Authors: Nic Widhalm
“Father, your book,” she motioned helpfully at the weighty tome. “Would you like me to put it back? At least until we’re done?”
Valdis gripped the volume tightly. “Oh, yes, how silly of me.” He looked down at the book, then back at Jackie. “Kind of you to offer, but I’ve spent twenty years working on the indexing system. If you don’t mind, I’ll find its home later.”
“No worries,” Jackie said, watching the priests fingers slowly uncurl from the book. “Let’s get to business then. Father, have you ever seen this man?” Jackie pulled out a picture of Friskin that she had been given back at the hospital. He was wearing a vampire costume. She smiled apologetically as she passed it to the priest. “I know, I know. But it’s the only picture we have.”
The priest examined the photo for several seconds, then passed it back, shaking his head. “I wish I could help, Detective, but I’m afraid I’ve never seen that man before.”
He’s lying,
she thought immediately. Her gut was screaming at her, telling her the priest was hiding something, that there was more he wasn’t saying. For once she ignored it. Maybe it was nostalgia, the effect of visiting Saint Catherine's for the first time in ten years. Maybe it was the lack of sleep. Whatever the reason, Jackie wanted to believe Valdis. And, despite what hard-boiled detective novels preached, Jackie’s instincts weren’t always right. Valdis had given her no reason to think he was being anything but honest.
Still, as Jackie took back the picture she couldn’t help nursing a suspicion that the priest was hiding something.
“You understand, of course, that any information you have could help in the apprehension and capture of a dangerous criminal?”
Valdis shook his head weakly. “I assure you Detective, if I knew anything—”
“Alright, sure,” Jackie found herself growing unexpectedly angry. “But let me stress this again, if you have
any
information—”
Valdis’ eyes widened slightly, but all he said was, “I’m sorry, I really don’t.”
“Alright,” Jackie took a calming breath. It was just an old man, after all. A
priest
. “Why don’t you walk me through what you saw.”
“Well, I told those other officers, er…”
“Detectives. James and Donaldson.”
“Right, James and Donaldson, Nice gentlemen. Anyway, I told them the same thing. I heard a sound earlier this morning—which, I’m sorry to say, isn’t unusual in this neighborhood—and went outside to see if anyone was hurt. When I opened the door I saw those poor fellows, and called the police immediately.”
“I see,” Jackie said. She tapped her pen against her notepad, studying Valdis. “This sound. Can you describe it?”
“It was…” Valdis paused. “Like someone groaning.”
“Groaning?”
“Yes.”
“Care to be a little more specific?”
Valdis shifted in the couch. “I’m sorry, Detective, but I’m not sure what else I can tell you. It was quite early and I was tired. I’m afraid certain details aren’t as clear as others. Perhaps if you told me about the other case…” The priest folded his arms, trying to appear nonchalant. It didn’t fool Jackie.
“Well, it’s going to be on the news any minute now,” Jackie said.
Why not? Give the guy a bit of rope and see if he hangs himself.
She took the next few minutes to fill him in on what had happened at the hospital, but if she had been expecting any awareness to enter Valdis’ eyes she was mistaken. The priest only nodded understandably, then uttered a cryptic “Oh,” when she reached the end.
“I don’t suppose that rang any bells? Maybe something you saw this morning…?”
“No, no,” Valdis said. “Nothing like that. I’m sorry, I wish I could be more helpful.”
Jackie rubbed her eyes again. “Well, thank you Father Valdis, we appreciate your cooperation.” She stood and shook the priest’s hand. “By the way, I was meaning to tell you,” she gestured around the library, “this is some kind of setup you have here.”
Valdis smiled kindly. “Oh, you’re too gracious, Detective. This little hide-away is merely a place for myself and the other brothers to come and meditate on our relationship with God.”
“I guess if you have to meditate it’s nice to have a place like this.”
“I do a bit of publishing on the side, which helps. Not much, but a few articles here and there to pass the time. They’ve been well received, and, well…the diocese was generous enough to free up a little money so we could restore this room to a place of study.” Valdis looked around the library with pride. “If God sees fit, perhaps someday we can remodel the entire cathedral.”
“I hope that comes to pass, I really do,” Jackie said. “You know, I used to come to Saint Catherine’s when I was a kid.”
“Really? How wonderful—” Valdis was showing her the way back to the exit when he stumbled on his long robes and his book tumbled to the floor.
Jackie bent over to retrieve the tome while the priest steadied himself. “Don’t worry, I’ll get—” her words stuck as she saw the page the book had flipped open to.
Valdis rushed past her and grabbed the fallen book. “These robes are a death sentence,” he said. “I really need to hem them when I get a chance.”
Her mind elsewhere, Jackie only had time to mutter, “Definitely,” before Valdis had ushered her to the door. He yanked it open and all but pushed her through.
“Good luck with your investigation,” he said, guiding Jackie through the archway. “Please let me know if you have any more questions.” The detective had just enough time to hand him a card with her name and phone number, before the priest shut the door in her face.
She chewed her lower lip for a moment, studying the door, then walked absentmindedly back to the cathedral’s entrance.
I knew it was going to be one of those days
.
When the book flipped open, Jackie hadn’t recognized any of the lettering filling the narrow margins from side to side. However, she
had
made-out the drawing in the middle of the page: a twisted pattern of lines and symbols that moved in and about each other. A picture that looked eerily similar to a drawing Jackie had seen back at the hospital.
A drawing of a mark on Hunter Friskin’s left arm.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The sky was fading to a dark lapis when they finally reached the mansion.
For the first hour Hunter had tried to follow their route, but eventually gave up when the car took its eighth turn onto a dirt-packed mountain road. He had closed his eyes—
just giving them a rest, just for a second—
and, after what
seemed only a few minutes, felt a sharp gab in his ribcage.
He opened his eyes to twilight.
Rubbing his side, Hunter glared at Karen. “Thanks.”
“Oh, stop whining. We’re here.”
Exiting the car, Hunter casually studied his surroundings, doing his best to memorize every detail. They were well into the mountains, but he couldn’t tell if they had crossed the divide to the Western Slope, or if they were still in the Foothills. The wide evergreens and brilliant snow-covered pines made him think they were in Summit County, but that was only a three hour drive, tops. And, despite the foliage, Hunter couldn’t remember Summit County ever looking like this.
The mansion was at the end of a wide road that had probably been dirt recently, but now bore the slick-white look of new pavement. Hunter couldn’t make out where, or if, the road joined with I-70; all he could see were trees, snow, and the long, winding trail they had taken in.
The mansion was an enormous, sprawling monument that blended into the mountainside like a bloated chameleon. From a distance it appeared a single,
monstrously large, building
, but as Hunter exited the car he noticed it was actually a series of smaller, connected structures. The tallest of which, the entrance they were headed toward, rose up in the middle, narrowing at the top like the surrounding spruce trees. The exterior was a beautiful, soft brick, more brown than red, and interrupted in places by textured whorls designed to heighten the natural setting. The road lead up to the building, forming a large circle occupied by dozens of sleek, overly-polished cars.
As they reached the tall doorways that mirrored the green of the surrounding trees, Hunter tried not to stare at the stained glass windows bordering the entrance on both sides. The intricate pattern raced up the narrow glass from floor to ceiling in bright, interlaced spirals that reminded Hunter of his birthmark.
Karen rapped the huge, bronze knocker and was answered immediately. The wide double-doors swung open and a tall, well-dressed elderly man stepped forward. “Zadkiel,” he said with pleasure. “I didn’t think we’d see you tonight.”
Hunter twisted between the two men bordering him—the same work-men from the bar, who had managed somewhere along the way to change into discreet, charcoal suits—and confronted his abductor. “Zadkiel?” He asked. But Karen had already entered the door and was greeting the elderly gentleman with a bright smile and two quick kisses on the cheek. Hunter’s guards nudged him forward, and he followed Karen through the door and into the foyer.
Unsurprisingly, the interior of the house was as impressive as the exterior, with the same swirling, leafy patterns and muted browns and greens. The gentleman, who had stepped briefly aside to admit Hunter’s guards, glided forward and motioned for the group to follow him.
They moved from the foyer to a long hallway of sage-green and ivory. He couldn’t say for certain, but Hunter guessed it was one of the connecting corridors joining the satellite buildings to the hub. As they marched along the corridor, Hunter examined the strange sets of portraits that hung from the walls. A matched series, they appeared to portray the same set of characters in each piece. The family, Hunter supposed, who probably paid a fortune to immortalize the exploits of its members.
The first of the series showed a man and a woman standing behind a group of three children against a backdrop of farmland. The painting itself was nothing special, and would have blended easily into the background if it weren’t for the look on one of the children’s faces. The boy—and despite the androgynous cast of his features, Hunter was sure it
was
a boy—stood between his taller brother and younger sister with an expression of pained frustration. The artist, who had only made a glancing study of the rest of the surroundings, had paid special attention to the young boy, giving him stronger features and penetrating eyes. Eyes that were a dark, inky
black
.
As the party continued down the hallway Hunter was pulled to the next in the series, where he saw the same boy, older now and posed with a bird-hound in front of the same track of farmland. Only this time the family was absent, and the quality of the land and the scattered equipment seemed far superior to the earlier painting. The grass was a clean, even green, the barn was sporting a new coat of brick-red paint, and a spotless tractor was parked in the distance.
In the next the boy had clearly entered manhood, overseeing a construction company as it tore down the remains of the ancient farmhouse. He wore the same frustrated look, but this time the artist had chosen to focus on the demolition of the barn rather than the specifics of the man’s face. Hunter marveled at the detail of the half-destroyed upper building, before he was pushed forward again, nearly tripping on his feet as one of the guards nudged him.
The next four paintings all showed the same event: the destruction of the farmhouse and the building of the mansion. Through them, the boy—or old man as he had become by the last of them, where the mansion could be seen in its full splendor—oversaw the project with the same distant stare and frustrated expression. His eyes never strayed from a steady black.
By the time they reached the end of the hall Hunter was almost sorry to see the paintings go. There was a sensitive touch to the artist’s depictions, a melancholy that surrounded the old making way for the new. Exiting the hallway, Hunter found himself wondering if the young man with the dark eyes had ever lost that frustrated stare.
As they entered the first connecting building, Hunter found himself before a large, elegant ball room. The ceiling arched high above, hungry for the sky, and chandeliers of varying colors and designs hung throughout the room like static fireworks. The dark, wood-grain floor stretched several hundred feet to the far wall, and was filled with groups of men and women dressed in crisp tuxedos and ball-gowns. Servants in black and white livery circled elegantly through the crowd, offering tall glasses of bubbling champagne and silver plates of rich foods and desserts. They were, without a doubt, the most attractive collection of people Hunter had ever seen.
The elderly man escorting them stopped, bowed to Karen, and turned, leaving the small group to enter the enormous ballroom themselves. As Hunter stepped forward he noticed his guards didn’t follow. They were stopped at the edge of the wood floor, stiff as stone. He looked at Karen, puzzled, but she merely shrugged and said, “If you ran, where would you go?” Passing her arm through his, she pulled Hunter into the ballroom.
He kept close to Karen as they glided between varying groups of people dressed in outfits that would have cost him three-months rent. Hunter felt even more out of place than usual, his sweat-stained, ill-fitting robes scratching uncomfortably against his neck. Fortunately, no one was paying him much attention. Though a few greeted Karen with a brief wave or nod, the rest spared only a brief glance at Hunter before continuing their conversations and sipping delicately at tall, fluted glasses of golden champagne. Hunter was about to ask where they were headed—
as if she’d tell me
—when Karen stopped before a thick knot of men and women.