Bless the Child (61 page)

He forced his mind to stillness, that he might take inventory of what lay ahead, and what tools he had to fight with.

Peter checked his pocket for the small leather-bound copy of the
Roman Ritual of Exorcism.
He knew most of it by heart, but the book comforted him.

Peter reverently kissed the purple stole of office, and placed it in his pocket, along with the vials of Holy Water and bottles of Holy Oil. The Chrism used at baptism was already tucked away; just in case they’d dared to rebaptize the child to Satan, he would retrieve her to the Faith of Christ.

He blessed himself and knelt at the prie-dieu, facing the large simple crucifix his mother had given him at ordination.

There would be a sacrifice made at the Walpurgisnacht Festival tonight, without question. But Peter didn’t intend to let Cody or Maggie be the sacred offering.

Maggie
knelt before the altar in the empty church, praying fervently for courage. She felt curiously at peace, for the first time since the madness had begun. Fear this profound forces you to root out the dross in your soul, to find out once and for all who you really are . . . she had done that, now. She wondered if this was how the early Christians felt on their way to the lions.

A lifetime had been lived in three month’s time.
I am not the Maggie of “before.” Who am I now?

She stared hard at the statue of the Blessed Mother, trying to know her, as she really was . . . Queen of Universe, like Isis, not the namby-pamby Virgin of her Catholic school childhood, bloodless and sexless and milk-white in her purity. But the
real
Mary, as she must have been. Strong, vital,
decisive.
Courageous beyond human measure. Capable of giving birth in a stable . . .of raising a boy who would change the world more than any king or army . . . and of standing at the foot of a cross to watch her child die in agony. Stronger and more fearless than the burly men friends who fled Him, at the last.

Was she Isis, too? she wondered, as she stared at the statue crowned with stars. Eternal Mother, Queen of Heaven. Did she simply wear different names and raiment in different epochs, yet still embody all that was the Universal female principle?

If you exist, Dear Mother, anywhere in the cosmos . . . please hear my prayer!

She was glad that the time had come for action. Glad that she could finally fight back. Maybe it was appropriate, somehow . . . maybe fighting for a child in peril was what women had been doing since the beginning of time.

Maggie stood up and blessed herself, then left the church.

Raphael
Abraham picked up the telephone with the private number; the voice on the other end was the Rebbe’s.

“You will come to get me,
now,
Rafi,” the old man said very clearly. “The time has come for us to do our work.”

“What work is that, Rebbe?”

“Do not ask foolish questions, my boy,” the Rebbe replied. “Just do as I say.” A dial tone followed the interchange.

Abraham cursed silently beneath his breath. A second change of plans in one night was
two
too many.

Abraham checked the Desert Eagle he carried under his arm and headed resolutely for the door.

D
evlin slipped the 9mm Glock into its holster, and dropped extra magazines into his pocket. There would be no assistance coming from headquarters on this one, and he had no illusions about Eric’s willingness to resort to deadly force, so the seventeen rounds the Glock carried was better than any revolver. Who could tell what kind of mercenary army Vannier might have in attendance. He and Garibaldi would be all the cavalry Maggie could count on.

The doorbell rang, just as he was about to open it to leave. Surprised, Devlin peered through the peephole to see two uniformed officers in the hall outside his door. Nash and Schmidt, from the precinct; he didn’t know them well, but he did know them.

“Message from Garibaldi, Lieutenant,” Nash announced. “Says it’s urgent.” Devlin flipped back the lock, and the door burst in against him; both burly bodies behind it had weapons in their hands.

“Get his piece!” Nash ordered and Schmidt snapped the Glock out of its holster. “What else are you carrying, Lieutenant?” he asked, patting Devlin down to find the backup.

“What the fuck is this about?” Devlin spat.

“The Captain didn’t want you getting into trouble tonight, Lieutenant. He says you got yourself screwed up over some bimbo, and he don’t want you sticking your nose in where it don’t belong.”

“Son of a
bitch!”
Devlin said, disgusted with himself for not being more careful after the Captain’s weird behavior.

“You going to kill me, Nash?” Devlin asked. “Or do you think maybe I won’t mention this tomorrow, and you can just forget it ever happened?”

Nash smiled. “It won’t matter after tonight, Lieutenant. The Captain says it’ll all be history by morning. Even if you shoot off your mouth, who’ll care? Your word against ours.”

“That’ll never fly and you know it,” Devlin replied, glancing at the clock on the opposite wall.

“Yeah, well then, who’s to say you won’t meet with some fatal accident in the line of duty?”

Schmidt pushed Devlin back roughly, into a kitchen chair, and cuffed his hands behind him. Fuming at his own stupidity, and wondering if Gino was in the same predicament, Devlin watched the minutes tick by with growing anxiety.

Just before ten, sounds of disturbance in the hall outside the apartment roused the two uniforms. Nash gestured to Schmidt to check it out.

Schmidt grunted his assent, drew his revolver and unlocked the door, then he moved stealthily into the hallway, and Nash locked the door behind him.

Minutes elapsed with no further sounds. And no sign of Schmidt.

Twelve minutes by the clock. Then, fifteen. Devlin watched Nash grow more and more uneasy. Finally, too agitated to sit still, Nash cracked the door open a slit and called his partner’s name.

Four heavily armed men were suddenly storming past him. Nash’s body crashed backward with bone-crushing finality, and Devlin knew the man was dead before he reached the floor.

He upended his own chair and hit the floor hard; because of the handcuffs there was no way to protect himself, but instinct sent him sprawling out of the path of the gunmen.

A stocky, dark-complected man entered the room on the heels of the commando team, closing the door softly behind him. He stood just inside the room taking mental inventory, obviously in command, obviously a pro.

“We are on the same side, Lieutenant Devlin,” he said in a heavily accented Israeli voice. “My name is Abraham. If you would care to join us, we are all going to the same party.” He gestured to one of his men to unlock the handcuffs and Devlin stood up, rubbing his wrists to restore circulation.

“A man named Fisk put in a word for you,” Abraham said shortly. “In my line of work, we respect each other’s markers. We mean no harm to the woman and child, Lieutenant, and the woman trusts you. That fact may be useful to us.” As if to underscore his intent, Abraham handed Devlin back his gun. “You may be needing this,” he said.

Devlin rechecked the semi-automatic and slipped it into its holster. “We have a body here, and another I imagine, in the hall,” he said evenly.

“Housekeeping deals with debris,” Abraham replied with authority.

“We are on a tight schedule, Lieutenant. I suggest we get moving.”

A van outside the building swallowed up the Israelis and Devlin and headed for I-95.

“If you are concerned for your friend Garibaldi,” Abraham said shortly, “we have him. He’ll be kept out of harm’s way for the remainder of the night.”

A car
and a convoy of several dissimilar vans raced along the New England Interstate on their way to Greenwich. They had already stopped to collect the Rebbe. When Devlin entered the car, he introduced himself to the old man, wondering how he fit into this convoluted puzzle.

It disturbed Abraham’s sense of order that circumstances had added two civilians to his retinue. The detective could presumably handle himself under fire. But the Rebbe . . . who could tell what the Rebbe might do?

“We must discuss what will happen here,” the old man said quietly in Hebrew, as if he’d been monitoring Abraham’s thoughts.

“Since
you
called
me,
may I assume you know something that I do not?” Abraham responded, a sardonic edge to his voice.

“It appears the child’s soul is held hostage by certain malevolent spirits,” the Rebbe replied, unperturbed by the tone. “You might think of them as
dybbuks,
for the moment. I must work to free her by means you will not understand. Other allies for the child will be summoned. I will not work alone.” Abraham accepted the statement; there was no point arguing with this man until he must.

“And what of the Amulets?”

“Tell me,” the Rebbe asked, focusing his eyes on Abraham, in the car’s darkness. “Do you think mankind, as you know it, is sufficiently evolved to cope with such power as is said to be embodied by these Amulets?”

Abraham avoided the disturbing eyes and looked down at his hands for a moment. “It is not my job to speculate on such questions, Rebbe. I’m a soldier. I obey orders.”

“Ah.” the Rebbe responded. “Such an answer you would give me? Like a good German, perhaps? I asked you a question!”

Abraham cleared his throat, but his voice remained husky. He glanced at Devlin, but it was apparent the man couldn’t understand their conversation.

“Men are fools,” he said. “No one could have such power and remain uncorrupted by it.”

“So.” said the Rebbe. “You have been ordered to ask me to destroy the Sekhmet Stone, and return the Isis Amulet to Israel.” Abraham started to demand how the Rebbe knew this fact, but the old man cut him off.

“Now, I will tell you why that
cannot
be. We must presume that God permits Evil to exist because it allows man to choose for himself which way his soul shall go. Without Evil, how would man gauge his own exercise of free will? Without Evil to combat, how could his progress on the path to God be measured?

“The Universe—this one, and others you know not of—are held in a delicate balance of God’s own design. We cannot presume to do better than He. We cannot delete from these Worlds, that which He has put in them.” His tone left Abraham little space for argument.

“If you won’t destroy the evil Amulet, Rebbe,” he said, hedging, “I will take them both back to Israel with me. That will maintain the balance.”

“Ah.” said the Rebbe. “Let us consider this suggestion. Presumably, if the Amulets exist at all, they belong to the Isis Messenger. Will you steal them from her, to obey your orders? Will you kill the child and the grandmother, to possess them, perhaps? Or will you merely imprison them, to ensure the workings of the magical toys? And after you have secured the treasures, will you then hand them over to men in government, and expect that government to adjudicate their use? I ask you, Rafi, the consequences of such an act. Would that government, then, remain in power forever? Would Israel then use these Amulets to destroy her Arab neighbors, simply because she would now have the means? If so, what else might she destroy? Would you, Raphael Abraham, trust them to choose wisely, if the power formerly reserved to God was suddenly in the hands of Knesset? And, if Israel no longer needed to fear for its existence, tell me this? Do you think its character would remain the same, in strength and courage and fortitude, or would it, perhaps, soften and deteriorate?”

Abraham, deeply troubled, answered, “I do not know these answers, Rebbe.”

“You do not know these answers?” The Rebbe exuded patriarchal power, when he asked, “Do you know
anyone
who knows these answers?”

“I have no response for such profound questions, Rebbe,” Abraham replied, holding tight to the only thing he did know with certainty. “But I have been given a job to do. If it is in my power to do this job, I must do it. This is who I am. This is
what
I am.”

“Are you so certain, Rafi?” the Rebbe added, fixing him with a stare that might even have incorporated a touch of compassion. “A man is what he is . . .
not what he has been.”

Then he turned his attention to the road ahead. “We must hurry,” he said commandingly. “Time becomes an issue here.”

With that he closed his eyes and remained lost in thought or prayer for the rest of the journey.