The Cult (9 page)

Garland snorted. “It’s called a tax loophole.”

Casanellas folded his arms. “But are five Ferraris, eight limousines and a private jet absolutely necessary in the performance of your duties, Bishop?”

“Fringe benefits.”

Casanellas chuckled. “I am not going to respond to that. I am not going to respond to your answers on how you spent twenty-million dollars on a new home, but yet are unable to pay alimony to the various wives of your thirty children.”

“They’re not my kids, polygamy isn’t allowed anymore so we were never legally married.”

Casanellas strode over and smacked the palm of his hand down onto the gurney beside Garland’s head. “Polygamy was banned in the late nineteenth century and you knew that! You’re twisting the law to suit your corrupt behavior. You have a moral responsibility, you viper,” he shouted.

Garland winced. “You’re not getting away with this. This is murder.”

Casanellas smiled down at Garland, straightening his cuffs. “This isn’t murder, this is euthanasia.” He turned around and started washing his hands again. “Your true punishment shall start in your next life.”

Garland swallowed. “C’mon, Casanellas, don’t tell me you even believe in all that afterlife bullshit.” He inhaled deeply. “Where are we, anyway?”

Father Timothy Casanellas closed his eyes for a moment, his lips moving as if he was talking to someone. He took a deep breath and turned to Garland. “We’re in your abortion clinic.” He checked his watch before picking up a scalpel from an assortment of tools in a tray. “It is one AM, so we better get a move on.”

“What? I don’t have an abortion clinic.”

Casanellas chuckled. “Call it what you want. A freedom of choice clinic, an early termination clinic, semantics, same thing.”

“They’re not even human yet, they’re bloody cystoblasts when we remove them,” Garland shouted, feeling a dull throb in his head.

“Well, you’re not human either,” Casanellas said with a wry smile. “Think of the irony of dying in your own clinic and being incinerated by the same oven that has extinguished so many thousands of lives.”

Garland tried to kick himself back, tried to tip the gurney to the side, but Casanellas grabbed his leg in a vice-like grip. “Now, now, Bishop. Let us say the Lord’s Prayer together and beg that he has mercy on your worthless soul.”

Garland screamed as the cold blade plunged into his chest, just below his breast bone, shrieked as Casanellas dragged the scalpel all the way down to his pubic area. He looked up as the blood pumped from the exposed flesh, over his stomach and his hips and onto the metal trolley, but the cut wasn’t deep enough to kill him immediately. He shook his head in silent and shocked anguish, tears streaming from his eyes.
 

“Relax, this will take some time,” Casanellas said with an evil grin.

Vatican City, Rome

Casanellas drummed his fingers impatiently as the phone rang in his ear. “Hello?” a groggy voice answered after the seventh ring. “Who is this?”

“Good morning, Director Scarpa.”

“What time is it?”

Casanellas checked his watch. “It is eighteen minutes past three. How is Donna doing?”

Scarpa didn’t answer for a couple of seconds, probably gathering his thoughts. “Father, good morning. My daughter is recovering, thank you.”

“No relapses?”

Scarpa hesitated. “None that I know of.”

Casanellas smiled. Not that he would know much about his daughter’s drug problem, being so engrossed in his bloody job all day long.

“Thank you for putting her on the program and keeping it discreet, Father.”

Casanellas chuckled. “No thanks necessary. Do you want to do a confession?”

“Over the phone?”

“Why not?”

Scarpa sounded hesitant. “I just thought that—“

“Now is as good a time as any, don’t you think, Director?”

Scarpa sighed. “Hang on a second, let me get out of the bedroom, Lina is sleeping.” A couple of seconds later he said hesitantly, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“Yes, yes. I know about the whore. Fifty hail Mary’s and five Our Father’s. How is the case doing?”

“Thank you, Father. They found some CCTV footage with what looked like a man wearing a cassock leaving the Plaza Hotel a couple of minutes after his murder, but I managed to erase the footage.”

Casanellas gripped the edge of the table. “All of it?”

“Yes, don’t worry.” Casanellas heard Scarpa light a cigarette and inhale the smoke. “It looked like the man had been stabbed by a blunt object, but we can’t figure out with what.”

“Is that a question?”

“I just don’t want the murder weapon to pop up with some incriminating fingerprints on it, that’s all.”

Casanellas chuckled. “Do not fret, Director. That will not happen.”

“Well, okay, if you say so.”

“Thank you so much for your time, Director. Have a good rest now.”

“Thanks, I wanted to—“

Casanellas disconnected the call. He ambled to the kitchen and started preparing a cup of tea, humming. They had nothing on him, blessed Mother Mary. Nothing at all.

Gateway Commune,

Las Vegas

Ted Olson banged on the door, but nobody answered. The high-pitched hum of a vacuum cleaner sounded inside, so he unlocked the door with his master key and stepped into the house.

Jenna was standing with her back to him, vacuuming the living room. She had earphones in her ears and was swaying her hips to a tune she was listening to. Olsen leaned in the doorway, admiring her bottom and long legs for a moment, her slender waist gyrating, one hand in the air and the other pushing the vacuum cleaner, the only participant in her own domestic rodeo competition.

Olson tiptoed to her and grabbed her around the waist, pulling an earphone from her ear. “Heya, beautiful,” he whispered.

She shrieked, turned around and pushed him away, wide-eyed. She breathed a sigh and smiled when she recognized him, pulled out the other earphone and switched off the cleaner. “How did you get in?”

Olson dangled the master key on his finger.
 

She shoved him on the chest with a giggle. “Don’t do that again.” She sauntered to the kitchen, the tight denim shorts hugging her sexy backside like a glove. “Besides, you’re not supposed to be in here, I’ve been cleansed.”

Olsen followed her to the kitchen and hoicked himself up onto the counter, kicking his legs back and forth. “C’mon, Jenna. You know how much I hate it when you screw that old fart.”

She looked up sharply. “Master Lamont deserves your respect. And he’s not old.”

Olsen screwed up his face in disgust. “He’s ancient, Jenna.”

She opened the fridge and took out a carton of milk. “His
soul
is old, which makes his twenty-five year-old body look older than it actually is, that’s all.” She looked at him, a challenging frown on her pretty face. “He has to bear all our sins, how do you think that would make you look?”

Olsen rolled his eyes. “So I guess there’ll be no hanky panky for the next month?”

“I don’t want to taint his gift with your…”

“Sperm?”

She shrugged. “You know what I mean.” She glanced up, rubbing her belly with a smile. “Imagine me being the bearer of the divine seed, Ted. Imagine the honor of being known as the mother of the Chosen One.” She looked out of the small window above the sink, a dreamy expression on her face. “They’ll write books about me.”

Olsen snorted. “Funny how all the chosen ones end up in the chosen incinerator.”

“What did you say?”

He smiled, shook his head. “A little insider joke, that’s all.”

Her eyes narrowed and she glared at him accusingly, poured a glass of milk, ignoring his comment. “What do you want?”

He slipped off the counter, took the carton from her, took a long slug of milk. “Seen Eden’s kid around lately?”

Jenna Sands shook her head. “I haven’t seen Eden or the boy for a couple of days now. Maybe they decided to move on—“

Olsen guffawed. “Move on? Are you serious? You never move on from this place.”

She glimpsed at him innocently before lifting her shoulders indifferently and started buttering a slice of bread.

Olsen turned around to leave, glanced over his shoulder. “If you see him call me.”

“You better watch what you say about the Master, Ted,” Jenna said, waving the butter knife.

He turned around and faced her, his hands on his hips.
 

She pointed the knife at him accusingly. “Besides, if you don’t get your act together and start acting like the maintenance guy that you are, you might lose your job.” She folded her arms over her chest. “These places are falling apart, they all need a new lick of—“

He strode over to her and grabbed her neck, pushed her back. “You ever tell me how to do my job again, I’ll kill you.”
 

She dropped the knife and grabbed his arms with both hands, her lips parting but unable to force out the words. Her face started turning red and a vein pulsed on her forehead.

He shoved her back and her bottom thumped against the open drawer, cutlery clattering as she steadied herself, holding onto her neck and taking deep, raspy breaths.

He strode out and slammed the door behind him. “Bitch.” Someday, he would tell all these juvenile delinquents the damn truth and send Lamont and Di Mardi to Hell.

Exactly where they belonged.

General Alain Laiveaux quaffed his first drink for the morning and sat back with a grunt, studying the case file. He scanned the notes, flipping through the photos of the crime scene.

There were two reasons why Laiveaux was interested in this specific case. The first was that he had arrested and convicted the dead man, Ed Watson, twelve years ago for child molestation. The second reason was that his computer had red-flagged the movement of a certain Father Timothy Casanellas from the Vatican City, Rome. He had worked with Casanellas before. Recently though, wherever Casanellas went, a clergyman happened to be killed. Which could have been a coincidence. Or not.

He placed the photos back in the file and his chair creaked as he leaned back, folding his hands behind his head. He sat like this for a couple of minutes, rocking to and fro in his chair, then leaned forward and picked up his phone. “Lieutenant, come see me in my office.”

The man arrived a minute later, looking flustered, like he always did whenever he visited the general in his office.

“Yes, General?” the tall, blond man said, his eyes darting around the room, a worried frown on his brow.
 

“Sit down, Lieutenant.”

The man lifted the chair and pushed it back and sat down gingerly. Laiveaux poured three fingers of Cognac into a tumbler and pushed it over to him.

Latorre nodded a thanks and took a sip, placed the glass down carefully.

“Relax, Lieutenant.”

The man nodded with pursed lips, wringing his beret in his hands.

“Do you want a case?”

Latorre’s eyes widened. “My own case?”

Laiveaux nodded.
 

Latorre leaned forward excitedly. “Yes, of course. When do I start?”

“Today.” Laiveaux pushed the file to Latorre and gave him a rundown of the murder of Father Ed Watson. “Liaise with Captain Guerra. Another man was killed in Salt Lake City,” he said and checked his notes. “Bishop Warren Garland, bled to death.”

Latorre sat back with a sigh, his shoulders slumping.

“What?” Laiveaux asked.

“It’s just that the Captain wouldn’t approve of this. She would probably say that she needed to babysit me.”

“You listen to everything your mother told you to do?”

Latorre shrugged. “I guess not, General.”

“So ignore her.”

Latorre’s Adam’s apple bounced up and down. “The problem is that she’s usually right.”

Laiveaux quaffed his drink and dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. “Bah! Of course our mothers are usually right, but that doesn’t stop us from going out and trying things for ourselves, man.”
 

Latorre shook his head. “I meant the Captain. She’s usually does end up babysitting me.”

Laiveaux leaned back in his chair and it creaked. He would need to oil it sometime, but it was the most comfortable chair in the entire office; he had tried them all. “You talking about the diving school, when Alexa saved you from drowning?”

Latorre’s eyes narrowed. “I almost forgot about that, it was the first time she saved my hide.” He sighed and started counting the incidents on his fingers. “In Dabbort Creek, she saved my life twice. At Metcalfe’s mansion, she got me out of a pretty sticky situation. I thought I was a goner. Then there was the time—“

“Shut up man, you’re boring me.” Laiveaux pointed at Latorre’s chest. “What’s that, Lieutenant?”