by J. R. Mabry
The screen cut to a shaky, hand-held camera that showed Dylan climbing up on a catwalk and just standing there.
“That’s my guy,” Susan said, hugging his arm.
“It’s not mah good side,” Dylan complained.
“You have a good side?” Mikael asked.
The scene cut again to a large war horse with a medieval rider, who dismounted and then, in three quick strides, embraced the Bishop as he stood at the podium. A moment later, the rider uttered a pronouncement before slashing the Bishop’s throat. Blood spurted into the air.
“There’s Terry!” Mikael said, pointing to the screen.
“You didn’t even look surprised,” Dylan noted.
“Uh…I kind of wasn’t,” Terry admitted.
The camera tracked as Arlene walked toward Cedar Street. “We decided to find out more about these brave, reclusive Souls. This is what we found.”
The scene cut to an establishing shot of the Oakland Cathedral, then a headshot of a white-haired man with prominent jowls.
“Oh, shit, not O’Neil,” Richard slapped his forehead.
A caption identified the man as Michael O’Neil, Vicar General of the Archdiocese of Oakland. “Father O’Neil, what can you tell us about the Blackfriars?”
“Nothing good,” the man smirked. “They’re heretics, schismatics, and from what I hear, unrepentant sinners. They have absolutely no connection to the Archdiocese of Oakland. We neither recommend them nor endorse them.”
“And yet, our research indicates that you have employed them no less than fourteen times over the past five years.”
Obviously uncomfortable, O’Neil looked down, no longer meeting Chin’s gaze. “Let’s just say sometimes the best way to defeat Satan is to hire one of his own.”
“So you agree that their work is effective?”
O’Neil met her gaze again. “Exorcism is a dangerous job. I’ve seen more than one exorcist splattered over a bedroom wall,” he said. “Better them than us.”
“But Episcopal sources are more positive,” Chin said. “Episcopal priest Mother Maggie Asher is the Diocesan liaison for occult investigations. She said the Blackfriars are the diocese’s first call whenever they encounter a case of demon possession.”
“Yay, Maggie!” Terry called.
“Oh, they’re dears,” Mother Maggie said, looking like she was about to kiss the camera. “They love Jesus, and they know their—.” Maggie’s last word was bleeped, but her lips plainly said “shit.”
“Okay, Maggie,” Richard said, beginning to feel a little queasy.
“Not bad so far,” Susan said, encouragingly.
Richard got up and moved closer to the television, sitting on the arm of the couch next to Susan.
The scene shifted to Terry, out in the front yard, setting wards. The camera caught his hands in a close up as he put what looked like entrails on a burning censer and then wafted the smoke about the property. “We caught up with Father Terry Milne,” said Chin’s voice over, “who told us he was burning fish gall bladders in order to ward off evil spirits—”
“That’s not exactly what I said,” Terry frowned.
“—but when we looked closer, we found out that was not the only thing that smelled a little fishy.”
The background music took an ominous turn into a minor key, and a still photo of Richard appeared. The camera panned over it, creating the Ken Burns effect, until the sign for The Jizz Factory was revealed in the background. “An anonymous source told us that the monks’ leader, Bishop Richard Kinney, is a sexually active bisexual who, just in the past year, has had affairs with women, men, and transgendered persons.”
“We’re not monks, we’re friars!” Terry snapped. “Why is that such a hard concept for people?”
Richard’s face drained of color, and he leaned on the couch for support. Susan put her hand around his waist and pulled him close to her and Dylan. “Steady,” she whispered.
“Among the monks one has a wife, who sleeps with him in the monastery—”
“Where else should I sleep?” Susan asked the television.
“—two of the monks are reported to be having sex with each other, and one of the monks lives with his gay lover in a backyard bungalow.”
“It’s not really a bungalow,” Terry said. “It’s more of a cottage.”
“You really can’t trust the media to get anything right,” Marco agreed.
The scene shifted to the chapel, a wide angle in which you could see Richard and Susan sitting in one of the pews, apparently at prayer, but you could also see the doorway into the kitchen. “Despite all the hanky-panky, the monks keep up a pious front, meeting together for both morning and evening prayer in their monastery’s small chapel. At least, some of them do.” As she was speaking, Marco walked into frame, nearly naked save for his Star Wars underwear. He reached into his underwear and scratched his butt as he headed into the kitchen.
“That black guy is hot,” Marco said.
Richard slid off the arm of the couch, and he clutched at it as he sank to the floor. Susan snatched a throw pillow and rushed to his side. “Sit on this,” she instructed.
“We got to see the monks in action when we visited their monastery last Sunday. While we were filming, they received a call about a possessed dog in nearby Albany. The dog had been threatening its owners, but had been safely contained in a cage—so far. We expected the Blackfriars to spring into full exorcist action, but that’s not what happened. To our surprise, the operation was turned over to a female monk who looked barely out of high school—”
“Oh, for crying out loud! She’s 28!” Mikael objected.
“We discovered she is Katherine Webber, a former witch, and the most recent addition to the Order.”
“They are pretty good at the investigative reporting-thing,” Dylan noted, looking impressed.
“Instead of making with the holy water, Katherine—or Kat, as she likes to be called—proceeded with her exorcism simply by sitting down and meditating, or was she having a quick nap? It was hard to tell. About ten minutes later, apparently rested, she got up, and unwisely entered the cage with the vicious Dachshund.
“It looked like the dog bit her arm, but Katherine didn’t seem phased. Instead, she actually reached over the dog and appeared to scratch its back. Watch what happens on our slow motion video: Here she is, scratching the back of the dog, then she executes what looks like a quick grab, or even a karate chop, and the dog falls to the ground, dead. The demon dog is no longer threatening anyone, but pet lovers might want to keep a wide berth of the Berkeley Blackfriars.”
“Oh, I’m so glad Kat isn’t watching this right now. She is going to hate this,” Mikael breathed.
“Kat isn’t the only one,” Susan added.
The screen cut to the talking head of a public health officer saying, “Because the Berkeley Blackfriars did not properly dispose of the dog, the entire family has been ordered to report for a full round of rabies prophylaxis.”
The next thing they saw was the strained, angry face of Mrs. Barker. “I curse the moment I ever set eyes on them.”
The report seemed to be over, because the scene shifted back to the anchorman, who sat across from Arlene Chin. “Arlene, isn’t there some kind of church body that can hold renegade groups like these accountable?”
“Normally yes, Chet, but the Blackfriars are Old Catholics, and from what I gather, here in the United States that is a very chaotic group without a nationwide organizational system. They call themselves ‘autocephalous,’ which means ‘self-headed.’ So there’s no one who can keep them in check.”
“Buyer beware,” Chet said, raising his eyebrows and straightening the small stack of papers in his hands against the desk with a tap.
“Indeed,” Arlene Chin answered.
“Next: Goats in the wild found wearing hockey jerseys—after this.”
Susan turned off the television. Richard moaned. Dylan, Terry, and Mikael just looked at each other.
Marco just kept staring at the empty television screen. “I’m so sorry,” he finally said.
Kat stumbled downstairs with the little girl close behind. “Sorry? What? What did I miss?”
Mikael turned. “Uh…you were better off not seeing it.”
“Okay,” she said, walking past them all on the way to the kitchen. “I gotta piss like a racehorse. And I’m thirsty.” The little girl looked back at all of them, her enormous brown eyes cautious but curious, then she continued following Kat.
Mikael opened his mouth but then thought better of it.
Susan knelt by Richard. “I’m sorry it wasn’t what you had hoped for.”
Richard seemed disoriented, but he latched on to Susan’s hand and held it.
“What’s going on?” Susan asked. “Tell me what you’re feeling.”
“I’m having a shame attack,” Richard said. He leaned over onto her shoulder and began to cry.
Dylan sighed. “Ah’m not really the right person to say this, but Ah think it might be time fer a whisky.”
Terry shot him a look.
“Fer Dicky, Ah mean,” Dylan clarified.
Terry nodded. “I think you might be right. I think it might be time for whisky all around.”
“An’ a chamomile tea fer me,” Dylan said, heading toward the kitchen.
“Dicky, I know you’re embarrassed,” Susan said. “But we’re going to survive this. The Catholic and Episcopal Dioceses are not going to stop employing us. Our friends know we’re not charlatans. A week from now, no one will even remember that report.”
“I just want to crawl under a rock and die.”
“I know, honey.”
“I just…” his face screwed up as he fought back tears. “I just wanted to be someone.”
“I know. It was supposed to be your moment of glory. And now it’s just been yanked away from you.”
Dylan walked up holding out a glass. Richard had his back turned to him and didn’t see him, so Susan motioned Dylan back to the kitchen. Dylan raised his eyebrows and turned on his heel. “Dicky, what would Mother Maggie tell you to do if she were here right now?” Susan asked him.
Richard considered for a minute. “She’d tell me to take my feelings to Jesus. She’s been trying to get me to do that for a couple months now.”
“Hmm…I smell resistance. So why don’t you break through it and finally take Maggie up on her advice? What are you paying her for, anyway, if you’re just going to ignore her?” Richard didn’t say anything, so Susan continued. “Dicky, listen to me. Why don’t you go sit in the chapel and have a chat with Jesus? Just tell him exactly what you’re feeling right now. You don’t need him to make it better or fix anything. All you need to do is tell him how you feel. That is your only agenda. Can you handle that?”
Richard gave her a quick nod.
Susan stood and helped him to his feet. “After you pray, if you still want it, you can have a whisky.”
“Maybe Jesus would like a whisky,” Richard said. “Maybe Jesus would like to have a whisky with me.”
“Don’t try my patience,” Susan warned him.
“Yes, ma’am,” Richard said, and he hugged her.
She held him tight, for many long seconds. Then she stood back and pointed to the chapel. “Jesus. Now.”
29
“Boss, I’m all for putting ourselves in harm’s way when it’s needed,” Perry said, hovering at the door. “And I’m sure we could get across the Bay Bridge right now…”
“I hear a ‘but’ coming,” Herrer said.
“But I’m not at all sure we could make it back. This—” she pointed at the Crime Map that was playing on the flat screen in pretty much every room now, “—isn’t going away. And it’s not getting better. If anything, it’s getting worse.”
Herrer deflated a bit. “You’re right. I was thinking the same thing myself, although I probably wouldn’t have stopped you.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Cain, what’s your assessment?”
“It smells bad, captain. Ordinarily, I’d say yeah, let’s go knock some heads together at this Cloven Hoof place. But it’s just fishing. Seems like we’ve got bigger fish to fry over here…I mean, to extend the whole…fish metaphor.”
“Yep. Yep.” Herrer turned and faced her window. Cain followed her gaze and saw a man across the street smash a shop window and start stuffing his pockets.
“Um, should we be doing this?” Perry asked.
“What? Watching the looters?” Herrer asked. “No. We should probably be stopping them. Someone should stop them.”
“No, I mean…it’s a matter of triage, I think. Oakland and Emeryville are overrun with killings right now. Shouldn’t we be helping them instead of investigating a single killing?” Perry explained.
“Is this an ethics question, Perry?” Herrer didn’t turn away from the window. “’Cause ethics questions give me migraines.”
“No…I think it’s just a question about allocation of resources.”
“For me, this is a matter of jurisdiction. For instance, do you know why I’m not rushing out there to stop that looting?”
“Because we’re detectives and not street cops?”
“Exactly. Not our job. Oakland and Emeryville, those aren’t our job, either. You know what our job is?” she asked, finally turning to face them.
“Solving this crime?”
“Solving this crime.”
Cain sighed and looked at his shoes. “You know what I’d like to do?”
“What’s that?”
“People are saying there’s a link between the crime wave and the appearance of these…sigils. Maybe so. We don’t see a lot of crimes with overtly occult themes. Don’t you think it’s a pretty big coincidence that we have this witchcraft killing and then, just a few days later we start seeing this…” he waved his arms, “major…occult…crime event?”
“Crime event?” Herrer said drolly. “Is that a technical term?”
“Look, boss, I don’t have words to describe this, because I’ve never seen anything like it. But I’ve got a hunch that these aren’t isolated…things. It’s too much of a coincidence.”
“And you don’t believe in coincidence?” she said, raising an eyebrow.
“Do you?” Perry asked.
Cain lowered his voice and forced himself to be calm. “I’d like to go and talk to those Blackfriars—they’re supposed to be experts on stuff like this. Maybe they can tell us about the sigils. Maybe they’ll tell us something that will help us see a connection.”
Herrer looked at him like he was out of his mind. “Don’t tell me you buy into that mumbo-jumbo.”
Cain shrugged. “I can tell you I don’t understand a bit of it. There doesn’t have to be an actual connection. But if the people involved think there’s a connection, then it’s important. Understanding how the creepy stuff is supposed to work might give us some psychological insight into what the perps are up to, and how they’re thinking.”
Herrer narrowed her eyes at him. “Dammit, Cain, you’re making sense, too. Knock that shit off.”
“Sorry, boss.”
“Get out of here,” she said and turned back to watch the looters.
30
Terry walked into the room just in time to see Chicken on all fours, touching noses with Tobias. Tobias wagged his tail. Chicken did the same. “Why aren’t you scary?” she asked the dog in perfect English.
Terry leaned against the doorway, folded his arms, and watched the interaction. Tobias licked Chicken’s face. She licked his back. Terry was about to intervene, but Susan was at his elbow and restrained him. “So it’s a little unhygienic,” she whispered. “It’s a bonding moment. That wins out, I think.”
Terry nodded. “She spoke English.”
Susan’s eyebrows raised and she pursed her lips. “So she’s just shy.”
“She comes from a culture that is normally scared of dogs, but she seems to be doing fine with
Toby.”
“No surprise there,” Susan said. “He may be the first non-pit bull she’s ever met.”
“That is a cultural stereotype,” Terry said.
“Sue me,” Susan smiled.
Chicken put her arms around Tobias’ neck and hugged him, and Tobias kept wagging his tail. Terry sat down cross-legged near them both. “His name is Tobias,” Terry said. “But we just call him Toby.”
Chicken’s eyes went big for a moment, then she relaxed. She faced Terry but kept one hand on the dog.
“Do you have a dog at home?” Terry asked.
Chicken shook her head.
“Well, you have one as long as you’re here,” Terry said.
“Toby can be my dog?” Chicken asked.
“Toby is a part of our family,” Terry said. “Officially, he belongs to Dylan, but unofficially, we all kind of belong to him.”
Chicken just stared. Terry had no idea whether she followed his logic.
“What’s your name?” Terry asked. Chicken just stared.
“If you don’t tell us your name, people are just going to call you Chicken. Do you want that?”
“I like chicken.”
Terry sighed. “Okay, then. Chicken it is.” He looked up at Susan. She shrugged.
“How old are you, Chicken?”
“Five. Why is he crying?” She pointed over toward the chapel where Richard was sitting in one of the pews.
“Um…I think it’s because he feels misunderstood. We all do. But Richard is our leader, our padre. He’s taking it pretty hard.”
“Does he hit you?”
Terry jerked upright. He blinked. “Hit us?” Had Chicken’s padre hit her? “No. Richard never hits us. He protects us. He loves us. He’s self-involved and myopic and he’s probably an alcoholic, but he would never, ever hurt us. On purpose.” He leaned in. “He can be annoying, though.”
