No sense in reporting a dead-end to Bloodstone, so we proceeded with the next part of his plan-my making sure Dani was not harmed. I’m not that big a guy, so it’s not often I get to play bodyguard. I am licensed to carry a concealed weapon, but so far nothing warranted my packing a gun.
By the time Dani showed up for her shift that evening, Bloodstone had indeed called the owner of Chelsea’s Kitchen, and they’d found something for me to do. I’d been thinking maybe I’d get to hang at the bar, which would give me an easy view of the interior and the patio, but they found something that would allow me to circulate and check everyone out.
This was how I learned that the term “busboy” is short for “bust-your-ass-boy.” I don’t know how folks in food service do it. My night was full of “More water,” and “Less ice,” or Goldilocks’ complaints of things being too hot or too cold. Nothing was ever “just right.” Folks were cadging for free this or to have something taken off the bill; and then servers like Dani, who did everything but bear a man’s child or donate a kidney, would get stiffed on the tip.
The worst offenders were a party of four who’d just come from Wednesday night church services. After slamming some shots and wolfing down food as if it was their last supper, they put the bill on a credit card. Their tip was a small brochure. It invited Dani to join their church. They’d added a handwritten note-“Don’t worry, dear, the Lord Jesus will provide.”
Me, personally, I figure that Jesus would have tipped better than 25%, and I made a comment to that effect.
Dani’s eyes sharpened. “Servers are required to tip-out the bussing, bar and kitchen staff based on the charges rung up, not the amount of tip collected. When these folks stiff us for a tip, we end up paying for the privilege of having served them.”
I fingered the brochure. “You mean the bartenders won’t take their cut out of this?”
“Nope, and my landlord won’t accept it for rent, either. Since the Federal Minimum Wage for servers is $2.13 an hour, I’ll be screwed if I get much more Christian kindness. Once I figure out what the heck I’m doing with my life, it’s adios food service and people like that.”
Despite her remarks, she accepted the indignities with a smile and really did a great job making people happy. She might complain on break, but even when she was having a bad day, she turned on the charm. Between the great food and service, she didn’t get stiffed all that often. Chelsea ’s Kitchen draws better-than-average customers who seemed to appreciate Dani’s efforts. Still, after watching for only three days, I could begin to pick out the folks who would be high maintenance.
It wasn’t until the following Saturday that I spotted anyone out of the ordinary. For a moment I thought it might be Dani’s mysterious stranger returned to the scene of the crime, but this man was younger and so cadaverously slender that he’d bulge like a well-fed python if he tried to eat the rib-eye he’d ordered. I noticed him because he was seated in Dani’s section, didn’t order a drink, and watched her very carefully.
I didn’t like it, so I eclipsed his vision of her. “I can get you a box so you can take that home with you.”
Skullface looked up at me, and his smile shrank, which set my hair on edge. Piercing blue eyes raked me up and down, then he nodded to the seat opposite to him. “Please, join me.”
“The help isn’t allowed, sir.”
“But you’re not help, are you, Mr. Moran?”
I still didn’t sit. “What’s on your mind?”
“Your little friend over there has something which does not belong to her. I require it. I am willing to pay her for it.”
“I don’t know what…”
“Spare me, Moran.” He slowly opened his jacket and pulled out a card case. The card he gave me had been printed in black over ivory, with a circle and cross device worked in red in the upper right corner. “Reverend Joseph Bernhard? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of the Church of Jesus Christ Martyr before.”
“Your employer will have. My cell number is on the back. You will have him call me.” He regarded me as a vulture might regard road kill. “Not to be melodramatic, but this can work one of two ways. Either the girl can be enriched by this experience, or it will become a character-building exercise. I know that decision will be made above your pay grade. Pass on the message like a good boy.”
I was tempted to hit him, and I probably would have, but he was expecting it. So, I just returned his smile. “As you wish, sir. Now, do you want a box for this?”
“Not necessary.” He draped his napkin over the bloody steak, then dropped a pair of one hundred dollar bills on top of the growing red stain. “I look forward to the call.”
I let him go, then retreated to the back and called Bloodstone. I let the phone ring twice, then hung up and called back. It rang four more times, then went to voice mail. I almost didn’t leave a message because I knew Bloodstone would never find it-but maybe the CSI guys would. I read the information from the card, including the cell phone number, then repeated my cell number and asked for a quick callback.
I returned to the floor and looked for Dani, but she was gone. I asked another busboy, Luis, where she was and he pointed toward the parking lot. “Table five forgot their dinner. She took it out to them.”
Table five. I closed my eyes for a moment. A pair of young men, well dressed, college or early career. Nothing unusual about them, really.
The squeal of tires from the parking lot snapped my eyes open. I ran for the door just in time to see a white Escalade bouncing onto 40th, heading south. They caught the light at the corner and headed west on Camelback.
Tony, the guy working valet, was sitting on the ground rubbing a hand over his jaw. “They kidnapped Dani. They just shoved her into the Escalade and took off. I tried to stop them but…”
“I know, they were big.” I helped him up. “Did you see the other guy, tall, slender, young, blond hair trimmed short.”
“Mercedes 500SL. Tipped me ten bucks.”
“Which way did he go?”
Tony shrugged. “Out on 40th, same as everyone else. Do I call the cops?”
“Yeah. You have the plate numbers logged?”
“I’ll give them to them. The Mercedes, too?”
“Give me an hour. If I don’t call you, report it.” I headed for the Cougar. “Some decisions need to be made above my pay grade, then I’m going to find Dani and get her back safely.”
Bloodstone wasn’t in the office when I arrived. That was good. It gave me a chance hit the net and Google Reverend Bernhard. I learned quite a bit about him and the weird crap he was into.
When I heard Bloodstone trotting down the stairs I turned my monitor to face the doorway and pointed to it. “This clown is Joseph Bernhard. He kidnapped Dani. He’s seriously looney-tunes. He’s the leader of a Christian Identity sect. His hobbies are loading his own ammunition, reading Mein Kampf in the original German, rescuing Nazi memorabilia from Soviet archives, and denying the Holocaust ever happened. And that’s just what he says about himself on the Sean Hannity-fan dating-site.”
Bloodstone nodded. “Christian Identity is a vile perversion of Christianity. They believe Aryans are the true chosen people, the Jews murdered Jesus and so forth. Racism cum religion.”
“He wants the box. You’re to call him.”
His nostrils flared. “Dial him.”
I did. The line rang twice, then Bernhard answered. “I’ll hold for Bloodstone.”
Bloodstone punched the speaker button on my desk phone. “The girl is safe?”
“You have something of mine, and I want it.”
“Don’t be coy. It was never yours.”
“It was meant to be mine. I have searched long enough. You will bring it to me. An innocent life hangs in the balance.” Bernhard hissed coldly. “Twenty-fourth and Camelback, near the bookstore.
You have twenty-five minutes.” He cut the connection.
I hit the speaker button again. “No cops?”
“Contra-in
dicated.” He shook his head slowly. “Don’t bother to bring your pistol.”
“Bernhard is a kidnapper, and he likes to play with guns.”
Bloodstone shook his head. “This time he is playing with something far more powerful, and it will consume him. No gun, no violence.”
Our stares met, but it would be easier to win a stare-down with the Lincoln Memorial than with Bloodstone. I raised my hands in surrender. “No gun. No violence.”
“Good.” His eyes became violet slits. “I will get the box. We will take the Jaguar.”
We loaded the box in the trunk, Bloodstone piled into the rear seat, and I slid behind the wheel. We made it to the parking lot with five minutes to spare. Once I found a space, a van pulled up blocking us in. A man emerged from the back, opened our passenger door and dropped into the seat beside me.
I looked at him. “Box is in the trunk. Where’s the girl?”
“Shut up and drive.”
“If you think…”
Bloodstone squeezed my shoulder. “Bernhard suspects trickery. And he wants witnesses.” Bloodstone settled back into the shadows. “Where are we going?”
My guide, who looked a bit rougher than the guys who took Dani, jerked a thumb toward the van. “Follow it.”
I did as ordered, but I didn’t like any of it. A quick swap would have worked well, but Bernhard wanting us there while he inspected the cloth was not a good sign. We were being kidnapped. We could identify our kidnappers. The easiest way to escape prosecution was to put a bullet in each one of us. After reading about Bernhard, I had no doubt he’d do that and likely declare he was giving us a sacrament.
Blessed is he who is anointed with 119 grains of lead.
We didn’t have to travel far, just southwest to Thomas and 16th, to a mortuary. We drove around back to the receiving area. I pulled the Jaguar into an empty hearse bay, and the van blocked us in again. I popped the trunk, and Bloodstone retrieved the box.
Four men led us into the mortuary and to the first viewing room. The rectangular room had a dozen rows of seats, and I found them disturbingly full. It looked like a costume party and the theme was Nuremburg, 1936. Most of the men wore snappy Nazi uniforms, complete with the ceremonial daggers and an Iron Cross or two. The women wore stockings with seams running up the back.
Bernhard, however, took the cake. I was raised Catholic, so I’m used to priests being swathed in layers of cloth. Over a black cassock that had been belted with a Sam Browne belt, Bernhard wore a chasuble of red, with a big white circle in the middle of his chest. That featured a swastika in black, and what looked to be a holstered Luger sat at his right hip. He even wore a red miter fixed with the swastika, so he was all decked out for a High Unholy Mass.
We were directed to the front, toward the dais that had a massive Nazi flag as the backdrop. Three chairs had been placed over to my left, and Dani sat in one closest to the wall. I sat next to her and took her hands in mine.
“You okay?”
“Just scared.” Dani gave me a hopeful smile. “Is this really happening?”
“It’ll be okay.” I tried to force confidence through my voice, but I was feeling as if I were trapped in some B-grade rip-off of an Indiana Jones movie. And me without a whip or anything.
Bloodstone delivered the box to Bernhard. The High Priest handled it reverently-as if the reliquary contained Hitler’s bones-and placed it on a table opposite us. He centered it between two censers, scattering the thick ropes of sweet white smoke rising from them. Bernard brushed his fingers over the lid as if caressing a lover and then turned around and motioned for the congregation to be seated.
Between him and the audience lay a low bier, which wasn’t too hard to imagine in a funeral home. On it lay something shrouded with a red cloth. It had that unique outline that suggested it was a body, but there were clearly parts missing. At least one foot was gone, and probably an arm. The chest wasn’t that round and there definitely was a hunk of the skull missing.
Bernhard waited for Bloodstone to sit in the third chair, then raised his hand. “It is time, my friends, long past time. Bow your heads.”
I didn’t. I studied the crowd. A bunch of them looked the way I’d expect white supremists to look, with prison tattoos or shaved heads, but the others really sent a chill through me. They looked normal, even those of an age to have been fighting against the Germans in World War II. Out of the uniforms, they’d have been unremarkable, and they looked affluent, too. Hatred isn’t cheap, and they could finance a lot of it.
Bernhard solemnly intoned a prayer. “Lord Jesus, by Your words, in Your name, great miracles have been wrought. Men have been raised from the dead. We ask You to look upon our brother, Adolf, and through Your love, restore him to the life so cruelly cut short, so he may continue the work of avenging Your murder.”
As the others murmured “Amen,” Bernhard whipped the red cloth off the thing in front of him. Desiccated, dried up, burned in places, with plenty of pieces missing and ivory bone visible through torn flesh, there was no mistaking it for a body. Somewhere in college I remembered reading that Hitler had shot himself, and loyal minions tried to burn his body. The Russians had interrupted them and had dragged the remains back for Stalin, never to be seen again. And, yet, I recalled hearing rumors that the body was still preserved in some KGB archive somewhere.
That can’t be Hitler’s body, can it?
Bernhard turned and opened the reliquary. From it he drew the homespun cloth and unfolded it. It looked like a man’s cloak, all woven of one piece, which he draped over the corpse from toes to crown. He smoothed out the wrinkles, and Dani grabbed my left arm, burying her face against my shoulder. I gave her a squeeze, then dragged her to her feet as Bernhard gestured and the congregation rose.
“Lord Jesus, in Your name we ask that life again flow into our brother Adolf. The mere touch of the hem of Your cloak was enough to cure the blind, the leper, the ill and the dead. This perfect raiment, which could not be sundered and, therefore, was diced-for in fulfillment of prophecy, graced You as You raised Lazarus. Bring us back our brother, for Your glory, and the glory of Your chosen people.”
Bernhard modulated his voice, starting low and building higher. The intensity increased with each sentence. Enthusiasm filled the final words. It brought them to a peak. Everyone listening got caught in the cadence, leaning forward as his voice rose, settling back as it subsided.
As each sentence built the anticipation, Bernhard’s hands clawed down through the air. They grazed bare millimeters above the cloak. His hooked fingers plucked at invisible strings. I could almost hear them thrum, and feel them vibrate through my chest.
And into the corpse.
Dani squeezed my arm hard. “Oh my God, Connor, it’s moving!”
It couldn’t be, but the cloak rippled. A corner slipped back from the blackened left foot. I searched the corpse for a sign of breath. I looked for any movement at all, to see a hand rising or the head turning.
Bernhard reacted with a triumphant hiss. “Behold the miracle!”
His words came faster now, and more power filled them. Members of the congregation gasped. They whispered. Some pointed, others hugged, and it was not out of fear. They were as exultant as Bernhard as the monster that had been Hitler began to regain life.
Dani’s grip on my arm tightened. My fingers began to tingle. I stared, wanting to completely disbelieve. Then I thought I saw something. The flesh on the forehead, the edges around the hole turned pink. They were beginning to close.
Bloodstone’s disdain shattered the trance woven by Bernhard’s words and the swirling incense. “Nothing is moving, Bernhard. You were swindled.”
The contempt in Bloodstone’s words pierced the collective hallucination. Gasps became moans. Those who had hugged, broke apart. One ancient gentleman fainted. Others cursed. The incense became nothing more than cloying smoke. It swirled lazily, poisonously sweet, as if it rising from the burned corpse.
The wild fire in
Bernhard’s eyes dulled. His expression slackened, as if he could see himself as the rest of us did. He looked ridiculous standing over a carbonized mummy, wishing it to rise from the dead. Any credibility he’d had with his audience evaporated, and their ire was rising.
“No! This will work!” His eyes sharpened again. “We just need blood. A sacrifice.”
Without missing a beat, Bernhard drew the Luger. I pulled Dani to me, twisting so my body shielded her. Bloodstone took a step forward, his right hand rising, palm forward. Bernhard, with hatred sparking anew in his eyes, thrust the pistol at Bloodstone’s hand and stroked the trigger.
The gun went off. A single cartridge ejected. The brass spun up, glittering in the light. Gunsmoke from the chamber mixed with the incense. The pistol’s extractor arm snapped back down, jamming a new bullet into the chamber.
“Don’t.” Bloodstone’s voice sounded small compared to the mechanical click of the gun’s mechanism. From others that single word would have been a plea for mercy. Bloodstone offered a warning.
And even before I wondered why the first bullet had not blown through Bloodstone’s hand, Bernhard stroked the trigger again.
The pistol exploded. Fire and metal jetted back from the chamber, shredding Bernhard’s face. He screamed horribly as the mangled pistol and two fingers fell toward the ground. Bernhard whirled away and slammed into the wall. The Nazi fell, dragging the flag down, draping himself and muting his screams.
Bloodstone turned to face the congregation, his unblemished hand toward them. He closed it into a fist, then pointed toward the door. His voice dropped into a rime-edged whisper that drilled into skulls.
“Leave now, lest your folly become your doom.”
It really didn’t surprise me as the crowd bolted. They’d all been locked into a trance. He’d broken it. He was shot twice at pointblank range and was unhurt. The gun exploded, maiming their champion. Though the audience may have been dumb enough to believe they’d been invited to Adolf Hitler’s resurrection, they weren’t completely stupid. With two strokes of the finger twitching on the floor, Bernhard transformed the Church of Jesus Christ Martyr from a “fringe Christian group” into a “murderous cult.” There wasn’t a single person rushing out that door who saw an upside to being associated with it.
Pandora's Closet Page 8
