Demonic Double Cross

by B Branin

  * * * * *

  The St. Donovan’s church was an inviting place. The building itself had been given to the Catholic church by a kind old soul who, to the woe of his grandchildren, donated all of his earthly possessions to his religion. These donations included several large houses and the property that would eventually become St. Donovan.

  Whatever purpose the building had served previously was long forgotten thanks to army of zealous construction workers that had given a face-lift to the entire property. What took up the grounds now looked like one of those cozy kind of churches you see in old paintings with bright green grass and fluffy clouds with just the right amount of sunlight peeking through.

  After being dubbed the St. Donovan’s church (supposedly it was to be named after Saint Domninus but due to a clerical error in city hall, the name Donovan stuck), the large property served as the headquarters for priests, missionaries and nuns. St. Donovan wasn’t the largest Catholic church in **** City but it was the only Catholic church in its district which made it fairly popular.

  There were a few reasons I decided to take Fiona to this church to hole up. First and foremost, no one would be crazy enough to go into a crowded church, guns blazing to find us. Especially not an organization like the Daughters of All, who were clandestine by nature. Shooting up a church would be front page news all over the nation and no one would be able to hide from the outcry that demanded retribution.

  Secondly, I figured that a church would be sacred enough to keep any freaky phenomena (in particular I was worried about constructs of trash, floating junkies, and phantoms) at bay. I wasn’t sure if a church counted as hollow ground but I am pretty sure it’s a “no witchcraft” zone.

  I hope.

  Either way, I was betting that St. Donavan’s would be a nice place to lay low for a while. Maybe I could try brainstorming and figure out how the lackeys for the Daughters of All keep finding me. First the junkie in the alley, then wrecking my office and now conveniently blindsiding me at the pawnshop?

  Not even the FBI was that good!

  I would know.

  “You don’t strike me as a Catholic.” Fiona mentioned as we ascended the steps up to the enormous oak doors to the church.

  “I’m not.” I replied honestly, shoving one of the doors open.

  Like most churches, the “business area” was closest to the front of the building. After passing through the double oak doors, you found yourself on a tiled floor in front of rows and rows of pews facing a raised platform where the residing holy men could speak.

  Right now some young missionary stumbled along some biblical passage to a less then enthusiastic audience. The current attendees’ majority were the homeless who came to the church to use the restroom but sprinkled about here and there were kids waiting to go to confession or old religious ladies with nothing better to do.

  Fiona kept in step with me as we skirted around the pews and the confession booths. There was another door (metal and modern) that went from the congregation room and into the hallways that would take you deeper into the church. After passing through this door, you almost felt like you were in an office building save for the oppressive serenity in the air.

  Every so often we passed a room that held AA meetings, marriage counseling, missionary training or an empty Sunday school class. I was pretty familiar with this hallway and began heading to the one room that the rest of the church didn’t like to talk about: Room 23.

  Room 23 was a borderline myth at this church. It was where the lowest of the low crawled seeking guidance and a safe haven for the worst kind of people. Only junkies with hardly any T-cells left, crack addled whores, beaten prostitutes, domestic abusers and gamblers who sold their children’s beds to fuel their addiction came knocking on this door.

  Of course only Father O’Brawley was tough enough to council these lost souls.

  It was extremely rare for anyone to be in Room 23 save for the old priest himself. Those few who did show up rarely had an appointment. They usually dragged themselves down the hall suffering from injury or withdrawal and knew Father O’Brawley could help them through the pain.

  There were plenty (even among the nuns and fellow priests) who say that Father O’Brawley was wasting his time in Room 23, claiming if anyone had sunk that low they were beyond help or salvation. The old priest ignored these hushed contentions and did absolutely everything he could to assist those who came seeking his aid. That was just the kind of man he was and that was just the kind of salvation he believed in.

  A few years ago I even used some of my own connections to smooth things over for Father O’Brawley and one of his lost sheep. The old priest had become the sponsor to a sex-addict who turned to a life of prostitution. He went to tell her pimp that she was done with such a seedy life of sin because she was too terrified to do it herself. The pimp hadn’t taken it too kindly and tried to scare the old priest with some strong-armed tactics.

  Big mistake.

  Long story short, the pimp was hospitalized after hitting his head on the sidewalk when Father O’Brawley knocked him flat with a single punch. Hospitalizing someone is always treated as a felony and Father O’Brawley confessed to the crime after waiting in the worst part of town for the cops and ambulances to arrive.

  It just so happened I was visiting the police station that very night (someone had broken into my apartment earlier, probably one of Zotkin’s thugs) and saw the old priest in the back of a squad car. The head processing clerk and I frequented the same gambling halls and I took him to the cleaners on poker night just the week before. So instead of forking over what he owed, I arranged for Father O’Brawley to get let off with a warning. To the best of my knowledge he still doesn’t know I had tipped the scales of Lady Justice in his favor, which was a good thing. If he ever found out I had cheated the system for him, the old priest would box my ears so hard I’d probably go deaf.

  “Come in.” The graveled voice called through the door after I had knocked.

  Father O’Brawley’s office was much like any councilor’s. A few comfortable seats, a desk, some filing cabinets and inspirational quotes on the wall. Of course all of these quotes came from the bible, which was fine but not really the fluffy you-can-do-it quotes that most shrinks were fond of. Like the old priest himself, these quotes had more than a little brimstone to them.

  Looking rather surprised to see me, Father O’Brawley waved us to the seats across from his desk. Our usual meeting place was the bench outside so I rarely set foot inside the church, a habit I was oddly proud of. Still I think his fluffy eyebrows shot up with astonishment not because I was actually in the church but rather because I had brought a guest.

  “Please tell me that’s your daughter.” Father O’Brawley said bluntly, “And she is interested in the good book.”

  “Um, no…” Fiona replied, then realizing what Father O’Brawley might be implying, blushed and took a step away from me.

  “Thanks for that,” I glowered then waved my hand to Fiona, “This is Ms. Fiona Ambrose, my current client at the Paranormal Investigation Agency.”

  “Agency? I thought you were a private investigator?” Fiona asked.

  “Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”

  Father O’Brawley relaxed a little (of course his version of relax would make a marine standing at attention seem sloppy) and fixed me with a quizzical look.

  “Aye, I remember our talk.” He nodded, then gave Fiona a grandfatherly smile, “I trust he has been behaving himself, lass?”

  Returning the smile, Fiona helped herself to a chair and nodded.

  “Yes. He has been very helpful.” Fiona replied politely.

  While they began chatting, almost like old friends instead of seconds old strangers, I reached into my pocket and fished out my phone. Dialing with a thumb, I walked over to the far corner of the room and pretended to inspect a golden plaque instead of willing the other line to pick up.

  “Heya Broker.” Buggy’s voice leapt through my phone, “How’s li
fe in the world of the unknown?”

  “It’s a real…” I chose my words carefully, not wanting the old priest behind me to box my ears, “…pain. Hey I need another favor.”

  “I should start charging you for these favors.”

  “If you did that, I’d charge you for all those pizzas I deliver to your place. Do you know how hard it is to find a joint that still carries anchovies as a topping?”

  “Touché. Okay, what can I do for you?”

  “Is there any way you can find out if anyone has tapped Fiona’s cell phone?”

  “Well yeah. If her phone is a newer one it will have a built in GPS. Not many people outside the police or FBI could track it though. Phone companies keep a pretty close eye on these things, especially to make sure no wild stalker gets a free ride.”

  “Well you can track them so third parties must be able to do it.”

  “The only reason I do it is because I am piggy backing on the police’s network. No small task, I might add.” The hacker replied proudly, “But yes, technically someone else could be tracking it.”

  “Anyway you can stop them?”

  “I’m telling you that it’s doubtful anyone is, but let me see what I can do…”

  Glancing over my shoulder, I watched Father O’Brawley and Fiona continue their conversation with big smiles. For someone who was as gruff and rough as Father O’Brawley, he had a natural knack at getting people to open up. He measured each word with a few grains of blunt truth and for some reason that won people over quicker than I could with sugary lies.

  “Okay,” Buggy said over a hum of keystrokes, “I just checked the phone company and no one has traced or triangulated her phone. Even the police have to inform the phone company if they are going to ping someone.”

  “We’re talking about people who want to hurt or kill us,” I sighed, “I don’t think they would go through the same legal hoops as the cops.”

  “I know, I know.” Buggy replied, sounding almost insulted I would think he didn’t know that, “So here’s the solution. I hacked the phone company’s records and changed the service code for Fiona’s GPS. Her phone will no longer be able to connect to the ‘net but if anyone tries to track the phone, they’ll discover she is three states away.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, the cell phone they will be tracking belongs to a state senator.”

  “Saving my hide and fighting the man.” I laughed.

  “All in a good day’s work.” Buggy said, “Anything else?”

  “No.” I answered, “Thanks Buggy. I really mean it.”

  “I’m telling you man, if you think you are being followed I doubt it’s through technological means. Watch your back.” The hacker warned before disconnecting the call.

  Say what you wanted about Buggy but he certainly had a bizarre flare for the dramatic. I knew it was slim that the Daughters of All would be tracking us by GPS. For all I knew they could be trailing me with a damn crystal ball! But it was at least a little comforting to know that I had tried to thwart any further attempts to find us.

  Putting away my phone, I turned back to Father O’Brawley who was sharing a quiet laugh with Fiona. I had a sneaking suspicion the joke was at my expense but if the old priest would watch my back for a bit while I tried to solve the puzzle of Faye’s pawned goods, I could deal with being made sport of.

  “How are you feeling lad?” Father O’Brawley asked me as I joined them.

  “I feel like I have some cracked ribs and enough bruises to last me a lifetime,” I replied glumly, “But I’m still breathing so that counts as somethin’.”

  “That’s good, that’s good.” The old priest nodded, “Have you taken any blows to the head recently?”

  I sighed, knowing exactly what he was referring to. Apparently the call I had made from the hospital was still bothering him. I couldn’t rightly blame Father O’Brawley. Demanding him to make holy water while I screamed over gospel music through a cellular phone had to be a bit unnerving.

  “You are always telling me to have faith,” I said, my voice low as I tried to formulate a half-truth that wouldn’t leave Father O’Brawley demanding I be drug tested immediately, “So just have some in me, okay? You…you saved my life last night, you really did.”

  Fiona looked confused and overly concerned but the old priest had on his poker face. A blank slate would have revealed more than Father O’Brawley’s features. Thankfully he didn’t press the issue.

  “Fine lad, I believe you.” The old priests said after an uncomfortable silence, “But promise me that come Sunday, you’ll be at confession. I want to hear it all, even if it doesn’t make any sense.”

  “That’ll be no problem,” I answered honestly, “But I was actually hoping if you would do me the favor of lending me your office?”

  If I had asked the same of anyone else, they would have turned me down flat. Or at least mentally gone over the valuables stored in the room and whether or not I could be trusted with them. All Father O’Brawley did was fold his arms across his chest and give me a curious look.

  “Why?” He asked.

  “I need to sort through these items,” I explained, reaching over and picking up the box Fiona had in her lap, “And since they belong to Fiona’s sister…I figured it might be best if I did it alone. Perhaps you two could talk some more?”

  To be honest I didn’t know whether or not Fiona would help or hinder me when it came to inspecting the items that Faye had pawned. Chances were I was going to have to literally pull these things apart and I didn’t want Fiona watch me destroy a direct link to her supposedly dead sister…or freak out if I found some evidence Faye was the new cult leader.

  “I can help you,” Fiona offered, then sheepishly said to Father O’Brawley, “Not that I wouldn’t want to talk to you.”

  “Please, Fiona,” I said giving her my best ‘its-your-choice-but-please-do-what-I-ask look, “You’ve been through a lot…perhaps talking it out with someone might help.”

  “Aye lass,” Father O’Brawley agreed, reaching over across the desk and patting her hand softly, “It would be an honor for this old man to lend you his ear for a breath or two.”

  Frowning, Fiona turned to me. Her expression almost seemed to ask me for reassurance. I knew it wasn’t nervousness or unease towards Father O’Brawley but rather my client was just worried about how much she should tell the old priest. After all our adventures did include trespassing, insanity and murder.

  “I want you to share with the good father everything you feel comfortable with. Everything you really need to get off your chest,” I encouraged my client, “I trust Father O’Brawley with all of my secrets and he has never let me down.”

  The old priest gave a grunt, indicating that he understood what I meant. My reminder to keep my secrets (especially the fact I was a no-good con) between us was rather a waste. I doubt that Father O’Brawley would share what took place in his confession booth with anyone, even the Pope. He lived by an ironclad code of honor that, though I could never comprehend, I certainly respected.

  “I’m not Catholic…” Fiona mentioned as she followed Father O’Brawley out of the room.

  “That’s okay lass,” The old priest replied, “God blessed me with big enough ears to listen to anyone willing to speak.”

  As soon as the door closed, I scooted my seat closer to the desk and gently placed the box of Faye’s pawned goods on top of it. First an initial inspection was needed. Nothing too deep, just a once over to see what I was working with. Reaching inside I pulled out the CD player figuring it was as good a place to start as any. It was a knockoff brand and didn’t even look used, lacking any signs of wear or tear. I popped it open to discover no CD inside and then gave it a good shake. I didn’t hear anything rattling around, so I figured it was safe to assume it was just a CD player.

  Setting it aside, I then went for the jewelry box. It was old and scuffed, the kind you could pick up at any garage sale and a complete waste of space unless it
had sentimental value. It didn’t contain anything either. I even pressed against the knock-off velvet lining, feeling around to make sure nothing had been slipped between the cheap fabric and the wood.

  Next I inspected the rings but it was a short inspection. Cheaply made, tarnished, and probably more valuable if they were to be recycled. In fact they looked as if they had just been randomly selected at some second-hand store. I checked the ring for any markings or inscriptions but found none.

  Lastly, I came to the paint set. It was nothing fancy, the kind of amateur kit you could pick up at any craft store. Just to be safe I tapped the two paint brushes against the desk to make sure they weren’t hollow (you’d be surprised what you can hide in even the most innocent looking items), then moved to the actual paints.

  There were four tubes of paint. Red, yellow, blue and white. Now, I have posed as an art dealer several times in my life (usually to distract a cadre of snobs while my associates ransacked their villas) and had done enough homework to realize that white was not a primary color like the others. In fact, the tube of white paint was a completely different brand than the other paints as well.

  “Interesting.” I murmured, setting the tube of white paint down as I dug out my knife.

  It was time to get more thorough. Switchblade in one hand, I reached over and took the CD player in the other. Turning the shoddy device over, I used the tip of my knife to pop open the compartment that held the batteries.

  Score.

  Tucked inside the battery compartment was a square piece of paper. Setting my knife on the desk, I plucked the paper free and unfolded it. The scrap itself was crisp and unworn save for the creases, meaning it had been stuffed in the CD player right away and hadn’t been handled sense. Unfolding the paper, I was somewhat disappointed to find it held no secret message. Instead I found a complex drawing of a design that looked almost like a tribal tattoo. Of course it was a symbol I had seen before.

  Flashing through my mind was the same symbol, tattooed on the shoulders of the comatose victims that had fallen onto West’s lap during our fight at Hell Scratch. Was this the tattoo that Ellen said all the older members of the Daughters received? If I sent it to Dr. Spriggan could he tell me what it meant?

  Interesting but by no means helpful, I refolded the piece of paper and tucked it inside my jacket, right next to my flask. I needed to continue with my inspection and the chilling thoughts associated with what I had found in the lounge of the club were an unnecessary distraction.

  Refocusing on the task at hand, I reached for the jewelry box. Figuring that it was better to be safe then sorry, I slit the cheap cloth that lined the box. Peeling back the velvet, my heart began to race as my thoroughness provided me with a much bigger reward. Painted in big white letters, carefully hidden by the lining, were two simple words: SOUL SCREAM.

  Soul Scream. If Zotkin’s pet Tall Man was correct, Soul Scream was the new drug that was taking this city by storm. I had no reason to doubt Tall Man’s intel because I myself have seen the signs of a new drug hitting the market. Junkies aligning themselves fiercely with the Daughters of All and then those skinheads and gangbangers had combined forces to try and take me out at the pawnshop.

  I felt a sinking sensation in my stomach. If I had just opened my eyes and become a little less self-absorbed (a difficult task considering I was trying to stay alive), I might have noticed it: I was in deeper than I ever thought possible. On one hand, I have a supposedly dead relation of my client walking around and controlling a cult that seemed to have mastered actual witchcraft. On the other was a new drug so powerfully addictive that it threatened Zotkin’s carefully created empire and would undoubtedly create a street war that only the national guard could stop.

  And I, completely undeserving of such bad karma, was stuck in the middle.

  At that moment I wasn’t sure which was more frightening; the fact that the Daughters of All had the sinister ability to conjure phantoms and monsters or the fact that they were actually willing to introduce a new addictive substance to a city’s youth knowing full well it would make this city’s streets run red with blood.

  Somehow I managed to push away such thoughts. The gang war and the witchcraft were neither here nor there. Right now all I had to do was focus on what Faye was trying to tell me in these pawned goods. Obviously she knew about the drug but for how long? Was that the reason the cult had taken action against her? And why didn’t she take this information to the police and press, instead of burying it?

  Faye had gone to great lengths to conceal the information in these items. But then turning around and pawning her clues…why? Did she have a partner who was going to come pick these items up? Did she just want them hidden? Had she known the cult was going to make a move against her and just wanted to get rid of them?

  Great. More questions. This was really getting old. In all honesty, I was hoping the CD player would have some sort of disk with a complete version of her notes on it. But no, I found a box with a hidden warning, a tattoo design and the primary colors plus one tube of off-brand white paint…

  …the very same color used on the box.

  Curiously, I grabbed the white paint tube and unscrewed it. When pulling off the cap, some of its contents escaped from the tube and dripped onto the desk. The “paint” was murky and almost water-like in consistency. Strange. Why would someone go through the lengths of replacing the paint with some other substance? A weird scent, almost like ozone, filled my nostrils and helped strengthen my hypothesis that this tube was a big piece of the puzzle I was trying to solve.

  It wasn’t until I noticed the needle that things began to fall into place.

  Attached to the bottom of the cap was a small hypo needle, sticking straight down. It was rather clever, the needle perfectly hidden inside the actual tube. No one would be aware of the needle unless they were actually searching for it. Plus all you had to do is flip the needle, punch it through the cap, then reattach it to create a crude, squeeze-syringe.

  So this was what Faye didn’t want others to discover. She had secured a sample of the new drug that the Daughters of All were pumping into the streets! If that were the case, all she would have to do is turn this sample over to the police and let them handle it…then again, if Faye could have turned over the sample and provide solid evidence that the shady cult was involved, she probably would get a Pulitzer Prize.

  She should have quit while she was ahead. Unless…

  Was it possible that Faye was actually working inside the cult to discover their plans? Even going as far as to fake her own death to help rescue those abducted teens? Or could she have fallen prey to the very drug she had stolen from the Daughters of All, her hopes of helping the cult’s victims long gone?

  I quickly discarded these ideas. First off, for all intents and purposes, Faye Ambrose was dead. Legally and according to her grief stricken sister’s vivid testimony. Buggy had even pulled up a death certificate. I was missing something here and Dr. Livingstone’s taunting words about Faye’s involvement with the cult was throwing me off more than I’d like to admit.

  Nothing added up. One lead seemed to fray into a thousand possibilities and I was getting sick and tired of dead ends. For the very first time in my life, I was feeling the weight of helplessness begin to engulf me. It wasn’t a sensation I’d ever get accustomed to. It felt as if I were being wrapped up in layer after layer of sheet metal.

  Out of necessity, I wasn’t one to give into despair. Not with the kind of life I lead. Surviving this long would have been impossible if I gave into hopelessness. Every single situation that I’ve been in, no matter how desperate it had seemed, I managed to have weaseled out of. I’ve stared down plenty of gun barrels, crossed plenty of powerful people (even crime bosses and police chiefs) and even spent two days up a tree while a pack of wild pigs circled below me, squealing themselves into a constant rage-storm.

  Never once had I given into that damning emotion of helplessness or hopelessness. Sure, doub
t had shadowed my heart and mind from time to time but I had always brushed it off. Why? Because there was always an angle I could work, always a lie I could weave, always some odds I could play on.

  As my Uncle used to say, “Even if you’re out of luck, that doesn’t mean you’re out of options.”

  But not now. Not here. For the first time in my long, long career as a conman, there were finally some people I couldn’t reason with. This cult, these religious fanatics, they didn’t seem to have a plan, didn’t seem to follow any rules. To top it off, they had abilities that were best left to comic books and magicians.

  I was feeling desperation wrap around my throat tighter than that make-shift noose had at Hell Scratch. How was I gonna get out of this? There were no odds to play, no rivalry to ride, no trick to use and no bargain to strike. I had nothing but speculation when it came to the Daughters of All and let’s face it, I was far beyond my realm of expertise. My back was against a wall and for the first time in my life there wasn’t a hole in it that I could squirm through.

  “Damn.” I muttered, carefully screwing the cap (needle down) back onto the tube of Soul Scream, noticing how the scent of ozone did not dissipate after popping the cap back on, “What to do, what to do?”

  I felt like I was drowning. You can flail and claw at the water all you want but you knew you weren’t going to make it. That’s how I felt. I just knew that this wasn’t going to end well for me. I had spent my entire life avoiding the most dangerous elements of the underworld and now bam! I was going to be done in by some fanatics calling themselves the Daughters of All for god’s sake!

  “Dammit!” I growled, my fists clenching, “What does this all mean?!”

  Now, keep in mind I’m not much of a religious person so swearing in a church came as natural to me as pissing standing up. However it seemed that the divine had a way of taking retribution rather swiftly. For me, retribution came the moment I slammed the syringe/paint tube down on the desk in a stroke of stupidity and anger.

  The pain of the puncture barely registered.

  Lifting my hand off of the squished paint tube, I looked at my palm. The smallest red dot was just below my thumb and circling the blood were watery smears of white. Glancing back at the paint’s container, I saw the guilty needle that had punched through the tubing…the needle’s head was dripping with the substance known as Soul Scream as well as my blood.

  That couldn’t be good but it was just a drop…a literal pin’s head of this strange substance had punctured my skin. Still, with an open wound no matter how small, I didn’t like the freakish white substance that now stained my hand. It was odd…the hole in the tubing was so small, yet so much of the Soul Scream had found its way onto my skin. Almost like the damn stuff wanted to leap out of its container.

  Ignoring the tingling sensation clawing at my scalp, I was just about to wipe the drug off on my pant leg (while making a mental note to burn the damn garment ASAP) when it happened. The smell of ozone increased and a cold sensation began to spread out through my hand.

  Once again, I brought my sanity into question as I stared down at the stain on my skin.

  The thick smears of Soul Scream began to wiggle…it was more of a sensation than actually seeing it. The smudges then began to collect into a distinct shape, a circle around the dab of blood on my palm. The numbing sensation was spreading now, alarmingly fast. It reminded me of a chill… an unnatural chill that I had begun to associate with the paranormal. Believe me, I wanted more than anything to wipe the mess off my hand or better yet, amputate my hand right then and there.

  But I couldn’t.

  Despite my mind desperately screaming for action, my body wouldn’t respond. I wasn’t sure if it was the numbness that had spread through me or something even more sinister but whatever the reason I was completely helpless. So I sat there watching, jaw agape, as the white circle closed in on my puncture wound. It was so bizarre that some part of me wondered if I had already been affected by the drug. The circle broke into two lines and each began to wiggle towards the bloody pinprick on my palm like slugs.

  What came next still makes me nauseous when I think about it.

  The thin lines of white slithered towards my microscopic wound and began to force their way inside my body. It was the most disgusting sensation I’ve ever experienced. The two lines wiggled like worms in a corpse, inching their way deeper inside me. The tiny speck of blood seemed to be absorbed by them and soon, the white lines vanished all together, having successfully used the wound as a gateway into my bloodstream.

  “Well shit.” I said to no one in particular, mystified as a bluish vapor accompanied my curse as it fell from my lips.

  Had I know those would be my last words, I would have given them much more thought.

  * * * * *