Evil Eternal (2 page)

The cardinal settled into a plush leather chair and the pope offered his hand across the large, neatly arranged desk. In silence, the two men prayed while life outside his windows carried on, ignorant to the dark shadows gathering at the earth’s edge.

Pope Pius XIII found Father Michael’s Spartan room empty. He had only been there once before, decades earlier, and all seemed exactly the same as it had then. Located in a basement of the Holy See’s Museo Pio-Clementino, it was actually a converted storage area, sandwiched between two rooms used to house stockpiles of books and scrolls collected by Popes Leo X, Clement VII and several others, all hermetically sealed in special glass chambers that prevented the ravages of age and air to wreak further havoc on the priceless documents. Windowless, it contained a battered chair, three bookshelves filled with old religious texts and a thirteen-inch, black-and-white television, presumably Father Michael’s lone portal to the world outside the Vatican.

The pope shivered at the thought of searching for Father Michael in the only other area of the vast Vatican he was known to frequent. Taking a service elevator, he rode down five levels to a seldom-used subbasement. The doors opened to reveal a darkly lit, cavernous warehouse whose sole purpose was the storage of old religious artifacts, mostly statues gathered from every corner of the globe over the past thousand years. Row upon row of cold, stone saints, crosses, gargoyles and other grotesqueries filled every corner of this level. Dusty, low-wattage lightbulbs intermittently cut the gloom. The damp, moldy air assaulted his nose and he stopped to sneeze, leaning on his cane to keep his balance.

Reluctantly stepping into the gloom, the pope had the feeling of being surrounded by the dead, remnants of man and beast frozen for all time in various stages of glory, horror, birth and agony, just as Lot’s wife had been turned into a pillar of salt by God upon gazing at the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. Worse still was knowing whom he sought amidst these long-forgotten effigies, the living relic who had caused him to question everything he believed in, yet strengthened his faith in ways that were impossible to describe. He felt weak, as if his muscles had been stricken by a powerful flu.

Pausing, Pope Pius XIII strained for any sound of the living amongst the chimeras.

It was silent as a tomb.

“Father Michael,” he rasped.

Receiving no reply, the pope walked farther into the maze of statues. He turned a corner and came face-to-face with a gargoyle, its hideous half-human, half-dragon visage partially covered by a cloak. A long neck ended in a rectangular body with birdlike claws peeking out of the bottom, seeking purchase that was no longer there. He read the small tag hanging from the gargoyle’s neck:
From the Collegiate Church of Saint Waudru, Mons, Belgium, 1648
.

Momentarily pondering why mankind had shown such an interest in abominable images, the pope nearly lost his breath when he looked up to see Father Michael standing not more than two feet in front of him. Somehow, the six-foot-three priest had managed to answer his call without making a sound. He stood before the pope, mute and without the slightest hint of movement. It was as if he too had been turned into one of the monstrous statues he was so fond of.

“You…you startled me, Father Michael,” Pope Pius XIII said.

Father Michael was an imposing sight, disturbingly preternatural in appearance. His large frame, broad shoulders and immense hands were those of an Olympic athlete. He stood completely erect, not a single joint or bone in the slightest semblance of repose.

It was his face, dear God, his face, that nearly made the pope gasp. That face had haunted his dreams for more than twenty-five years. He feared it would follow him into death and beyond.

Father Michael was completely bald, his face a series of sharp, angular lines. Strong jaw. Sharp nose atop pencil-thin, bloodless lips. Large brow shaded two seemingly sightless, ivory eyes, utterly devoid of pupil or color. His skin had the pallor of a cadaver, fresh from the embalmer. Two large, rounded ears helped complete the image of a human phantasm made flesh. There was no sign of life in the mask that was Father Michael’s face.

It was a weakness, the pope had realized long ago, this fear that overpowered him when in Father Michael’s presence. Whether his fright was caused by the priest’s physical form or the knowledge of what his unleashing could mean to the world was unclear. Perhaps, most likely, it was both.

The pope’s innards tightened like a coil. The silence between them was almost too much to bear. Clearing his throat, the pope said, “We have need of your services. We received a communication from a parish in Vermont, in the States. I will make arrangements for your departure immediately.”

For an interminable period of seconds, Father Michael stood there, showing no indication that he had heard anything the pope had just said. Then, while closing his milk-white eyes, he bowed his head slightly.

In a voice as old as the church itself, he grumbled, “In the name of God, I am at your service, Your Excellency.”

“You’ll leave tonight. A helicopter will take you to Fiumicino Airport where a private jet has been arranged to fly you to the States. Gather whatever you may need and meet me at the Hall of Penance in one hour.” The Swiss Guards, the bodyguards of the pope as well as protectors of the Apostolic Palace, had been alerted to escort a special representative of the pope to the Vatican’s lone helipad.

Having said all that was needed, Pope Pius XIII eagerly turned his back on the priest, if that’s what he could call him, and made his way to the waiting elevator.

He shuddered when he heard Father Michael call after him.

“It will be a pleasure to meet an old enemy.”

Chapter Three

Father Martin Rooney accessed his e-mail as soon as he heard the tiny electronic beep signal an incoming message. He was a transfer from New York and the most computer literate in the bucolic Vermont town of South Russell. Farming held more importance than computers here. He never ceased to be amazed at the total absence of iPods when he passed teens in the street. It took him some time to adjust, but he’d eventually come to feel very much at home in this little holdout to a forgotten era. The fact that his home had been invaded by a pestilence far beyond his means of extermination angered as much as frightened him.

The message was brief and to the point. The Vatican would be sending a representative ASAP. He would arrive by late afternoon, tomorrow.

The Vatican? The archbishop’s concern must have matched his own to forward his message to the Holy City.

He was to gather all eighty-five inhabitants of the town, actually eighty when you left out the Carron family, at the church and await Father Michael’s arrival.

That will be easily done, he thought. Word spread fast in small towns and the news of the past week had left every member of South Russell on edge. What was once a deeply religious, happy town of farmers and small-time custom jelly manufacturers was now a fractured community of insomniacs who jumped at the slightest sound and walked in packs for fear of being alone, clutching rosaries and casting furtive glances.

Even Father Rooney, the resident city slicker, was at wit’s end. He had seen things up at the Carron farm. Things that turned his view of the world flat on its ass. Things that made him, a grown man, run screaming like a child in the night.

He lifted a cigarette to his mouth and pressed the Print icon on his computer. He wanted to show everyone that the Vatican had answered their cry and all would be right again. It was his job as priest and confidant to reassure the town, what had become
his town
, that help was on its way and the plague that had descended on their tranquil hamlet would be expunged. His frantic e-mail to the archbishop two days earlier had prompted a very quick response. That they were sending a representative from the Vatican demonstrated just how serious the situation was, while instilling confidence that the powers that be knew full well how to deal with the frightening matter.

If I tell them that, will that only deepen their fear? And who is this Father Michael?
he thought
. What kind of man was dispatched to handle the terror up at the Carron farm? What had he seen and done in the past to qualify him to be the lone representative from the head of the church?

He rubbed his eyes with his palms, shuddering. Not a drinker by nature, he considered opening a bottle of the wine reserved for services. A glass or two could do more good than harm. He was so, so tired. The limits of his endurance had been passed days ago and he’d even started to experience heart palpitations.

Dammit, he needed that wine, if only to have a moment’s rest, an hour of calm. Besides, Father Michael would be here soon. Let him be the man in charge. Let him find the light within the darkness. Let him bring peace to the town.

But deep down, he knew no one in South Russell would ever rest easy again.

On the way to the small wine rack he kept in the sacristy, he grabbed a large glass, watching it tremble in his hand as if it belonged to someone else, an old man. For each sip of wine he took that night, he shed twice as many tears.

Father Michael grabbed the few possessions he needed: change of clothes, heavy, ankle-length coat and his gunnysack of necessary tools. It had always been packed and ready, so there was no need to check its contents. Using pathways that only he, the monster of the Vatican, knew of, he quickly made his way to the Hall of Penance. Inhumanly fleet of foot, especially for a man his size, Father Michael made it to the designated meeting place with Pope Pius XIII in minutes. He was aware that it would be some time before the pope, frail or not, would enter the Hall.

The Hall of Penance, as it was named by Pope Urban II centuries ago, was located deep within the Vatican, many levels lower than even lifelong residents of the Holy See believed existed in the massive city. It was accessible through a hidden passageway located in the subterranean passage that connected the Vatican Palace to the ornate gardens. Only Father Michael and the succession of popes were aware of its presence and purpose. Accessible by a narrow tunnel hewn from the rock foundation of the Vatican itself, the secret hall was a simple, circular room without electricity or fancy decoration. The stone walls had been roughly chiseled, the ceiling just high enough for Father Michael to stand erect.

In the center of the room, on a rectangular altar made of flawless marble rested an ancient artifact thought by most to be mere myth.

A long, bronze-tipped spear lay on the altar. It was bathed in an eternal blue blaze that gave off neither heat nor cold. Its tip was crusted brown with blood shed two millennia ago on the most momentous day in human history.

The Holy Lance was the very spear used by a Roman soldier to pierce Jesus’s side as he died on the cross. Its powers were mighty. Those who possessed it were said to become invincible, and rumors of it being in the hands of great conquerors and rulers over the past two thousand years were as numerous as the number of fake lances that were fought over and stored in secrecy.

Father Michael knew the truth. How it was given to the Apostle Peter and kept from the world by generations of succeeding men chosen to protect it at all costs. It was eventually placed in his care, and he had chosen to safeguard it underneath a small farmhouse in Austria, far from the town’s church and, what he thought, suspicion.

Of all the tales told about the Holy Lance, only its plundering by Hitler holds a shred of truth. To this day, Father Michael didn’t know how the maniacal leader managed to find it. The Fuhrer and his top men, all driven insensate by their desire to master the mystical arts, thought that with the lance under their control they would win the war and conquer the world. But like all men, they only knew of half-truths, and even those were greatly outnumbered by all the falsehoods under which they had operated.

They also weren’t aware of Father Michael, who waged a one-man war within and behind the lines of combat to recover what rightfully belonged to no man. Hitler heard of the deeds done by a hulking, mad priest that witnesses claimed could not be stopped by weapons. It was a sign, that God had sent a soldier to reclaim his prize. In the last days of the war, he took the lance into his bunker, sure in the knowledge that it would, at the very least, spare him from death. Father Michael arrived at his bunker moments after US soldiers, who discovered Hitler’s body, his head shattered by a single bullet. General Patton, knowing the history of the lance, handed it to him, the lone priest in the scarred battleground, offering a military escort so he could safely return it to the Vatican.

And here, in the Hall of Penance, it had remained for close to seventy years, where it waited for him to hand over to the new Christ. So much about the Holy Lance and he were similar that he felt a strong connection to the relic and their intertwined destinies.

Father Michael tentatively reached out to touch the blue flame, the sole reminder of his purpose, his rebirth.

He quickly pulled his hand back at the sound of shuffling feet. Pope Pius XIII entered the room, winded and pale. Father Michael offered no help, stayed silent as the mystical blue flame.

“Here is everything Cardinal Gianncarlo has on the state of affairs in Vermont,” the pope said between ragged breaths. He held out a thin, bound report to the mysterious priest, careful not to make any sort of hand-to-hand contact. “Your plane will land at Logan Airport in Boston. From there you will take a helicopter to South Russell, Vermont. Our only concern is the weather, as it appears you will be arriving at the same time as a terrible winter storm. I know full well that a mere storm could not stop you. I just hope it doesn’t delay you so much so that you will be too late.”