Crucified (32 page)

The cardinal
had
to save him.

So let this battle begin.

+ + + 

The Beasts of Satan had shocked Italians, but not the Legionary.

For in that locked room of the Holy Office, he'd been exposed to centuries of dark deals with the Devil.

The Beasts of Satan was a heavy metal band. In the winter of 1998, under a full moon, the group held a satanic rite in the woods north of Milan. The ritual began with a night of drinking at a rock club called Midnight, then the devil worshippers drove to the woods, where a deep pit waited.

Though her room was decorated with black candles and a goat's skull, their vestal of Satan was believed to have links to the Virgin Mary. In a sacrifice to the Evil One, the leader of the Beasts stabbed her in the heart with a knife. When the band's sixteen-year-old singer struggled to save her, he was clubbed with a hammer. The bodies were dumped in the pit and urinated on. In lieu of flowers, they got scattered with cigarette butts. After filling in the grave, a Beast danced on it, chanting, "Zombies! Now you are only zombies!"

The leader of the Beasts returned the next day to splash ammonia about to repel dogs. No one talked. The sacrifice remained secret until, six years later, in 2004, the ex-girlfriend of the head Beast threatened to inform the police. He lured her out to a remote chalet and shot her in the mouth, then called a friend to help bury her alive. His buddy finished her off with a shovel.

An accident occurred while the leader was getting rid of her car, and the resulting police inquiry brought all three killings to light.

Eight devil worshippers were tried and jailed.

The leader of the Beasts kept a diary on how to conduct satanic rites in a bag filled with human hair and teeth. "Blood and death, blood raining down, blood bathing all my body, blood thirsty for blood," he recorded. "Pitiless, we will eliminate and cleanse, donating the ash of our enemies to he who sits on the throne."

For too long, the Holy See had been willfully blind to Satan.

The Bible isn't logical. It comes from faith, not reason. Evil spirits are universally feared. There's never been a time or a culture free of them. But only the Bible reveals
why
they plague us.

They dwell in a realm that we can't see, touch, or hear. Once, they were angels created by God. But Satan rebelled against God and was cast out of heaven. Banished to hell, he was joined there by the other bad angels, and they became demons. That legion of malign entities lacks physical form. So to unleash hatred in the world, they must take possession of a human body.

Unless that wretch's soul is saved by the intervention of the Catholic Church, it too will be thrown down to hell.

To be blind to Satan
is
to reject the Bible.

A blind eye has always been the Devil's best weapon.

The Evil One fell out of fashion with the Enlightenment.

The possessed were no longer possessed. They were now mentally ill. That was the explanation given in 1972, when a man leapt from the crowd viewing Michelangelo's
Pieta
in St. Peter's Basilica and—while shouting, "I'm Jesus Christ!"—took a hammer to the statue, smashing the Virgin Mary's face and one arm.

For two hundred years, exorcism languished in the shade, away from the light of God.

But no longer!

At Via degli Aldobrandeschi 190, on the outskirts of Rome, you'll find a new Vatican-affiliated university run by the Legionaries of Christ: the Athenaeum Pontificium Regina Apostolorum. In 2005, during the trial of the Beasts of Satan, a hundred clean-cut, fresh-faced priests in black cassocks filed through the iron gates and made their way to the lecture hall for the inaugural session of a course unlike any other. Over the next two months, they were taught how to determine satanic possession and drive out demons. Since then, the campus has turned out several hundred exorcists to confront the rising obsession with witchcraft and the occult.

The Evil One, however, had bigger fish to fry. He wasn't after the Harry Potterites and Da Vinci conspirators. He was after God, Jesus, the popes, and the one true Church. To that end, he now had complete possession of the Legionary, and he was tracking the Judas relics that could pull the Bible down.

Only one obstacle stood in his way.

The Secret Cardinal.

The exorcist summoned by the last vestige of goodness in the damned priest.

Knock, knock ...

The Legionary knocked on heaven's door.

+ + + 

Numerous candles flickered inside the hollow cross, for the church was a cruciform. Wind howled around its central stone tower, which had been designed as refuge from Viking raids.

Rain hammered the window at the end of the chancel reserved for the main altar. The alignment dated from the days of pagan worship, when the altar had to be lit by the morning sun. Forsaken now by the light of God, the window was black. The Doom was painted above the chancel arch, so the perils of the Last Judgment confronted the worshippers in their pews. Glow from the candles picked out details. In the upper center, Christ raised his hands in judgment. To the left, St. Peter held the keys to the gates of heaven, while angels welcomed the saved to eternal happiness with God. The mouth of hell yawned to the right, with the damned whipped in by demons to endless torture and pain.

Except for the Secret Cardinal, the church was empty.

The exorcist was governed by the Roman Ritual. One rule held that the rite should be performed in a church. Another called for images of the crucifixion and the Virgin Mary, Satan's sacred nemesis, to be displayed. Life-size statues of both flanked the altar. The exorcist wore the proper vestments: a black cassock and a white surplice, with a purple stole.

Around his neck hung a silver cross on a chain, signifying the defeat of Satan, the architect of original sin, through the crucifixion of Christ at Jerusalem.

The Secret Cardinal looked commanding with his salt-and-pepper hair.

As the wind whined, the rain rattled, and the storm grew ugly, the exorcist opened the case he'd stored at his feet on the plane. One by one, he withdrew his tools for the rite. A silver crucifix, big enough to hold by hand. A silver aspergillum, to sprinkle holy water from Lourdes. A small canister of holy oil.

And a thin red book of prayers approved for exorcism. Had he had the Judas relics in hand, there could have been no better test of their divine power.

Knock, knock ...

The Devil was at the door.

Clutching the bigger crucifix in his right hand, the Secret Cardinal crossed himself three times.

On the forehead.

On the lips.

On the left side of his chest.

The exorcist strode to the door and yanked it open.

Unprepared for what he faced, he gasped from shock. His beautiful boy had transformed into a monster. His hair plastered to his forehead by the pouring rain, his sunken eyes encircled by dark rings, this demon on the doorstep was hell incarnate. As the exorcist froze on the threshold, the shell of the Legionary vomited forth a guttural wail from his gangrenous soul.

"Dio onnipotente!"

God almighty!

"Immondissime spiritus,"
the exorcist said,
"in nomine dei
patris, etfilii, et spiritus Sanctis
On instinct, he had launched into the discernment, for the first step in exorcism is to recognize the Devil. What distinguishes possession from worldly mental illness is visceral aversion to Christian symbols. As the exorcist raised the crucifix in one hand and signed the cross over the possessed priest with his other, the Evil One let out a blasphemous snarl that curdled the cardinal's blood.

There would be no sprinkling of holy water or anointing with holy oil. No time. The fight was on.

The exorcist draped the tips of his satin stole across the Legionary's shoulders, tying Satan and his demons to him with a purple chain. When he placed his hand on the drenched head, the Devil reacted violently. The skull rocked back and forth, and convulsions wracked the bones. As the face twisted into a mask of fury and the sunken eyes rolled in disgust, the raspy throat spewed gibberish in a growl as deep as a werewolf's.

"N'gai, n'gha'ghaa, bugg-shoggog, y'hah: Yog-Sothoth . . '.'

Was he speaking in tongues, the sure sign of possession? Or was he echoing blasphemies he'd read in the files of the Inquisition?

"State your name!" the Secret Cardinal commanded.

Interrogation was crucial for this ritual, as banishment came from hurling the Evil One out in the name of a greater power.

The name wasn't sound and smoke.

The name was word and fire.

With the name, he would
know
the demon he was facing.

"My name is
Legion!'
snarled the Legionary.

"Do you believe in God?"

"Fuck
God!"

"Do you believe in Jesus Christ?"

"Fuck
him too!"

Incensed by such sacrilege, the exorcist pressed the cross against the demon's forehead.

"I command you, Satan! Leave this servant of God!"

The demoniac brushed the cross aside with a backhand swipe.

The exorcist faced icy eyes.

"Fuck
you,
asshole," the Devil within cursed. "You're busting my balls!"

The Secret Cardinal yelped when an underhand scoop seized hold of his testicles and twisted them around like the head of the girl in that film.

"Use them or lose them, secret sodomite!"

The exorcist squealed as the grip tightened and the silver cross fell from his hand.

"Turn a blind eye on me, will you? Here! Turn
two\"

With his other hand, the Legionary clawed the exorcist's face. Sinking crooked fingers into both eye sockets as if they were the holes in a bowling ball, he dragged the Secret Cardinal out of the church, then swung him around like the hammer thrown in those Highland games.

Beseeching God, the exorcist was hurled into the darkness. Doomed to hell on his hands and knees, the blind man groped among the headstones, dragging the stole behind him.

Suddenly, the crucifix around his neck struck him under the chin. It cut off his scream as the links of the chain bit tightly into the flesh of his throat.

The last thing he heard before lack of oxygen shut down his brain was the snarl of Satan behind his ear.

"Die, Priest!

"Die, Priest!

"Die . . . "

On a clear day, you could see the towers of York Minster miles away, but this morning, through the teeming rain, you could barely see to the edge of the churchyard. The church—Holy Cross—was grubby gray from the soot of centuries.

Yorkshire was church country, with a history of Christianity dating back to the
Lindisfarne Gospels
and the Venerable Bede's
Ecclesiastical History of the English People.
That was the time before clocks, so a Dark Ages sundial—useless today—sat over the door as mourners in black exited Mick Balsdon's funeral.

"Ms. Hannah?"

"Yes?"

The broken-nosed man who stopped Liz outside the church looked like a battered boxer knocked over the ropes of the ring.

"Detective Inspector Ramsey."

The Yorkshire CID cop flashed his identification as Liz popped her umbrella against the rain.

"We're blocking the door," she said. "Let's move across to the headstones."

The rural church was besieged on all sides by graves. This section was so old that a thousand years of rain had erased whatever had once been carved in the stone.

"I'll get to the point, Ms. Hannah. We're looking for Wyatt Rook. When did you last see him?"

"Days ago. In Germany."

"Have you talked to him since?"

"No. I've not been home. My grandmother is sick. I borrowed her car to drive here."

"Cellphone?"

"I don't carry one, except for work. And I'm on leave."

"When will you next see Rook?"

"We were to meet at this funeral. But neither he nor Sergeant Earl Swetman attended."

"You might be in danger."

"Why?"

"Someone is after crewmen and relatives of those who flew in the final mission of the
Ace of Clubs.
That person's after any information they might have."

"And you think Rook's the killer?"

"He's our prime suspect."

"Then I'm the
last
person in danger from him. Rook already knows everything I do. That's why I hired him. So I could know more."

The cop's eyes narrowed.

"Look, Sergeant Balsdon raised questions about the
Ace of
Clubs.
The plane was missing, and so was my granddad. Then the plane was found, and I wanted answers. I hired the person I thought was the best digger for the job. Rook located my grandfather's grave, so I flew back to Britain. I had what I wanted. End of story."

Ramsey passed her his card.

"If Rook contacts you, you'll call me, right? We don't want to see someone else get killed, and you involved. Life is too short to waste it in prison."