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Authors: Richard L Hatin

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BOOK: Evil Agreement
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“I see,” said Miss
Houle
, “and I
don’t believe I caught your last name?”

“Oh, it’s uh...” stumbled Aaron.

“It’s Catalano. My family is originally from northern Italy,”
said
Korie
as she slipped an arm under Aaron’s.

Now that everything had been taken care of Aaron and
Korie
headed for the elevators. On their way they noticed
several meeting rooms with their lights on, doors slightly ajar for air
circulation and small groups of people engaged in animated discussions.

They waved a friendly goodbye to a law clerk who had
accompanied them to the elevator. When the elevator doors closed, Aaron slumped
back against the wall of the elevator car. He seemed exhausted.
Korie
put her arms around him and gave him a kiss.

“I didn’t expect we’d be here for this long. You sure got a
lot accomplished here this afternoon.”

“I know. I didn’t want to tell my mother’s lawyer what I had
in mind over the phone.”

“Because someone might have been listening?”

“No, because he would have never agreed to meet with me on
such short notice. I wanted everything taken care of in one meeting, not over
several meetings taking months.”

“So, what do we do now?”

“Now, we take in the ‘Blues’ at the House of Blues over in Cambridge.”

The elevator door opened on the ground floor. They stepped
out and exited the building from the front door with the help of a security
guard.

“I thought you were tired.”


Korie
, I am never too tired when
it comes to the blues. Tonight they’re doing a dedication to the great blues
man, John Lee Hooker?”

“Oh, really.”

“Let’s go,” he said as he took her by the hand.

Korie
made a mental note to talk to
Aaron about that paralegal from Vermont
they had spoken to earlier. He, too, made a mental note of his own. He wanted
to ask
Korie
if she thought there was anything
peculiar about her.

High above the street, in the building they had just exited,
someone watched their movements from a window, behind parted blinds of a
darkened office. As Aaron and
Korie
ran across the
street on their way to the parking garage, the watcher at the window dialed a
cell phone.

“Hello. Yes. I know it has been a long time. Uh-huh. Yes, I
understand. I haven’t had anything to report since she died. Listen, I think
she had a son. Yes, you heard right, a son. He’s been here. My source came
through. She called and tipped me off this afternoon. I haven’t checked it all
out yet, but it’s got to be legit. Okay. Yes, I will. What about her? Yes, I
see what you mean. Sure, I can find a replacement.” The call ended.

The caller closed his flip phone and released the curtains
when he noticed Aaron’s car pull out of the parking garage.

He had work to do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

13

 

 

Ed Townsend hung up the telephone. Sitting in his small
office, in the back of the first floor of his house, he leaned back in his well-worn
office chair. The chair creaked and squeaked from the strain. He folded his
hands behind his head as he turned his gaze up to the stamped tin ceiling. The
ceiling fan he had installed last year was turning at its slowest speed. A
gentle cooling movement of air descended from above as the few papers on his
desk moved only slightly from the fan’s downward current. It was getting dark
outside. Evening came early here in valley of the Winooski
River, nestled at the base of the
mountains of north central Vermont.

The old coat rack hanging by the door had a slightly soiled
fedora hanging on it that he had worn for nearly twenty years during his time with
the FBI. He had spent most of his life hunting spies and their Communist
handlers during the Cold War. He had served with the G3 unit. Their assignment
was to try and catch spies who worked their craft in and around Washington,
D.C. In his spare time, he clandestinely
hunted the last known descendant of the Powell family. He had personally hunted
for Aaron Powell’s mother for all of his thirty-one years in law enforcement.

Ms. Powell was equal to his challenge. She was cunning. She
would leave false trails. She even laid traps to try and catch him, so she
could identify the mysterious person hunting her. He had grown to respect her.
So much of him was a highly trained law enforcement officer. But part of him,
the part that controlled him, that drove him, was evil. He was a member of
Moloch’s coven. He had been inducted when he was twenty-nine years old. His
being had melded with another from the evil world. On this earth he was Ed
Townsend. In another place he was
Briga
, Lucifer’s
ancient ally, a ruthless hunter of souls. Murder and mayhem was
Briga’s
trademark.
Briga
and Ed
Townsend were as one when it came to the pursuit of Ms. Powell.

Hanging on the same coat rack was a nylon and leather
holster, which carried a flat black Colt 44 Magnum loaded with Black
Tallon
ammunition. Sitting in a small holster strapped to
the back of his loosely fitted pants was another pistol. He had another
strapped to the upper calf of his left leg.

“A man can’t be too prepared,” was his motto. He was a deadly
shot. He could place five shots in a tight grouping of less than an inch, at
seventy-five feet, and in less than four seconds.

Ed Townsend’s wife, Emma, had died eleven years ago from
complications following surgery to correct a heart defect. Ed never remarried.
Emma and he were close. They had grown up together in Sutton. She had
reluctantly left Sutton and joined Ed during his years with the FBI. She would
journey back to Sutton whenever she could. They never had any children
together. Ed had never revealed his role with the coven to Emma. She never saw
his evil side. Not everyone in Sutton was associated with the coven or even
knew about it. It was a carefully guarded secret, whose oath, when broken,
resulted in the certain death.

Ed had come to a decision. He was not going to reveal what he
knew just yet. He would have to check this lead out personally. He leaned
forward in his chair and stood up, placed his hands on his lower back and
gently pushed to relieve the back strain he had been experiencing over the last
few years. He took his hat and holster, turned off the ceiling fan, and headed
out of his office. He was going upstairs to pack. He was going to Boston
tonight. He would follow up this lead while the trail was still warm.

Ed packed light. He had developed an ability over his years
with the FBI, of reducing his travel packing needs to the necessary bare
essentials. After he closed his suitcase, he went outside and tossed the small
bag into the trunk of his car. He checked his travel wallet, especially prepared
for clandestine missions. It contained several false identifications, from
driver licenses to credit cards. He had over three thousand dollars in small
bills with him. Four hundred dollars was in the wallet, with the rest tucked
inside the two false pockets of his well worn and heavily wrinkled suit coat.
On the front seat was a copy of the latest Steven King novel, with a
compartment carved out to carry essential lock picking tools. He always chose a
Steven King book because they were usually large, and since he was a popular
author, they didn’t draw any suspicion. He was going to have to change cars
several times to make sure he would be untraceable. He would visit airports and
pick up a car from the car rental agencies, renting them for a week at a time.
He would leave the cars in parking garages along his route. These cars would
not draw suspicion if he left them for a couple of days.

Before he left the house, he placed one telephone call. It
was to the Reverend Simon B. Mitchell.

“Hello, Simon, Ed here. Yes, I’m doing fine. Yeah, I’ve got a
new lead. I don’t know yet. I’m leaving right now to check it out for myself.
I’ll call you in a couple of days. Sure, I understand. I expect to be back by
Saturday night. I’ll try to make it back for Sammy’s, I mean Samuel’s,
welcoming ceremony. If I do, I’ll see you there. No, there isn’t anything solid
to report yet. I know the others would want to know! I don’t think I need to
remind you that we’ve had false leads before. Okay. Yes, I will. Later.”

He hung the phone up and patted his shoulder holster to
remind himself that he was packing his piece. The familiar shape was reassuring
to the touch. He climbed into his car and backed out of his driveway onto

Walnut
Lane
. Next he headed south to pick up Interstate
89.

Reverend Mitchell tried to contain his exuberance. In his
heart, he just knew the all powerful coven would be completely restored on his
watch. This new lead could turn out to be the long awaited missing link.

He went over to his fireplace. It was summertime and the
fireplace was dark, heavily covered in soot and undisturbed. Reverend Mitchell
knelt down in front of the open hearth and reached up inside the top of the
fireplace. There was a scraping sound of stone against stone as three bricks
that met at the upper left corner, moved away from the rest of the brick face
to reveal a sort of drawer. The top of this drawer was metal. He pulled up on a
small black metal ring, which lifted the metal lid open. Out of habit, he
looked around the room even though he was completely alone.

He carefully removed a sheaf of old yellowed papers. These
papers were tied together with a black ribbon. He carried the small bundle over
to his desk, where he laid it carefully in the center. Moving around the desk,
he sat down. He turned on the small brass desk lamp. He untied the black ribbon
and began to pour through the papers. Selecting one in particular, he pulled it
closer to him. He began to read the words inscribed on the yellowed dog eared
paper. He moved his lips much like someone in silent prayer.

Stopping at a particular point in his reading, he stood up in
a bolt. He slammed his right fist into his left palm with a smacking sound.

“Yes! I knew it. I knew it,” he exclaimed to the empty room.

“It was foretold by Elisa Porter Cummings,” he knew somehow,
he knew. “Moloch must have told him,” he said as he paced back and forth in his
office.

He turned and headed for his telephone, but before he could
reach it, it rang. The sound of the
 
ringing phone
 
startled him for a
moment. He hesitated, but before the second ring was over he picked up the
receiver.

“Reverend, John here. We’ve got a problem. There are some
boys in town from
Barre
looking for some trouble.
They’ve been pestering some of our girls down on Route 2, next to
Frida’s
.”

“Anyone go with them?”

“No, not yet, but these boys are pretty persistent from what
I hear.”

 
“Keep an eye on them
for me. Call me if any one from our Church falls in with these outsiders.”

“I will, Reverend.”

 
Reverend Mitchell hung
up the phone. He had changed his mind and would speak to the entire Church
about what he had read in Reverend Cummings prophetic writings at Samuel’s
welcoming ceremony. With Moloch’s help, Ed Townsend will return Saturday night
with joyous news that they have located a male Powell descendant. The coming of
Moloch could be soon, very soon and then they all will rule this earth as
Moloch had promised that first time long ago.

He carefully put all the old papers into a neat stack and
retied them with the black ribbon. He carried them over to the metal drawer and
placed them back in the box. He closed the lid and pushed the bricks back into
place. It only took a gentle nudge for the bricks to slide back into place.
Once again, his fireplace looked as ordinary as it was supposed to.

Each member of Moloch’s coven was imbued with a unique power
or force. Reverend’s power was special indeed. He had the ability to find that
one weakness even the righteous had and to use it to break them down, to
destroy them and to deliver their soul to Moloch. It was so because he,
himself, had no scruples, no moral compass. He was as nearly and completely
evil as Moloch himself.

His telephone rang again.

“Yes, I see. Okay, call
Trainor
,
Fairchild and
Yandow
. That should be enough. I’ll
meet you behind the recycling center in ten minutes.”

He hung up the phone and hurried to the hallway where he
retrieved his hat from the old oak hat rack next to the door. Soon he was in
his car hurrying to the rendezvous point. As his car pulled to a stop in the
backyard behind Sutton’s recycling center, two other vehicles pulled to a stop
next to his car. He walked over to greet the others. As they were shaking hands
another car pulled up and stopped. The driver of this latest vehicle got out of
his car. It was Walter
Yandow
. He headed straight for
the others.

“Hello, Walter. How’s it running?” asked “Chucky”
Trainor
, a local radio personality.

“You know Bob, if he works on a car it’s
gonna
run right. The man’s a genius.”

“I wouldn’t go quite that far, Walter,” laughed Judge
Fairchild.

“Where does this car come from?” asked Reverend Mitchell.

“Rochester, New
Hampshire. It’s a big old Ford Crown Victoria
with a 351 cubic inch Police pursuit package. Bob picked it up at a place
called Seacoast Salvage. The car had an electrical fire and was totaled by the
insurance company before it could be delivered to New Hampshire State Police.
Right now, she runs like a deer. Even with the extra weight from the roll cage
and other reinforcements, it hauls ass,” said
Yandow
.

“The usual black, I see,” said
Trainor
.

“Does a bear shit in the woods?” responded
Yandow
.

“Enough, let’s go,” said the Reverend.

They all piled into the car. The Reverend sat in the back
with the Judge while
Trainor
rode “shotgun” with
Yandow
behind the wheel. They all immediately buckled their
shoulder safety harnesses that Bob
Senecal
had
installed for their safety.
Yandow
placed the key in
the ignition and turned the key. The car roared in response. In a hail of
sprayed gravel, he spun the car around and exited the recycling center
backyard. They drove off in the direction of
Frida’s
Famous Fries, a popular summer hang out for area teenagers out on US Route 2.

In just a few short minutes, the Crown Victoria pulled to a
stop at the gas station across from the fast food restaurant. An old man came
out of the station and pulled a rag from the back pocket of his work coveralls.
He was carrying a bottle of windshield washer, which he proceeded to spray on
the windshield. As he began to slowly clean the driver’s side, the Reverend
poked his head out from the backseat window.

“Hank, can you point out the interlopers?”

“Sure can, Reverend. They’re the ones standing next to the
dark blue pickup with the light bar on its roof. See it on the left, the Toyota.”

“I see it now, thank you.”

“I do what I can.”

Hank continued to wash the windows of the car while keeping
an eye on the activity across the street. His passengers likewise watched the
activity with keen interest.

Frida’s
Famous Fries was once an
A&W car hop restaurant. It took on its new name when an interloper from
down country (shorthand for southern New England),
bought the place in 1991. The middle aged husband and wife kept to themselves.
They were not church going people, and certainly weren’t candidates for the
Reverend’s closely held congregation. The followers of Moloch left them alone
even though they recognized this new business would bring outsiders,
interlopers, to their community. They had to accept this risk. Being able to
hide among others was an accepted way of life for Moloch’s Church and its
coven.

Every once and a while they had to move to protect themselves
from discovery. This was such a time. A young girl, age fourteen and daughter
of a Church member, was being tempted to go for a joy ride with two boys from
Barre
, a community about twenty-five miles southeast of
Sutton. This girl, named Brittany,
knew a great deal about Moloch’s Church. If she, through any means, revealed
what she knew it could threaten their life’s work.

They watched and waited.

Brittany was
obviously flirting with these boys and they clearly enjoyed her attention. She
was wearing a halter top, cut-off blue shorts and sandals. The boys were
wearing dark colored tee shirts and blue jeans with dirty white sneakers. One
of the boys was smoking a cigarette.

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