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“Petre? What was that? Did you see it?” The detective froze beside his partner, pressing his back against the wall of the ancient cathedral. Both were breathing hard. Both had their weapons drawn. “I know I saw ... something.”
“Take it easy, Demetri,” Petre said calmly. He put a hand on his partner’s arm. “I saw something, too.”
“But what was it?”
“I’m going to find out,” he said. “Cover me.”
Petre slid along the stone wall, making his way to the gate that led to a courtyard where a statue of the Virgin Mary glowed in the moon-kissed fog. The night had gone cold. Reports of a break-in at the Church of Our Holy Lady, the Victorious, had gone out shortly after midnight. The two detectives had been the closest.
It wasn’t normal for detectives to follow up on a simple break-in, but at such an historic site, Petre had insisted on responding. He had been baptized in this very cathedral, as had his father, grandfather and great-grandfather. His great-aunt had chosen the consecrated life of a Carmelite Nun and had lived in the monastery here until her ascension to grace earlier this spring, at the age of 106.
Petre had spent many hours here at the ancient gothic cathedral. This was where he learned to pray. He had served as an altar boy as a child, and a torch bearer in his teen years. He had even been chosen to aid the priests in the preparation of the Holy Sacrament on Palm Sunday, the same day he turned eighteen.
At that time he had considered the priesthood, but then he met a girl, and he chose another path. He didn’t marry her, but she was the one who nudged him to pursue law enforcement. He joined the police academy because she did. While she washed out early in the process, he thrived. He discovered a love for law enforcement and felt called to protect and serve. His own teenage son was now on course to take up the Mantle of the Lord and would begin his studies in the seminary soon.
“Petre,” his partner called in a high whisper.
“Shh!” Petre whispered back, watching over his shoulder as he found the gate unlocked. He eased it open, but the ancient wrought iron groaned and creaked as he slipped into the garden and secured the latch.
He herd footfalls behind him, knowing his partner would reposition to keep his back protected. The experienced detective did his best to keep to the shadows as he made his way through the courtyard. He paused and genuflected in reverence to the image of the Holy Virgin. A quick Hail, Mary ran through his head and found its way to his lips, despite the urgency of his task. Hail Mary, full of grace. Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death...
This was one of his favorite images of the Madonna. He’d prayed to her when his wife was ill with childbed fever after the birth of his son. She had been brought to full health as if by some miracle, the doctors had said. If he had time, he might have stopped here to pray a while longer, but now wasn’t the time.
As his knee straightened and his eye lifted, he saw something move in his peripheral vision. The door at the end of the long pathway to his left rattled as it latched. He turned and signaled his partner. Even though he couldn’t see him, he knew he was there. He pointed towards the entryway before quickly making his way to the door.
This door, he knew, lead to the apse of the cathedral. He waited, listening for sounds of shoes on the marble floor, but only silence came from within. With a nod to his partner, he pressed the door open and slipped inside. The apse stood opposite the main entrance of the cathedral, leading to the ambulatory and on to the quire. He moved silently, aware of the whisper of his own leather-soled shoes on the white marble. Half-tempted to remove them, he found his way to the nave and skirted along the side where the hidden buttresses projected into the room. Each provided a shadow in which to hide, and he had to suspect if someone were inside, they would make use of these shadows, too.
As he neared the altar where a single candle burned, he observed it illuminated the Holy Sacrament. His eye scanned the rows of pews. A priest sat in the third row, with his head down. At this hour of night, he could be praying, but he may have also fallen asleep on his watch. He knew no one would leave the Sacrament unattended. Priests would take an hour’s watch at all hours of the day and night to guard the Blood and the Body of the Lord Jesus Christ. But to fall asleep on watch was highly frowned upon. There was a shuffle at the back of the nave, but the priest never moved.
The hair on Petre’s neck rose. He came to kneel at the priest’s knee and put his hand on the man’s arm as it rested in his lap. His rosary hung loosely from unmoving fingers. Petre recognized him by his rusty red hair.
“Father Jerome?” He spoke softly. The priest’s hand was cool beneath his own. “Father ...” he moved to lift the man’s head but fell back with a gasp. The front of his plain black cassock was drenched in something dark. It was sticky to the touch but gleamed in the candle light. The echo of a drip on the floor beneath his feet resonated in that quiet hour. The same dark, sticky fluid trickled down his hand and dripped off the rosary. The puddle that formed on the floor behind the priest’s feet reminded Petre of chocolate syrup, and his stomach churned. Upon closer inspection, he observed the man’s throat had been cut. The wound was deep, nearly to the spine; ear-to-ear.
Petre didn’t have time to mourn. This was no longer just a simple break-in. A killer was on the loose.
He rushed to the vestibule where he’d heard the door slam but found nothing. There was no one on the streets outside the cathedral. The fog was growing thicker. The full harvest moon was obscured behind glowing cloud-cover, which gave the night an eerie glow.
“Petre?” The radio on his belt squelched. He turned down the volume before unclipping it from his belt. “Where’d you go?”
Something moved in the shadow beside him as he lifted the mic to his lips. He froze. A man stepped out of the darkness beside the stairs. He had a scroll tucked under his arm; his fingers clutched the document. Petre recognized it immediately.
The church housed a large collection of sacred documents, but it also protected what were considered apocryphal texts. These scrolls were stored in an alcove behind a tapestry near the quire. He had only found them himself while playing as a child, hiding from the older altar boys between their lessons. The one he had taken down and opened had been hand written, in a language he didn’t understand. What he remembered most was the sketch of what he could only describe as a demon; an effigy of Old Nick himself.
“Drop your weapon,” Petre said, leveling his own gun at the killer.
“You have no authority over me,” the man said, his accent different from anything Petre had heard. Swiss? Italian? He couldn’t be sure. “I am an Agent of The One True God himself.”
“No Agent of God would take the life of a priest in his prayers, not in God’s House.” Petre felt sweat build on his brow, despite the falling temperatures.
“I did what I was called to do,” he said.
Petre considered this man as a shaft of moonlight broke the clouds. He was young, maybe the same age as his own son. His eyes, as blue as the fog-shaded moon, glowed eerily, as if illuminated by his own internal fire. His blond hair was cropped short in the back, but hung over one side of his face. The hand holding the gun trembled.
“You’re too young to ruin your life like this.” Petre started toward him. Somehow he felt sorry for the boy who’d lost his way so young. Maybe it wasn’t too late for him. Petre wanted to help.
The echo of gunfire broke the uncomfortable silence of the night. It resonated off the tall stone walls, crackling into an echo as it was carried on the still night air. Petre saw the flash of the discharge from the weapon in the man’s hand. It blinded him for a moment. He had not felt the bullet pierce his flesh. He staggered back a step before regaining his balance. It never occurred to him to pull his own trigger.
The young thief stepped closer. “Go with God,” he said and fired his gun a second time at point-blank range.
The cop crumpled, falling into the thief’s arms. The boy caught him and lowered him to the ground, gazing into his eyes. He knew now he had been shot; knew it was a fatal wound. “No.” He reached up and caught the scroll, pulling it from the man’s hand as he sank to the stone stairs.
The thief snatched it back and tucked it under his arm, freeing himself from the detective’s death grip.
“Petre! Petre!” The radio squawked. “Where are you? I’m coming!”
A moment later, the front door flew open. Demetri dropped at Petre’s side. The detective clutched a hand to the wound in his abdomen, but his blood flowed freely from beneath this fingers. “He ...” Petre grabbed Demetri’s arm. “He ... took ... a ... scroll ...”
“Who?” Demetri was busy trying to staunch the flow of blood from his partner’s body. He took out his radio. “Officer down, repeat, officer down...”
“Just ... a boy ...” Petre fought for breath. It gurgled in his chest as Demetri found the second bullet wound, just beneath his breast. There was a sick sucking noise as he tried to breathe.
“Officer down!” Demetri screamed into the walkie talkie, tears pouring from his face. “Officer down! I need an ambulance!”