. He tried to lock the door, but it appeared to be broken. He stepped outside and looked at the outer doorknob—the keyhole was twisted and far too large. It looked like someone had pounded a screwdriver into it.

  Stepping inside again, he continued his surveillance around the room. Opposite the stairs he saw a low wall, about two-feet high. The cement floor had been poured up to the wall, but as Richard peered over it, he saw only dirt beyond. The undercroft was completely unfinished—no lights, no floor, and plenty of cobwebs. He pulled out his phone and opened up the flashlight app. A bright blue light popped on, and Richard held it aloft as he stepped over the wall. Waving spider webs away from his face, he turned to begin his surveillance of this room, too. He hadn’t gotten far when he whistled.

  Two candle-holders had been stuck to the back of the sheetrock with pushpins. The candles were out, but Richard could see where the wax had dripped down onto the dirt. The candle holders were empty, containing only the charred remains of short wicks in the hollows that had held the tapers. But it was what was between the candles that really held his attention. It was a sigil, written in blood, about a yard across.

  “Dylan!” he shouted. “Terry!” In moments he heard their feet on the steps. “In here,” he shouted, “over the little wall.”

  Terry’s face appeared first and, upon seeing the sigil, froze solid. “Oh, shit,” he said.

  Dylan strained to clear the wall but finally lumbered over to where Richard and Terry were standing together. “Waal, skin me like a badger, and put me in the pot,” Dylan said, seeing the sigil.

  “Hold that light steady,” Terry instructed and snapped a photo of the sigil. A moment later, Richard heard the whoosh of the photo rushing off into the cyber sphere. “It looks like a sigil from the Lesser Key of Solomon,” Terry said, “but Brian can tell us for sure in a minute.”

  “Good job,” Richard said.

  “The candles burned out,” Terry said, pointing to the trail of wax down the wall, and the small hill of wax on the ground. “You know what? I think it’s a timer.”

  “A timer?” Richard said.

  “Yeah. It looks like whatever demon was summoned was only employed so long as the candles kept burning. As soon as they went out, it was manumitted and could go back to…wherever it came from.”

  “Do ya really think that
nun summoned a demon?” Dylan asked. “’Cause that’s not a nun-thing, generally.”

  Richard shook his head. “No. I think that this—” he said, pointing to the sigil, “caused the nun to behave in a way she never would have, otherwise.”

  Terry looked at his shoes. Richard noticed and turned to face him, hand on his hips. “Okay, Terry, you’re driving me nuts. What’s going on?”

  Terry looked up at Richard as if he’d struck him. Then he looked over at Dylan. “Yeah, li’l buddy. Yer not yoreself.”

  Richard saw that Terry’s eyes were misting up as he looked from one of them to the other.

  “Terry, you and Dylan and me, we’ve been through hell the last few years. I don’t know what’s eating you, but you know for sure that the two of us are not going to shame you or abandon you. We’re going to be with you, no matter what. You’ve trusted us both with your life more times than I can count. You can trust us with this, whatever it is.”

  Richard could see Terry’s mouth working as he thought, but no sound came out. His hands hung straight down his sides, and he seemed paralyzed. Richard stepped over to him and embraced him, and Terry began to sob into Richard’s shoulder. Richard held him close and rocked back and forth slightly. He cast a glance over Terry’s shoulder at Dylan. Dylan gave him a compassionate look that was half-smile, half-grimace.

  After about a minute, Terry’s sobs subsided, and he drew back. Dylan was ready with a handkerchief, which Terry gratefully accepted. He blew his nose. “C’mon, Ter, spill it,” Richard encouraged him. “Don’t carry this alone. We’ve got your back, no matter what.”

  Terry didn’t meet his eye but nodded. He sniffed and finally said, “I cheated. On Brian.”

  “Oh, no…” Richard said.

  “Now wait, Ah thought gays couples had an arrangement—”

  Richard cut him off. “There’s no cookie-cutter covenant for gay couples any more than there is for straight.” He grabbed Terry by the shoulder. “Terry, I’ve never pried into your private…you know…your sex life before. Do you feel comfortable telling us the details of your covenant with Brian?”

  “Sure. We’re monogamous, just like Dylan and Susan. We always have been.”