The Cult (5 page)

He closed the door and walked to the basin, unbuttoned his sleeves, and rolled them up. He proceeded to scrub his hands and arms for the next five minutes, glancing up in the mirror and muttering to himself. “Demons, eh? Oh sure, there are the odd cases of possession or stigmata that couldn’t be explained away by scientific studies or logic, but ninety-nine point nine-five percent of the time there is a logical explanation for what is going on, my dear Father Watson.”

He rinsed his hands and shook the water from them, pulled a clean towel from a rack beneath the basin. He checked the mirror again while drying his hands, mopping his brow and neck. “No, Father Watson, I believe there is something much more sinister going on. Young boys with bruises on their torsos and legs, my ass.” He crumpled the towel up in a ball and tossed it into a basket beside the basin.
 

“Besides, you have a track record, don’t you?” he muttered, settling at his desk. He typed a search query into his PC, hit the enter key and scanned the results. As head of the Unit for Paranormal Investigations and Authentication, the team tasked with investigating phenomena that couldn’t be explained scientifically and which were somehow related to the Roman Catholic Church, he had unlimited access to all the church records. “Aha,” he mumbled and opened the case file. His hunch was right, as it so often was.

Twelve years ago, Father Ed Watson had been convicted of sexual abuse. The kid was six. The Church removed Watson from his parish and had brought him to Rome, placing him under house arrest with the other pedophiles. The Church liked to call it Pedagogical Rehabilitation, a bit of an insider joke. He smirked. It had been one hell of a PR campaign to keep the scandal under wraps.

He returned to the basin and washed his hands again. “You dirty, foul, abhorrent creature,” he muttered. He removed a beard trimmer from the rack and shaved his beard on the lowest setting. He did the same with his hair, one setting higher. He washed his head, face and neck, grabbed a new towel and dried and tossed it into the basket. He examined his reflection in the mirror. Satisfied, he exited his office and marched to his apostolic apartment.
 

A couple of months ago, he had sent his own investigator to check on Father Watson’s claims, and the man had come back with some bad news. The boys’ wounds weren’t from demons or somehow self-inflicted. Watson was at it again. He sighed as he unlocked and swung open the door to his luxurious apartment.

He kicked out his shoes and shuffled over the shiny parquet floor to his modern kitchen, busying himself with making a sandwich and some strong coffee, humming as he worked. After he ate, he cleaned up, washed his plates and cutlery and vacuumed up the crumbs.

He showered, got dressed in a pair of black pants and a black T-shirt, removed a black cassock from a plastic bag; he had had it laundered the previous day. He swung it over his arm.

Next, he opened a cupboard and removed a small cool box. He filled it with ice and removed a silicon ice mold from the freezer, gently scrunched it into the ice and tossed more ice on top, humming the
Gaude Maria Virgo
as he worked.
 

He checked himself in the mirror, nodded, picked up the cool box and exited his apartment with a buoyant bounce in his step.
 

He loved his job.
 

Retribution was such uplifting work.

Father Timothy Casanellas mounted his bicycle and set off for his afternoon ride, as was his daily ritual. He greeted the red-faced guard at the Bronze Gate, said a silent prayer to his health and headed into the city. “Lay off on the red wine for a while, Alfonzo,” he called over his shoulder. The man smiled and waved.

Father Watson had been staying at the Four Seasons Plaza hotel and Casanellas typed the number into his cell phone. It was answered after two rings. “Father Ed Watson please, room five-oh-two.”

The efficient receptionist transferred him. “Hello?” Watson answered, slightly out of breath. Casanellas disconnected the call and glided to a stop, then chained the bike to a lamp pole. He removed the SIM card from his phone and tossed it into a dustbin. He pulled out the silicone mold from the cool box, wiped it dry and dumped the cool box and the cloth in the trash as well. The mold he put into a plastic bag and tucked it into his jacket pocket.

He sauntered to the hotel, took the elevator to the fifth floor and marched to the front of the second door to his right. Humming, he removed a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, slipped them on and then knocked on the door.
 

Father Watson opened, Bible in his hand, an expression of concern on his face. “Father Casanellas, what a surprise, what are you doing here?”

“I have a couple of details I need to iron out with you. Mind if I come in?” Casanellas asked pushing past the man and closing the door behind him.

“No, off course not,” Watson said, turned around and plodded into the hotel room, his shoulders slumped. He flopped into a sofa, clutching the Bible to his chest.

Casanellas cleared his throat. “Look, Father. I know you were convicted of child abuse twelve years ago.”

Watson’s features tensed. “What do you mean?”

“I have access to all your records.”

The man sighed, looked down as he straightened the pleat on his pants. “That was a long time ago,” he whispered.

“And you were forgiven your sins. Apparently rehabilitated,” he said, sitting down beside the older man.

Watson snorted.

“You are trying to cover up your latest transgressions by making it look like a demon is abusing the kids,” Casanellas said, folding his leg over his knee and leaning back in the chair.

The man’s jowls flapped like a bulldog’s. “I’m not, it’s the truth. An evil spirit is wreaking havoc—“

“Would you like to change your story, Watson?” Casanellas interrupted him.

“What?”

“I’m giving you an opportunity to change your bullshit story,” he spat, poking the Father on the shoulder.

The man’s mouth opened as if he wanted to speak, then clamped shut again.

“So be it,” Casanellas said and stood up. “Stand up, please, Father.”

The man protested, but Casanellas yanked him to his feet by his arm.
 

“Please place the Bible down on the table, Father.”

“What? Why?”

Casanellas sighed impatiently. “Place the Bible down on the table, Father Watson.”
 

Watson did as he was told, looked up, suspicion straining his features.

“Now repeat after me,” Casanellas said, removing the mold from his jacket pocket. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

Watson swallowed, lowered his eyes to the ground. “Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” he whispered.

Casanellas flipped a frozen piece of ice, shaped like a knife, out of the mold. Without looking at him, he stabbed Watson in the gut, three times.
 

Watson gripped Casanellas’s arms, stumbled, looking down at the wound in his stomach, back up at Casanellas in astonishment. “What the—“

Casanellas jabbed the frozen weapon in a sideways arc and lodged it in the man’s neck, held it there. Watson grabbed his arm, red froth dribbling from his lips. Casanellas turned the knife first one way, then the other and heard it crack. Father Ed Watson dropped to his knees and fell forward, hitting the floor face-first.

Casanellas sauntered to the bathroom and dumped the shaft of the broken weapon in the basin, opened the tap and washed what remained of the weapon down the basin. He removed the gloves and slipped them into his pocket.
 

He scanned the room, put on his cassock and opened the door with the sleeve of his shirt.

He checked back once more. The plush cream-colored carpet beneath Father Watson was stained a crimson red. “You disgust me,” he hissed before nodding curtly and whispering, “Amen,” and pulling the door closed behind him.

Jack
The Knife
O’ Kieff peered around the corner of the alleyway at the twenty-four-hour diner where the man and the woman were having their dinner. It was late, the place was deserted except for Maggie and Joe, the waitress and cook, and their two patrons.

He slipped the ski-mask over his head and glanced back at Tony and Pete. “Ready?”

They both nodded. They wore masks resembling a skeletal face. Grotesque.

“Let’s go,” he said and jogged to the entrance, slipping the karambit fighting knife from his pocket. He yanked open the door and barged into the diner, Pete and Tony piling inside behind him.

The bulky guy looked up from his burger, tossed it back on his plate and stood up. “How may I help you, girls?”

Jack glanced over his shoulder. Pete and Tony sniggered. He turned to face the big boy. “We’re here to escort you back to Valhalla, Thor.”

The man smiled. “You’ve been watching too many movies, girls,” he said. “Sure you don’t want to leave now and go get some backup? This is going to be an unfair fight.”

Jack chuckled, twirling the karambit around on his forefinger. “Nah, we’re fine. We’ve been handling the likes of you since we were kids.”

The guy’s attitude bothered Jack. The man simply stood in the aisle, impassively, his arms hanging casually to his sides. Jack guessed he didn’t know what damage he could do to the man’s face with his vicious weapon. Peel the skin off his stubbly cheeks, that’s what he would do.

The chick stood up behind big boy. “Don’t kill them, Neil,” she said, touching his arm. “They could have been witnesses to the murder.”

The man glanced to her and nodded, looked back at Jack. Smug grin on his face.
 

She was a sizzler. He turned back to his accomplices. “Her tits are mine, boys. I’m going to hang them on my—“

Pete and Tony’s eyes widened and he barely had time to look back when big boy was on top of him. It felt like he had been assaulted by a steam train. They guy did some sort of weird kung-fu shit and had hit him with both fists simultaneously, the one fist exploding into his chest and the other cracking into his jaw.

He went down on all fours and big boy stepped on his hand clutching the knife, cracking his knuckles. He looked back at his posse, but they had already turned around and were making a beeline towards the exit.

The chick bounded over the dining room tables and jumped into Tony’s back with her knee. He went down in a sprawl of arms and legs, and she grabbed Pete by the collar, yanking him off his feet.

The big guy had his knee in his back and was tying his hands with zip ties, then pulled off his ski-mask. “You recognize this guy?” he asked Maggie who was looking down at him, her arms folded and her hand on her throat.

She shook her head. Yeah, she better not say anything if she knew what was good for her children. Jack shook his head groggily, trying to focus his blurry vision. Shit, that had never happened before. It had probably taken less than fifteen seconds to take down all three of them.

The big guy shrugged and brought down his boot with a crack and the world went dark.

And then the world went a bright white again. He was in a small room he recognized all too well. The holding area in the Clark County detention centre.

Jack
The Knife
O’ Kieff groaned as he moved his jaw and the bones cracked in his ears. He had a throbbing headache, his own damned heartbeat pounding in his temples. He jerked his head up as someone grabbed his hand and started squeezing.

He shrieked as the pain exploded through his arm and drilled into his throbbing skull. “Ow, what the hell?”

His vision blurred and he struggled to focus. It was the chick, smiling sweetly at him. She let go of his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Jack,” she said, fluttering her cute eyelids at him.

“Same here,” he said, shaking his throbbing hand. Was his career over if he couldn’t hold a knife again? He tenderly touched his jaw. “What do you want?”
 

She picked up a Styrofoam cup from the table and leaned back in her chair. “We want to know why you murdered Mika Wattana.”

He frowned. “Mika who?”

She glanced sideways at the big guy who simply shrugged.

The foxy chick leaned forward. “The girl we found off the alleyway on Lake Mead.”

He shook his head. He didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.

She folded her fingers into his broken ones, then smiled and started applying pressure. He couldn’t help it and started whimpering as the searing pain shot through his arm again.

Shit, she had such a beautiful smile for such a sick bitch. “Who sent you?” she asked.

“Danny,” he whimpered, his voice much too high, like the kids he used to bully at school. “Danny Gonzales.”

“How can we get hold of Danny?”

He sucked in another breath. Tears spilled over his eyelids and rolled down his cheeks. He sniveled as he patted his pockets with his healthy hand. “His number’s on my phone, lady. Please just stop.”

She grinned at him as she retrieved the phone from his pocket.

How embarrassing.