Bones of Angels (3 page)

8:31 P.M., September 11

Archbishop Connolly’s Residence

Manhattan, New York

Father Connolly had almost dozed off from the effects of a long day and the comforting, therapeutic Macallan scotch when he heard yet another noise. It sounded like a faint footfall. He wasn’t sure whether it had come from the hallway or the staircase. Had his housekeeper returned to check up on him?  The kindly old woman did so frequently ever since he’d begun chemo.

“Mrs. Mancuso?” he called out in his thin voice. “Is that you, Mrs. Mancuso?”

There was no reply.

He decided to tidy up his study and go to bed early.

He sat at his desk and attempted to shuffle papers into some kind of semblance of order. He then picked up his glass to finish off the scotch.

“Good evening, Eminence,” said a harsh voice from the shadows of the study.

The glass slipped from Connolly's trembling fingers. For a moment it was suspended in mid-air, a spray of amber liquid spinning away from the tumbling crystal.

And then it fell, shattering with a crash against the floor.   

Connolly’s hands trembled as a man dressed in black stepped forward. The white collar of a priest adorned his neck. The stranger had been handsome once, but no more. The right side of the priest’s face was pitted and scarred, the horrific remains of a terrible burn. One side of his lip curled upward in a perpetual sneer. The puckered skin around his mouth was drawn tightly against his jaw.

“Do I know you?” asked Connolly.

“Have you ever seen an angel, Archbishop Connolly?” the priest asked. His manner of speech was abrupt and halting. His sentences wore straightjackets.

“What are you doing in my private residence?” asked the Archbishop.

The strange priest continued, ignoring the question. “I’ve seen an angel,” he said. “When I was just a boy. We lived in Genoa then. I was about nine when it happened. My sister, Francesca, was perhaps seven.”

“Please leave,” said Connolly. “I’m old and sick, and — ”

“We went for a stroll one Sunday evening,” the intruder continued. “Francesca and I rode our bicycles on the path beside the river while our parents walked. The embankment was quite steep, and the current in the river was very strong. Mother warned us to stay away from the edge.”

Connolly shook his head. “Father, I don’t mean to be inhospitable, but . . . ”

“Francesca looked back over her shoulder to wave at Mother and Father,” said the priest. “She ran over a tree root and lost control of her bicycle.”

The priest advanced towards Connolly. His features were even more bizarre in the dim light from the library lamp on Connolly’s desk, as if the stranger were wearing a mask.

“Francesca fell from her bicycle and rolled down the embankment toward the river. I was certain she would fall into the water, and the current would sweep her away. But just as Francesca reached the edge, she suddenly stopped rolling. My parents were quite shaken and ran to her side.”

The priest paused. Archbishop Connolly shrank into his chair as if to get as far away from the looming figure as possible.

“Francesca looked up from where she lay on the ground and said in a voice filled with wonder:  ‘Did you see that beautiful angel standing at the edge of the river, holding up his hands to keep me from falling in?’”

Connolly’s mouth was dry. His Adam’s-apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously. “And you . . . saw this angel?” he asked.

“Yes, I did. You have seen an angel, too, in a manner of speaking. I want you to tell me about this angel. Now.”

The disfigured priest smiled, but there was no kindness in the gesture. He walked behind the desk, seizing the trembling body of Connolly and pulling it into a standing position. His arms possessed incredible strength. Roughly, he dragged Connolly into the hall.

“Where are you taking me?” asked the frightened cleric.

The priest smiled at Connolly with misshapen lips and drew a silver blade from a sheath tucked beneath his sleeve.

At the sight of the knife, Connolly wrenched himself free and bolted for the stairs. But his body was not accustomed to bursts of physical activity, and his right knee refused to support his weight. It gave way beneath him, and Connolly fell hard to the wooden floorboards.

The priest chuckled and took a step toward his captive. He held the knife with reverence, as if it were a holy relic.

“Don’t be foolish,” he said. “Do you really believe that you can run from me?”

Connolly crabbed across the floor on all fours until he reached the top of the stairs. Gritting his teeth against the grinding pain in his knee, he reached for the banister and pulled himself to his feet.

If I can just make it to the front door.

Connolly stumbled down the steps, hobbling on one leg and leaning against the banister to support his weight. Halfway down, he stumbled and banged his knee against the railing. Fire lanced through his leg, and his vision blurred.

The priest reached the top of the stairway and watched his prey writhe in agony on the wooden steps. He tapped the blade of his knife against the banister.

“You’re almost there, Archbishop Connolly,” he said. “Only twenty meters to the front door.”

Twenty meters.

Unable to regain his feet, Connolly threw his body down the staircase. His right shoulder and hip smashed against the steps, and he tumbled down the stairs to the marble floor of the foyer. His right arm went numb. Blood streamed from a gash across his chin.

Connolly tried to stand. The broken edges of three shattered ribs grated in his chest. The breath left his lungs in a gasp of pain.

Five meters.

“Almost there,” the priest called out.

Connolly pulled himself across the marble floor with his left arm. His broken body felt like it was on fire. The color drained from his vision, and the front door swam before his eyes in foggy shades of gray.

Two meters.

The priest descended the staircase, taking two steps at a time. He kept the point of his blade trained on Connolly like the needle of a compass.

“Come now — tell me what you know of angels,” said the priest. “I am told you know a great deal about one angel in particular. An archangel.”

Connolly forced himself to his feet and rose into a half-crouch. He lunged for the door, grasped the doorknob with both hands, and pulled it open.

Outside, two men in long gray robes barred Connolly’s escape. Cowls covered their heads, shadows hiding their faces.

“An excellent effort,” said the priest. “Completely foolish, of course. Before the night is over, you will tell me everything you know about the Archangel Michael.” 

He bounded down the last several steps to the foyer.

Connolly felt hot breath against his ear, and then a soft whisper.

“Bring him,” the priest commanded.

The cloaked men seized Connolly by his arms and dragged him back into the residence. The Archbishop tried to scream, but he could produce nothing more than a raspy wheezing sound.

Whittington Manor

Long Island, New York, 2011

Charles felt someone tap his shoulder. He turned over in his bed, but no one was there.

He was still clothed in the terrycloth robe. Turning on the lamp by his nightstand, he sat up and swung his feet over the bed.

Something was wrong. Very wrong. He had hypothesized five years ago that his experiments in the sensory deprivation chamber had opened up a doorway in his mind. A doorway to other dimensions and realities.

A doorway that made him more than a bit psychic.

He put on a button-down shirt and a pair of trousers and went to his main laboratory in the basement. Work was always the best medicine when he felt unsettled.

A spirit was definitely in the manor tonight.

A friendly one, he suspected.

11:42 p.m., September 11

Archbishop Connolly’s Residence

Manhattan, New York

The priest and his two gray-clad acolytes searched the Archbishop’s residence. Connolly was proving to be most uncooperative and was currently tied up in a drawing room on the first floor.

The three men looked through closets and all of Connolly’s personal belongings. They rifled through his desks and tossed old and valuable manuscripts onto the floor in the Archbishop’s library, hoping to find a slip of paper inserted between the pages of an old volume. Or maybe a book itself, one that dealt with arcane information of the Archangel Michael.

They found nothing.

The priest went upstairs and stood in the doorway of Connolly’s study. He must surely have missed something.

Of course. It was right before him.

The cursor of Connolly’s desktop computer was still blinking.

The priest sat in the Archbishop’s chair and swiveled it to face the computer screen. The message displayed read as followed:

UPLOAD 100% COMPLETE

The priest smiled, though because of his distorted facial muscles, the effect was that of a malevolent grimace. He tapped a few keys to see where the email and its attachment had been sent. The email
recipient had been
[email protected]
. The attachment
had been named TrumpetingPlace.

The priest looked into Connolly’s document file, but TrumpetingPlace.doc had been erased.

Mikail was the Arabic name for Michael. And St. Michael was mentioned in Revelation 12:7.

The priest glanced at the text Connolly had been reading moments earlier.

Blessed is the one who reads the words of the prophecy . . . the time is near.

Yes, the time was near, although the world was ignorant of its sin and imminent spiritual destruction. The priest needed whatever was in the file. He would therefore have to find the document — and who it had been sent to.

If Archbishop Connolly was not disposed to tell him, there were other methods that he could employ to get the information.

Ways that could cause even a young, healthy body to plead for mercy let alone an old and decrepit one.

6:38 a.m., September 12

Archbishop Connolly’s Residence

Manhattan, New York

Archbishop Connolly’s broken body was discovered at his residence on the grounds of St. John’s Cathedral early the next morning by a young priest who served as his assistant.

Connolly had been crucified.

Mounted on a twelve-foot high wooden cross in the foyer, Connolly’s body hung from iron spikes driven through his wrists and feet. The Archbishop’s head hung forward, his dimpled chin resting against his chest. Thin, ragged clumps of gray hair clung to his liver-spotted scalp. No angels had saved the Archbishop.

The assistant dropped to his knees. Tears streamed down his face as he retched violently onto the marble floor. A bible verse from the Book of Psalms sprang into his mind: 

A band of evil men has encircled me,

They have pierced my hands and my feet.

I can count all my bones;

People stare and gloat over me.

The young priest crossed himself and called the police.

Midtown Manhattan

September 12

Father Emile Deschamps Reynard sat in the front seat of the black Cadillac Escalade, which was stationary in a parking garage beneath one of the city’s steel and glass skyscrapers. The tinted windows prevented anyone from seeing the priest sitting in the passenger seat, one of his acolytes behind the steering wheel. The other acolyte sat in the rear, a titanium briefcase open on his lap.

“Have you made any progress, Brother Antonius?” asked Reynard. The grotesque aspect of Reynard’s features was accentuated by a look of restlessness and concern.

“I’ve accessed the servers of Connolly’s Internet Service Provider,” Antonius replied. “Seanet. It’s a local ISP that serves part of the east coast, from Maryland to Massachusetts.”

“Then it should be a simple matter of pulling the email out of cyberspace,” Reynard said with unmistakable irritation.

Antonius pushed back the cowl covering the top of his head, revealing a scalp that was clean-shaven. His light blue eyes peered at the laptop resting on his knees from above an aquiline nose and long, angular jaw. His skin was pale, and many in his order thought he resembled a statue when he remained motionless for any length of time.

“I’m afraid that the email was already retrieved and downloaded,” Antonius said.

Reynard turned sharply. “It should still be accessible!”

Antonius nodded. “This is true, my master, but once accessed, the email was shunted to a subdirectory co-located on a server in a different region of the country.”

“Can you locate the other server?” asked Reynard.

“I’m trying now.”

Several minutes elapsed while the acolyte tapped the keys before him. Reynard was becoming more impatient with each passing second.

“I have it,” Antonius said. “I’m opening the attachment now.”

He squinted at the screen. “The body of the email itself is blank. The correspondents are obviously friends, and one may deduce that the recipient was expecting this file.”

Reynard rolled his eyes at the acolyte’s statement of the obvious.

Antonius sighed. “I was afraid of this. Once the attachment was opened, it reverted to encrypted formatting symbols on the server. I have no application that can translate it.”

Reynard sighed heavily. He ran bony fingers through his short black hair.

“Can you at least find out who the recipient is?” asked Reynaud. “Trace the email address to its owner.”

“Yes, my master.”

More minutes elapsed before Antonius spoke again.

“Here is the name associated with that email account,” Antonius stated, turning the titanium case so that it was visible to the occupants in the front of the Escalade.

The other gray-clad acolyte now spoke for the first time since they had parked in the underground garage. His features were dark and harsh, like those of a battered prizefighter.

“This person is dangerous,” declared Brother Gerasimus. “We dare not confront the person who opened that email.”

“Other than actually visiting this individual, do you have some other means of knowing what was in the attachment?” asked Reynard. “Or has your renowned asceticism, modeled after your patron saint, made you clairvoyant?”

“No, my master,” replied Gerasimus. “Forgive me.”

Gerasimus reminded himself that he should never underestimate the powers of his master. Father Reynard — French for “fox” — was aptly named.

Reynard sat up straight and faced forward, staring into the garage shadows resolutely. His body was rigid, his mind focused. “We shall go to the house and appropriate the email attachment. We must locate the bones of Michael the Archangel. I don’t have to remind either of you of the prophecy.”

Gerasimus nodded somberly. “That the end of the world will be preceded by the discovery of the bones.”

“Correct,” said Reynaud. “The end of the world as we know it.”

7:09 a.m., September 12

Archbishop Connolly’s Residence

Manhattan, New York

The blue and white squad car rolled to a screeching halt in front of Archbishop Connolly’s residence. Connolly’s assistant quickly escorted two uniformed officers into the home.

“My God!” exclaimed a heavyset officer, gazing at Connolly’s crucified body. The second officer moved to the side of the foyer and vomited.

“Okay, everybody,” said a gravelly voice behind the three figures. “Let’s show some professionalism here. Get a grip, gentleman.”

The young priest wheeled around to see a forty-something plainclothes officer standing behind them. He was dressed in a blue suit, and the knot in his thin black tie was crooked. The priest could see through the open front doors that other officers were already unrolling yellow crime scene tape across the front of the residence.

“Forgive me, Father,” said the detective. “I meant no disrespect, but my men should be able to handle things a bit better. I’m Detective Eddie Zoovas.”

For the next thirty minutes, Zoovas asked the priest all of the mandatory questions: When had the body been discovered?  Did the Archbishop have any enemies?  When was the last time the Archbishop had been seen alive?  Zoovas jotted answers down in a small spiral notebook.

“Who would do such a thing?” asked Connolly’s assistant.

Zoovas shrugged. “Don’t know at this point, Father. My guess is that we’re looking at some kind of cult activity. It’s not as uncommon as you think, although . . . ”

Zoovas looked at Connolly’s body, which was being photographed and scrutinized by the Medical Examiner. “Although this is one for the books.”

“What are the police going to do?” asked the assistant. “I will need to make a report to my superiors.”

“We’re going to canvass the neighborhood, ask questions, search the house. The usual.”  Zoovas faced the priest squarely. “Can you keep a secret, Father?”

“I . . . uh . . . yes . . . I suppose I can. What are you getting at?”

Zoovas rubbed his chin, which hadn’t yet felt a razor this morning. “I might put in a call to some people my father works for. He was a cop here in New York many years ago. He now works for a woman who has an interest in very unusual matters. But you never heard me say that, okay?”

“Yes, of course,” answered the priest. “I appreciate anything you can do.”

Zoovas began searching the premises. He would find no clues.