Butterfly Knife

by Larry Matthews

Chapter Twenty-Five

  Father Darius was also at peace. He had eaten a fine meal at the inn and had prepared himself for his mission. He wore black waterproof outdoor clothing purchased from an outfitter at an overpriced supermall in Tyson’s Corner, Virginia. He had no worries about cost. He left the MGA in its spot behind the Holly tree, tucked away unseen. He walked away from the inn on County Road 626, making a dogleg where the town ended at the base of a wooded mountain, a place where an old logging trail was hidden behind kudzu vines that had obscured a break in the tree line. Occasional weekend hikers had found the trail and had walked it on fine days when bright young professionals from D.C. were in the mood for some nature, but mostly the old road was as forgotten as the logging business that had died out years ago.

  What Father Darius knew from his earlier scouting expeditions was that the trail led to Frank’s property and wound up to the summit of the mountain behind Frank’s house. Years earlier Frank had walked the trail on trips to the town, but summertime rattlesnakes that infested the rocky hillside had persuaded Frank to drive and the path was left to grow over. The winter darkness settled before Father Darius was ready to move, so the road was dark when he went looking for the path. He couldn’t find it and used a small flashlight to see, and he wandered back and forth until a woman walking a dog along the road asked if he was lost.

  “There’s an old path in here somewhere that I’m trying to find,” he said, not bothering to explain why he was hiking in the dark.

  The woman had the look of the aging hippies who lived in the area with their beads and crystals and home-grown marijuana. She wore a down jacket over a plain wool peasant dress and was shod in something that looked like combat boots with painted flowers. Her face was red from the cold and her smile was open. “It’s over by the mailboxes, right behind them. Are you going to camp overnight?” She appeared to be looking for some camping gear.

  “No, just looking for the path. It’s a beautiful night and the moon is bright, so I want to spend a few minutes alone in the forest.” He hoped he sounded newagey.

  “Wow, that’s cool. I totally understand.” She nodded her head, grinning. “Yeah, over behind the mailboxes. Peace.” The woman walked away, falling in behind the dog.

  He moved across the road to a row of large rural mailboxes that had a weather-beaten and rusty look in the moonlight. They were in a line on an old board held up by two fence posts. Each box had a name either stenciled or hand-painted, now mostly faded. He assumed the mailman knew who owned which box. He moved behind the mailboxes and through the dry kudzu and into the tree line. The moonlight created a mysterious image like a painting of black tree trunks and light gray landscape crossed by silhouettes of branches; a disorienting and, to Father Darius, religious scene that sent him to his knees. He found himself in a copse of small maple trees that were attempting to claim a portion of the old road.

  He removed his jacket and his shirt, exposing his back to the night air. He opened his pack and removed a leather whip whose ends were knotted and run through with tacks. He held the leather handle in his right hand and opened his eyes to the forest, believing that he was gazing upon an image sent to him by Her, the Virgin. She was calling out to him in a sweet, heavenly voice. “Send me home. Send me home.” He saw the face of Elena in the vision and believed that Elena was the Madonna crying out for her heavenly home. She had been sent back to the filthy world of men and had accomplished whatever mysterious and glorious mission she had been given and now it was up to him to send her back to Him, Lord of Lords, Light of Light, who sitteth at the right hand of the Father. He was humbled to tears that he had been chosen.

  Her face was beautiful. He had known it from the minute he saw her all those weeks ago with that reporter, who had no idea who she was. He had followed her to New York but had known immediately that the time was not at hand. The vision had told him what he had to do and he had done it. He had sent the others, the worthy others, home to be there to welcome Her. He was exhilarated and wept as the lash did its work, tearing the skin from his back in glorious and painful sacrifice. He heard his grandmother’s words. Offer it up, boy.

  He stared into Her face as the pain was transformed into grace, at least in his mind. He would have gladly died on the spot and gone to his reward at that moment, but he knew his work was not finished and he could not fail or he would face eternal damnation and fire with Lucifer as his mocker and tormentor. He became too weak to move the whip, so he rested to gather his strength for what was to come. Blood covered the ground where he knelt and glistened like small red globes in the moonlight. It cheered him.

  After a period of recuperation he put on his shirt and his jacket, aware that his sacrifice would require him to find additional strength to move forward. He placed his pack upon his back, feeling his shirt and jacket press against his bloody body. Offer it up. He used his small flashlight to find his way, adjusting its beam to its widest display. He felt light and strong and his gait quickened as he moved up the mountain.

  Malone was not far behind. He had gone into the town to search for the MG and, after an hour of wandering around the small village, found it tucked behind the holly. It had not been driven recently. The engine was cold and the side curtains were smeared with dried bird droppings, something the car’s owner would never have tolerated had he driven the car. A few dried holly leaves were on the fabric top, further evidence that the car had been left for a period of time. Malone asked at the desk inside if a middle-aged man matching Father Darius’s description had been seen recently and was told that the description matched almost every male who was a guest there. However, a man whose appearance was in the general range had gone out wearing outdoor clothing about an hour earlier, if that helped. Otherwise, perhaps a quick look into the dining room would turn up the man Malone was looking for. He did not think his quarry was having dinner at that moment. He would look for the man in the outdoor clothing.

  Malone walked in wide circles, looking for any indication that Father Darius was about, but he knew that the man he was hunting had begun his move toward the cabin. His gut told him that the man in the outdoor clothing was moving up the mountain. He spotted the tree line on County Road 626 and crossed it, shining a flashlight into the dry kudzu, looking for a way in or a sign that someone had gone into the woods. A dog barked behind him, startling him and causing him to turn around. A woman had the dog on a leash.

  “It’s busy around here tonight,” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Is something happening in there? You’re the second guy tonight who’s rooting around here.”

  “Who was the first?”

  “There was a man here not long ago looking for the old logging road that goes up the mountain. He was decked out for hiking. You look like you’d be more comfortable at home.” She had an easy laugh and Malone wondered if she was stoned.

  “What’d he look like?”

  “Hard to say. He looked like most of the guys around here. Not young, not old, white, not fat. Kind of a generic guy.”

  “Which way did he go?”

  “I guess he went in behind those mailboxes over there. That’s where the old road is. Like I said, is something happening up there tonight? You guys on some kind of adventure?” She had the tone of a child in her voice.

  “No, nothing like that. We’re just looking around.” He smiled but she couldn’t see it in the darkness along the road. She would only make out a silhouette of a middle aged man who looked like he was dressed for yard work. “I’d better go see if I can find him. Thanks for the information. Have a good evening.” He turned and walked behind the mailboxes, shining his flashlight into the underbrush until he found signs that someone had gone through the kudzu.

  “Say hi to that other fellow for me,” the woman said. “Don’t get lost.”

  Malone looked back to wave and saw the woman walking away, lighting what appeared to be a small pipe. To each his own, he thought. He had never been attracted to drug
s other than tobacco and alcohol.

  He had no trouble finding the old logging road once he had cleared the tree line near the road and he soon came upon a bloody patch in a copse of small trees. He shone his flashlight on the scene, noting that the blood was still wet. The whip was where Father Darius had left it, evidently believing that he would not need it anymore. Malone reached into his jacket pocket and took out his cell phone, pressing a number for Frank, who picked up after one ring. “He’s on the move. He’s coming up the logging road from town. I think he’s in one of his trances. He’ll be hard to bring down. It’s worse than PCP for this guy. I’ll try to catch him.” PCP was a drug that gave its users extraordinary strength and stamina, often requiring several beefy police officers to bring them under control.

  Frank sent a text message to Byrne. “He’s on the move. Be alert.”

  Byrne went to check on his men and to alert them. He used his night vision gear to get around in the woods, struggling on the sloping terrain to keep his footing on the re-frozen ice patches that had formed in the small pools that had formed during the day’s sunshine. The moonlight caused the image he saw to appear ghostly as he pushed on through the trees and over the slick rocks on the hillside. He was looking for a recently-retired precinct sergeant named Joe, whom he had placed on a rocky ledge overlooking the cabin. Joe was overweight and out of shape and would never pass for a crack SWAT officer, but he was an experienced cop and a committed member of the Warriors of Mary and its enforcement unit, Posse Maria, so he had been brought along to solve the problem presented by Father Darius.

  “Joe! Joe!” Byrne whispered, his boots crunching on the dry leaves and twigs near the ledge. There was no sound. “Joe! It’s me. Answer me.” Silence. Shit, Byrne thought, he’s asleep. He tromped the last few yards not caring whether he made any noise, hoping to wake up Joe before he chewed him out. He found the ledge and saw that one of the M4’s spare magazines had been left out, but there was no sign of Joe. Byrne assumed that the man had gone to take a leak and had abandoned his post and he decided to take his position on the ledge and wait for the sound of Joe’s footsteps and perhaps scare him, then chew him out. He sat on the cold stone, feeling the chill numb his backside, recalling his younger days when finding a way to sit comfortably on a rock was not a problem. He looked around, hoping to find another spot that would be easier on his aging body. Maybe that is what Joe did. He needed a more comfortable place to position himself.

  Byrne moved to the far side of the ledge and looked down, hoping to see a soft patch of ground or even moss. What he saw was Joe lying on his back, eyes open, his chest a mass of wet liquid that looked gray in the strange night vision light that came to Byrne. He moved down to the body and saw that Joe’s chest had been cut open to reveal his heart, which had been chopped to pieces. Joe was still warm. At first, Byrne just stared. He had seen many dead bodies, some in very disturbing states, but he had never seen anything like this. He looked up and scanned the trees, knowing that Father Darius was nearby. He grabbed his cell phone and called Frank, who picked up after one ring. “He’s here. He killed Joe. It’s on.” He then sent a text message to the others, warning them to be vigilant. “Lock and load.”

  Byrne’s men had their phones set on vibrate to prevent their ringtones from calling out their positions when they received the text messages he had told them to expect regarding the operation that was underway that night. What neither Byrne nor his men understood is the quiet of the forest on a still winter night. The sound of vibrating phones was like a chorus of frogs wafting through the trees and up and down the hillsides, telling Father Darius where his enemies were hiding, not that he didn’t have a pretty good idea, at least in a theoretical sense. The vibrating phones gave him a mental picture of a clear zone through which he could reach his goal, although he had to move fast now that the others were alerted. It would not be as easy as it was with the man on the ledge who was half asleep and preoccupied with his discomfort in the cold.

  He moved quietly in his black clothing, a black ski mask covering his face, among the trees to the cabin. He went to the side that was closest to the woods and peered into a small window where he could see a portion of the bed and the area near the wood stove. He saw a woman’s feet moving on the bed, crossing and uncrossing as though the woman was nervous. The man, Dave, was sitting by the stove holding a poker and speaking without looking at the woman on the bed. He felt sorry for Dave. He had no idea what was happening or why. It’s a pity, thought Father Darius. Soon, very soon, all will be known.

  There was a small utility room at the back of the cabin where Frank had installed a hot water heater and a heat pump. The electrical breaker box was also there, along with spare furnace filters. The tiny room had two doors. One allowed access from the outside in the event that something needed servicing or replacing. The other, located in a corner near a closet, was to allow convenient access from inside the cabin for such things as filter replacement or addressing breakers that had been thrown by power surges or electrical shorts. Frank had not bothered to install deadbolts or sophisticated locks on the doors, choosing instead cheap locks from a big box store in Warrenton. Those who had checked the security of the cabin did not notice the oversight and, in any event, assumed that under the current circumstances the locks on the utility room would not be an issue.

  Father Darius was clever. He had, in fact, been here before on a scouting mission and knew that the locks were easily picked, which he did with the aid of a small kit purchased at a police supply store in Baltimore. His main concern was that the lock was rarely used and would make noise when its mechanics were disturbed. The outside lock made a weak metallic sound that did not travel far. The inside lock was warmer and made no sound at all. Father Darius removed items from his backpack and stepped into the cabin.