"Of Angels and Men"

First there was only fear. A cold , clutching, icy fear. His hair was damp with sweat. His pulse reverberated in his head, pounding his temples. Slowly….unbearably slow, his mind began to stir. His burning chest begging him to breathe. His eyes opened. Aware. Awake. He gulped in a deep fast breath, popping up on his elbows. Icy cold tendrils of sweat coursed down the back of his neck, merging into a small stream at his shoulder blades. Understanding seeped in. The fear replaced by rage, foreboding. He vaguely knew himself. He collapsed back down on the bed. Eyes wide open. Slowly the sounds of the night reached him. The incessant buzzing of the neon
lights outside his window, third floor. He stared blankly at the ceiling, the dancing hues of reds and violets from the shrieking neon's casting surreal lights across his sweat beaded face. Still his eyes remained fixed, unblinking, stoic. Upon closer observation, one would understand. He was no longer here. He was not aware of the room, the sounds. He was internal, rapt. A machine, computing.
Thomas Zachary Cunningham was an addict. Physically his body kept him craving. Any means, heroin, cocaine, opiates, narcotics was used to alleviate the sickness to come. He was always consumed, torn, twisted. For Zac, each day was a living nightmare, but drugs were the least of his demons. Zac was 27 years old, slightly autistic, brilliant, a savant and irreparably insane. There was seemingly no end to the excesses to which he would submit his body. Along
with the incredible highs, also came the unendurable and murderously painful lows. It was here in one of the sick,
unbearable lows that all of him now resided. During this time in the trough, a landscape of hell, Zac was most
dangerous. Capable of any atrocity. This was why he had awakened
trapped inside himself. The machines wheel’s turning, plotting, scheming.
For most of us fairly well-adjusted, normal people thrust into the emotional state Zac endured, we would go
completely, uncontrollably mad. We would welcome death. Total defeat. For Zac, this was his life. An everyday
existence of pain, decadence, foul and heinous events. Day after agonizing day. Amazing what a human being can
become.
Zac swung his legs from the bed. His whole body was sore and heavy. At 6’ 2”, 158 pounds, he looked gangly if
not somewhat emaciated. If it had mattered to him at all, he would have wrinkled his nose at the odors rising from the
bed covers and his boxers. It wasn’t bad enough to warrant action yet. His clothes hadn’t been washed for eleven
days. But, Zac compulsively changed two to three times each day. Giving the fabrics a reprieve every eight hours or
so. Zac was not maniacal, no there was always a purpose. Another time and place, a different upbringing, proper
medications, Zac might have been a six-figure income executive. Life had different designs, as it so often does.
Zac pulled on a pair of Levis. He was still wearing the tank top tee commonly known as “wife beater”. He knew
without looking that a long, dark, rust-colored blood stain tainted the lower left of the “wife beater”. As an after
thought he quickly tucked it into the jeans. Reaching down to the floor, he grabbed a short sleeved dark blue silk
shirt. He put the shirt on while walking to the bathroom. He gave himself a once over in the mirror, extremely careful
not to make eye contact. The last time he’d made eye contact, he’d lost just over three hours…. not tonight. Tonight
he had something to do.

First thing to hit Zac’s oblivious nostrils as he stepped out of the efficiency apartment into the hall, was the odor of
old dried urine, reminiscent of a poorly maintained nursing home. The kind where the sick, paralyzed, forgotten
Alzheimer’s sufferers reside. The smell reached his brain, but his conscience never noticed. Tiger time. The
soreness was leaving. He moved steadily, his body did not betray the nagging tug of withdrawal just beneath the
surface.
Down the back stairs he went, taking them two at a time. He felt just capital now, but he knew all too well the feeling
that would replace it. For him, tonight….that was not an option.
The reason he chose the back stairs and exit was simple. A reflex action, a smart one. Zac was unsure how long he
could remain undetected at his current domicile. He was uncertain because it was not his. The girl it had belonged to
was dead. Just another unfortunate caught in Zacs’ wake, while he pursued survival. Zac was only mildly concerned.
He believed she was most likely a weekly renter. She made it hard to be certain. She had been fresh, compared to the
usual suspects, the typical girl on the “track” – street. Most girls on the track were wasted within five , six months
. The longer they made it the lower the life expectancy. Jail, death, geographical relocation all played their part in the
life of the typical whore. At any rate he dared not venture out by way of the front desk. Zac had been here four days
now, at best he figured two more nights before some pot-bellied oaf wearing a three-day-old beard and half his meals
on his shirt came looking for the girl. No doubt he would be prepared to take either the rent or a sexual barter for one
more night. Imagining the surprise on big bubbas’ face when confronted with Zac, caused a small sinister smile to crease his face.
Zac stepped out the back exit. He was met by a sticky 83 degree September night. Nashville, Tennessee. Music
City, U.S.A. His new jungle.
Dickerson Pike, past the Trinity Lane intersection went from four lanes down to two, this two and one half mile
stretch was called the “track”, “Ho Stro”(whore stroll) by those who worked it, cons, pimps, dealers and of course the
ever present prostitutes. A place where the song is sad, the flag torn and the flower is a small fake rose in a glass tube,
a crack pipe. The local pastime on this stretch of road is vice. Adult book stores and peep shows. Flop houses, old antiquated car washes and laundry mats. On Dickerson Pike you had better pack some heat or become somebody’s
meat.
The “track” was the ideal place for Zac. Most of the night people would never be missed, not by anyone who would
complain. As is the case in most vice-ridden urban areas, the criminally inclined and morally challenged, post up and
take over the blighted area. They live off the hypocrisy of the suburban low-lives. Usually the semi well-to-do, the
sons of late or retired daddies who passed on their small businesses to these “prodigals”. Those on the Ho Stro call
them mars, tricks, johns. The name changes with the hustle or con perpetrated on the universally street stupid.
Probably one of Zacs’ most useful talents was the ability to discern a persons intentions, motives and what was
really “going down”. His uncanny ability to “see” the truth, served him well in this environment where survival of the
strongest was a daily fact of life. Zac was unrivaled. To those who wish to draw another bitter breath of the tracks
stained existence, he was blessed with what may be the only virtue that mattered. Seeing evil for what it was.
Few spectators came to the track. There was, of course, the cops and the “do-gooders”, missionaries with soup
kitchens, beds for the displaced, prayer groups. The converted, deserted warehouses had a few occupants until the
sting of winter came calling and lest we forget, the Vanderbilt University nursing students. Every semester a new
curious group comes through with fresh needles, condoms and AIDs awareness literature. Some they help, but for the most part this was a jungle. A stark, crazy area. A predator and prey wildlife documentary.
Watch as the addict approaches the dealer: “Wassup dog? Man, chew got some work?
Dealer, also known as twerker or slinger answers, “ What chew working with?”
“I got a three piece bout”. A three piece is thirty dollars. The dealer knows the ominous “bout” means the addict is short. He now has to clarify with more questions. “Whatchew trying to do man?”
“Shit, at least a half.”
“Where’s the paper?”
“You got it wit chew?”
“Mannn, puh-leeze niggar, why you wanna come at me like that, you already know..Awh-ite” (alright)
“Come on dog. I ain’t tryin to sweat chew. You already know.”
A typical small time sale out on the track.
Tonight, Zac was on a mission. He had to score some heroin, get some opiates in his blood, calm the fury. He had
to bring some order to his madness. He had to find the little freak he had been shadowing since his arrival in Music
City. He had become an expert at spotting her. He had trained his eyes to see her a half mile away. The way she
moved, her silhouette was hard wired to his mind. Zac knew things, he always did, somehow. She was not all she
seemed. There was a contradiction.
Regina Mary Gardener was quite a sight. Even now, in the throes of a four day binge, she was singularly beautiful.
Gina, A.K.A. Precious, A.K.A. Lil P, was not ready to stop. Far from it. She had been providing her special
kind of services the last seventy plus hours. Stealing was most lucrative for Lil P. Relieving the “mark” or “john” of
the currency in their wallets was her specialty. Lil P was an expert at multi-tasking. She would take over, coax the
pants down around the ankles of her prey, maintain eye contact while providing blissful oral service all the while
taking the contents of the wallet without ever removing it from the bunched up trousers. Seventy per cent of her talent
resided in her distracting looks. Pure innocence. Curly, shoulder length, fiery red hair. Deep emerald eyes. Long
thick lashes. A face splashed with freckles and dimpled cheeks all painted on pale white, flawless skin. But, this
beauty continued, from her perfect neck and long slender limbs to ample breasts. Petite body, long legs ending in
perfectly proportioned feet. All in all, in another world, a rare beautiful princess.
Gina was pursued by every pimp and hustler on the track. Even more to her credit was her ability to remain a free
agent. No attachments. All for good reason. Lil P would be a pimps greatest liability. She was, at the very least,
untamable. Even more, Lil P was dangerous. Most pimps’ stables would be torn to pieces by the addition of LilP. She
would steal the girls blind, create jealousy with her flirtatious antics and worst of all bring po po (the police)sniffing
around with her prolific thievery. Still, Gina , Lil P, was desired instantly by all who cast an unfortunate eye on her.
The forbidden fruit. One taste meant dire consequences. That taste could leave a man or woman robbed, cut, or dead,
but always, always heart broken.
Zac saw her immediately. Her seductive walk branded in his psyche. He knew her gait like he knew his own
bloodlust, intimately. Zac had no desire to bed Lil P. The thought was repulsive to him. In fact, Zac had never even
heard her voice. Always with eyes open and an ear to the ground, he knew things…somehow. He knew that every
other Tuesday night between eleven and twelve-thirty , Lil P would meet an eighteen wheeler at the Circle T Truck
Park The truck stop was enormous. Four restaurants, showers, high speed DSL hook ups, the works. Everything an
owner or driver would need. Each time the maroon Volvo Tractor displaying Davis Connelly Transport, Daphne,
Alabama, came into Circle T so did Lil P.
Everything Zac saw went into his memory. He was brilliant, a savant and completely insane.
The Circle T was not a place you would ever find Lil P. She wasn’t a “lot lizard”, a term coined by truckers to
describe the prostitutes that frequented the truck stops. For the most part, these whores were burnouts, walking the
track was no longer viable. They were threadbare and lazy. Lil P felt herself above that. She was not a prostitute in
her mind. No, she was a binge addict with a sex drive born from her time spent in child pornography. She came from
a wealthy family whose money was only rivaled by their perversity. Make no mistake, Gina was somebody’s
daughter, somebody’s friend, somebody’s somebody. She would get her fill and vanish for eight or nine days. She
would show up as mysteriously as she had left. This had become part of her allure, her legend. Another part of her
mystery was her age. When she first hit the track, she looked all of fourteen and after four of five days without sleep
she would age to a lovely eighteen to twenty year old.
None of Lil P’s street creed or legend meant shit to Zac. He was a machine. Always out for himself. What mattered to Zac was Lil P’s movements. When she left Davis, usually in the late wee hours, she would invariably go to the track. She would stop at a first floor room at the corner of Dickerson and Pike, the Metro Hotel. She would cop a
half ounce of hard (crack cocaine), then indulge in her other pastime. She would pickup/seduce two to three of the younger new girls working the track.
The pimps knew, finally, after a few of these special vacations had cut a nights income. They were understandably angry. The pimps were still clueless as to where the girls went, but they knew Lil P was behind it. The most important
thing to these men, like all business men, was the paper, the cheddar, the cheese, the fucking money! A fresh new face could command four hundred to six hundred on a week night, eight hundred to a thousand on a warm weekend night.
No one knew where or what went on. Zac knew. He knew things….somehow.
Zac knew the power of information. Zac was a machine, an automation. He did what was practical to further his plans. He wasted nothing. He bathed when his odor might hinder him. He ate when the mirror revealed his malnourishment. Most importantly, before all other considerations, he was a killing machine. He was as complicated
as he was lethal. He was a clockwork of wheels and cogs all working toward two interconnected objectives. Pain and gain. His greed and sadism were matched only by a subconscious self contempt he wasn’t aware existed. To Zac, it was the power which sustained him. A seething hatred that burned straight through him, exposing to the world around him an evil shrouded in a pleasant handsome face. Evil disguised brilliantly in what to all outward appearances was
just another street rogue, a harmless addict. Zac was a duality, a machine and a force of nature. A true sociopath, an
antisocial black hole, from which no sympathy, no mercy, no light could ever escape.
Zac had one fear only. Always he was in fear that a day would dawn with no prey. No one to torture. He would have to settle for less than blood. That was no option.
The name on the shiny new plaque read, Detective Major Nathaniel Richard Lay. An award of brass and wood bestowed on men who had to touch the untouchables. An award for those unfortunate few who had the fortitude to delve into the abyss of human malfunction. It was a hopelessly inadequate gesture, presented by bureaucrats who, if they had a clue, would try to fire the moron responsible for the pitiful charade. Ric Lay knew all this, but his intelligence, humility and insight were such, that he took no offense. If he could spare others the knowledge of what existed out there… well, he would gladly feign gratitude for good intentions. Ric was a
thirty eight year, Detective Major on the Metro Nashville Police Force. He had a Masters degree in Forensic
Psychology with a minor in Law Enforcement Administration form Vanderbilt University. He was no paperback,
fictional PHD flying coast to coast solving crimes of passion. Ric was baptized in babies drowned in kitchen sinks.
His teachers had no voice, sometimes no head, always dead. Detective Major Ric Lays’ school was spent inside the
minds of living, breathing, walking demons masquerading as humans. Ric didn’t work the gang beat or the common
drive-by shootings. Ric chased monsters. He was a modern-day Van Helsink. His monsters, like those of folklore,
prowled the night leaving trails of the dead.
Detective Major Lay worked alone. He was six feet, two hundred ten pounds of hard dedicated man. Only his eyes
gave him away. His eyes proclaimed to all, he had secrets, keep your distance. He had learned to be cautious. He had
to let his mind roam with the devils. In order to profile a monster, he had to become a part of the unspeakable. He had
to let his psyche become a captive of the thing. A thing no human description could ever convey. His was a dangerous
occupation. It wasn’t the arrests, it wasn’t physical where lines are drawn and boundaries kept, it was eternal. The
danger inherent in his job was in the world of ideas and thoughts, deep inside insanities, elusive boundaries. He had
seen more than one of his contemporaries lose himself. He watched as associates lost their way. Einsteins equations
held true, nothing escapes the blackness.
Zac watched. His patience and discipline would have left a sniper commander in complete awe. He was
undetectable. He watched the truck from two hundred yards away. Lil P had been in there over four hours. His heart
rate was fifty three beats per minute. His respiration was slow, deliberate. In four hours his only movement had been
his eyes scanning. He had blinked three times.
The two inside the big Volvo sleeper/living compartment were oblivious to the intense surveillance. Davis was spent. Again, Precious had let him indulge all of his fetishes. She enjoyed it. Lil P had her tiny handbag with her. As always it contained only three items. Feminine fresh wipes, condoms and a cell phone. She was wiping herself down. She hadn’t been high in over an hour.
Lil P liked Davis. He was her only regular. He was a freak, but that she could handle. She would leave five
hundred dollars richer. She had wiped down her arms and neck. Now she took a fresh wipe to her right foot and after
cleaning her toes and soles, she grabbed her left ankle with both hands and brought her foot to her face. She whistled
at Davis who was blissfully smoking a Newport with his eyes closed. When he looked her way, she playfully licked
her big toe then sucked the pinky toe into her mouth and winked at him. Davis almost dropped his cigarette. She
giggled at him and continued to bathe with the perfumed wipes. Most “tricks” never got this kind of personal
attention, but he let her take control. She liked the way he worshiped her whole body. He wasn’t a psycho like most
of the animals out there. Plus like always she had told him an epic story of a friend who was in a bad way. Suffice it
to say, she easily got him to cough up another seventy five. Now she had more than enough to fulfill her desires. Gina
had sought out just one girl earlier. A real beauty. She began to feel moist heat between her legs, just thinking of her.
She couldn’t wait to hook up.
About a quarter of a mile south of Trinity Lane on Dickerson, Kera Kelley was walking across the lot of the defunct
and dark Noble Car Wash. Kera had made sure Binky, her pimp, had seen her crossing the chained-in lot. The city
had set steel poles in the asphalt about waist-high and strung heavy gauge chain through eye bolts atop the poles. For
awhile, police cruisers would se on the lot, but that became too costly with man hours and windshields. The chains
were little less than a nuisance to the flesh and drug trade on the corner. Lucy Avenue ran down the side of the
carwash and two doors down Lucy, it was business as usual in the alley. Beginning around two p.m. till two a.m. the
mouth of the alley did a brisk trade.
It was three fifteen a.m. Wednesday, Kera Rene Kelley was just arriving at the alley. She glanced back to see if
Binky was following her in his ninety four Coupe De Ville. She snapped her head back and to the left, her ponytail
swishing in the air. Her eyes searched the alley. She began walking, she was to meet Lil P in the alley way around
three thirty. She knew from the other girls, that if you disappeared with Lil P , the consequences could be harsh. She
had talked the hot, young red head into meeting now instead of Wednesday afternoon. This way she shouldn’t bring
too much wrath down on her head. Most of the traffic was over for the night.
Kera was nineteen. She would be twenty in September. She had made her way to the track in mid July. Binky had
found her strung out on crystal meth, a new plague crossing the country like a wild fire in the wind. While crack
cocaine was nasty, it was a binge drug. A run on crack was short lived. When the money ran out, you were done. A
small dose of meth could keep you awake for days on end.
Binky had cleaned her up and had recognized her brand of spiritual bankruptcy almost instantly.
Kera was a product of multiple dysfunction. Polyschema pathology was the newest new age psycho-babble. She
was born one generation removed from Southern trailer trash in Glasgow, Kentucky, only fifty five miles from where
she now stood. At six, Keras’ mother found herself single, broke and trying to manage a daughter plus a healthy pain
pill habit. Hydrocodone, oxycodone….hillbilly heroin. At seven, her mothers’ boyfriend took a special interest in
Kera. He bought her silence with several effective currencies, guilt, shame, food, toys and threats. A five pronged
attack form which no seven-year-old could escape. Kera soon accepted the attention as love, the gifts as rewards.
Even her own body betrayed her. By nine, she was enamored by the sensations of climax. Her power over a grown
man made her feel a false sense of control. By eleven, her mothers next boyfriend needed no such weapons, no
orchestrations whatsoever. In no time at all, Kera seduced him. She was the real McCoy, a genuine Lolita. Kera was
an expert at coaxing a man or woman, for that matter, to climax. Her prowess came with an awful price. More men
had ejaculated in her mouth than there were days in a year. Some nights on the track, eight to ten men at an average of
twenty dollars each. Kera had no clue who she was emotionally. She was, maybe, at a twelve year old level. Her
guilt, shame and pain created her own special self contempt. Her feelings of inadequacy and unworthiness would soon
be insurmountable without divine intervention. Soon Kera would join the unfortunates who come to believe they
deserve a wretched existence. Only oceans of unconditional love can conquer that kind of spiritual deprivation.
Tonight though, she was nineteen going on twenty, self forgiveness hadn’t even crossed her mind. The same
pigheaded rebelliousness that had caused her to leave home at seventeen, was alive and well. The mysterious
invitation, an opportunity to rendezvous with Lil P was a temptation she had no power to refuse. She sauntered on up
the alley, her lithe, five foot eleven, one hundred thirty five pound, young hard body giving away her good mood with
a fresh bounce to her step.
Zac rose to his feet. His first deliberate movements in almost four and a half hours. His target was on the move.
Lil P had left the big rig. She wasn’t leaving the Circle T, he observed, just as he had predicted to himself. Returning
to his former position, Zac relaxed. Zac knew things always, somehow.
When she came up the street, she did not disappoint. True to her previous pattern, Lil P went straight to the drug
dealers spot. A call from her cell phone while in the bathroom of the Circle T had no doubt brought him. They always
met at the parking lot of the Days Inn on the corner of Trinity Lane and Dickerson Pike. She copped a half ounce of
hard(crack cocaine), continuing on her way, she left the dealers car on foot. She headed south on Dickerson. Walking
without a care, oblivious to the menace which beheld her. Zac followed, like a jungle animal, confident in its power
yet subtle enough to remain in shadow, careful not to reveal its superiority to its prey. Still Zac was barely contained.
Muscles tense, taut, ready to explode in fury. Flesh and blood, bone and sinew, fear and loathing were the elements of life with Zac Cunningham.
Seventy five yards over the hill from the intersection, forty five yards from the jungle beast, Lil P continued south.
Walking her sexy walk, daydreaming of pleasures to come. The last thing she wanted was to attract a “john”.
Unfortunately, her beauty combined with her gait betrayed her. A mid-sized Camry sedan, containing a mid-aged
male as unremarkable as his conveyance, whipped into the lot of the Soap-N-Suds Laundromat, stopping thirty feet in
front of Lil P. The occupant was already anticipating the price for something so divine. Lil P had other ideas and
somewhere she had to be. She crossed in front of the vehicle acting as if it did not exist. The sharp, quick burp of the
Toyotas’ two-tone horn collapsed the house of cards she was constructing. She looked, wincing toward the car, already
seeing the passenger window descending smoothly.
“Hey there, baby girl” mid-aged called. “What’s up with you tonight?” using the latest hip hop movie line.
“Yo dude. Sorry, but I’m not what you think. K?” she came back.
“So how much are we talking here?” he persisted.
“Look, man, no offense, but I’m not a date, okay? So you know, roll on…awh-ite?”
Lil P never burned a bridge if she didn’t have to. Besides, she never knew who might be another Davis.
Like so many who get a closer look at Regina, he was instantly obsessed. He wasn’t done yet.
“Hey, come on girl. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
To show he meant it, he fanned out four one hundred dollar bills.
“So whaddayasay?” he pleaded.
Charles William Bratcher, a middle-aged, middle school principal from Goodlettsville, TN. He made a fatal
mistake while lowering the window. He had pressed both the passenger and drivers side windows down.
Suddenly he felt a quick, sharp burning sensation just beneath his belt line, above the left thigh. As he was turning
his head toward the open window, a curious thought swiftly crossed his consciousness, “Isn’t the appendix on the right
side?”
Inside of a second, Charles received another surprise. A handsome, smiling young man was looking him in the eyes.
“Hey, look sir. We don’t want any trouble, okay?” Zac said pleasantly. He raised up looking over the roof of the
car at Lil P. He smiled and winked at her diverting her attention, while he swiped an eleven-inch, surgically sharp
blade across the “marks” shoulder, cleaning off the dark almost black, fresh blood.
Zac leaned back down, smiling at Mr. Bratcher, who still hadn’t registered what was happening. Charles wasn’t
quite himself. He felt lightheaded as he met the gaze of the smiling young man. He was aware that the eyes weren’t
smiling. Contempt was the only idea Mr. Bratcher could muster to describe the eyes looking back at him. Had he not
been bleeding to death, his senses might have screamed EVIL! To his brain.
In a low, sinister voice, Zac said “If you leave right now, this very second, you might live. Now put the car in drive
and go back that way.” Zac gestured over his left shoulder toward the traffic light, just beyond line-of-sight over the
hill.
Understanding came over the dying mans’ face. He thought the sinking, empty feeling he was experiencing was
fear. It was not fear. The school principal was in shock, his blood pressure plummeting. He punched the gas and
turned quickly onto Dickerson Pike. He was aware now of a lukewarm flood between his legs. A rhythmic pressure
inside his pants. Just over a third volume of his blood was now outside ole Chuckys’ body.
One hundred yards up the street, a cream colored Camry slowly passed through a red light veered right, went over
the curb and hit the corner of White Castle Hamburgers. No damage. The cars airbag ignored the love tap the car had
given the building.
Inside the Camry, Charles William Bratcher stared lifelessly at the dashboard. What he never realized, even as the
last breath was escaping his lungs, was simple…justice had been served.
Lil P was staring dumbfounded at her rescuer. He was tall, good looking and had sent the trick away with just a few
words. She began turning on the charm, “Well, thank you stranger” smiling and adding extra southern drawl. Zac
smiled back “Not a problem, in fact, it was my pleasure.” He replied in as harmless a tone as he possessed.
Lil P closed the gap between them, intentionally looking him up and down in an exaggerated way. Then she bit her
lip. Although he revealed nothing, it was all Zac could do to contain his revulsion.
“I haven’t seen you around here before. Are you new to Music City?” she asked.
“ Actually, yeah I am.”
“Hey look, it’s late and I gotta run, but I’ll be around tomorrow. Want to hook up? You know, maybe I can show you some hot spots. Whaddaya say?”
Zac pondered for a moment. He thought for a brief second of severing her head. He held back. He looked at her
coolly and said, “you know somehow I feel we might be seeing each other sooner than you think, Gina.” He then
casually touched his forehead in an informal, friendly salute, turned on his heel and walked away.
Lil P was a little confused. Had she told him her name? She had been up a long time and was coming down hard.
She was never put at a disadvantage. Even more infuriating, had she been dismissed?
Regina Anne Clark did not scare easily, yet, now her neck was tingling as if an electric current was moving through
her. Ginas’ instincts served her well here on the track. She knew to trust them.
Zac was seething. “Why had he done that?” He had shown his hand, veiled as it was. Zac knew things. What he
knew now… his prey had been alerted. No matter how miniscule the revelation, he knew better. His anger with
himself consumed his actions for the next two hours.
What would interest a psychologist was the fact that Zac, having just committed murder, would never think about
that particular act again. Bratcher was simply in his way. Ole Charlie was not part of the plan. Zac dispatched him as
a reflex action. He had automatically assessed the situation as he crept up on the unsuspecting pair. He was so fast and
fluid, Lil P never saw his knife. Zac had spent many hours on his blade, sharpening it , compulsively over and over.
He struck so fast and accurately, Bratcher scarcely felt a thing. Zac took no pleasure, no emotion at all. The man was
between himself and the prey. The prey would bring that bliss he needed. To lose his prey was not an option.
At 3:42 a.m. Lil P turned up Lucy Avenue toward the alley. Before her encounter with the school principal and Zac,
she had been reveling in the whole idea of several hours with Kera. Now, all her alarms were going off. Her highly
perceptive instincts told her to get the hell out of Dodge. Unfortunately, her craving for instant gratification was
stronger. Still, she remained preoccupied by her earlier encounter. Something…something was off. But, what?
Detective Sergeant John Atkins had been asleep on the couch in the common room at downtown Metro when he got
the call. Atkins wasn’t lax or a slacker. He just hadn’t been home since 7:45 a.m. Monday . He was waiting for the
crime scene investigators to identify the young girl. She had been found in a stolen car on Kramden street. Her
murder had been over kill. A straight-forward cut throat. The wound took out both carotid arteries. It was very clean
and very deep. Jaw to jaw. A clump of the girls brown hair had been literally yanked from her head. Apparently.
Someone had reached in the passenger side window, grabbed a handful of hair, then with great force had pulled her head back and down so violently that here neck was broken, completely. There had been no need to slit the pretty teenagers throat.
So, Atkins was sleeping when the call came. Forty seven year old Charlie Bratcher was ready to tell a dead mans
tale. Six calls came in at 3:33 a.m. to 911 dispatcher. The black and whites were on the scene in just over a minute, in
three minutes Metro P.D. were four cars deep. The scene was secure. Detective Atkins caught the call.
Atkins was five foot nine inches, one hundred seventy five pounds of devoted cop. He was brash and crass, but his
squinting eyes could soak up and recall every detail of a homicide scene. After a once over of the Bratcher murder
scene, Atkins stored every detail he could immediately see in the macro world. He ordered three of the uniforms to
secure witnesses and gather their contact information. Two others were to help the scene investigators with processing
evidence. Then he began his own grid inspection. Atkins didn’t care about anything now, but what the perp may have
left behind, besides the obvious dead body. At 4:30 a.m. a slight dew began forming , moisture doesn’t stick to oil like
oil left from a murderers’ hands. Atkins bent to look at the Toyota. Fortuitously, Bratcher was vain about his car . It
was clean. What was of interest to Atkins was the palm prints on the roof of the car. Atkins whistled, a bald man with
surgical gloves and bifocals on the end of his nose, raised his eyes from the passenger floor and looked up at the
detective, over his spectacles and through the drivers window. Atkins raised his eyebrows twice in quick succession
and cast his eyes toward the ceiling. The CSI guy backed out of the car and rose to meet Atkins at the roof.
“I got some partials and three good palms, Carl”. Atkins said while pointing out the prints.
“Yep, looks like you have something. I’ll go get the dryeez . We need to get these before they tow it to the shop”.
Atkins continued his inspection, while Carl went after the print gear. Already, Atkins had noticed some similarities
to a Jane Doe case. Both victims were killed in cars with air, yet, the window was down. Of course, it was late, the
temperature had gone down a lot, still, something was similar. He couldn’t put his finger on it.
The young girl had been found around 4 p.m. Saturday. It was almost 5 a.m. Thursday morning. Four days and
some change. He felt that the murderer must still be in the area, also, whoever did this liked to work up close. Wet
work was the term and very clean. Atkins’ expression was one of intense concentration. He felt a chill run down his
spine. These murders were connected. He had no evidence, no connections. Atkins just felt it. He wrote himself a
mental reminder to call Ric Lay. Ric would want to know.
Ric was up early. An uneasy feeling had been pressing down on him for several days now. A battle was coming
and in the balance would hand the souls of several people, his included. He had been in this same kind of conflict
seven years ago. Those memories kept him up tonight. They were bitter reminiscings. Memories which bore him up
in pain and shame. Ric was a tough educated realist. He knew very few gray areas in his world of black and white.
His world of the real. Ric had known the ethereal, a place that was in conflict all the time with Rics’ comfortable
world. He hated the abstract, even though he could navigate those murky waters expertly. The vague and hidden
dimensions had always called to him. Now that familiar call was upon him. Something wicked had stepped from the
fog onto our plane. He wouldn’t have to tune in at all, this adversary would seek him out. Ric had been the bane of its
existence. They had battled before when Ric was younger, his convictions and faith invincible. Since then, he had
seen more than a man should ever witness. He had seen evil proliferate. He had fought it, at times seemingly to no
avail, but he still believed. God knows… he would need every gram of his belief this time.
Evil had an agenda, an objective. The mission, as always, were souls. A person has choices to make every day.
The best right choice has an advantage and a disadvantage. The advantage is simple, the good, the next best thing for
a person to do is always the first choice. The obvious choice. The disadvantage was, evil got the last word.
Free will, a person can weigh and measure, but sometimes the scale is so corrupt, the moral compass so far off
center that the best choice seems absurdly wrong. The good choice seemingly served no purpose and had no good end.
The last word is a tremendous advantage in the world of obsession. A time of self-serving.
Ric knew this, because he knew a battle raged. Knowledge, maybe too strong a word. His beliefs weren’t
unshakable. Ric was human, but he was also spiritually sensitive. He and Zac were virtually identical in physical
prowess, intelligence and the ability to discern the truth of a situation. Both men knew things, somehow.
Zac was right where he wanted to be. He lay on his stomach close into the shrubs at the top of the alley. He had
followed Lil P to the carwash with his eyes. When she disappeared down Lucy Avenue he ran across the road and then
darted to the upper end of the alley. Perfect. He had Kera in his sights. Zac as slightly disappointed, only one girl
waited. That was okay, Lil P was his prime objective when the two women met.
Zac knew something was wrong. He always knew things, somehow….the two were not coming toward him. Lil P
was on her cell phone. He needed to be closer. Zac was livid. Furious. Those bitches, those fucking cunts. How
could they change his plan. It was explicit. They were going back down the alley. NO! Zac flew to his feet. He ran
toward Dickerson, crossed, then walked as fast as he could toward Lucy Avenue. He had to get a better vantage point
in order to confirm what he was thinking.
It wasn’t long before his hunch was confirmed. Zac knew things, somehow.
The cab arrived twenty minutes after he had his premonition. As always he was spot on. No, wait. The cab had
only one passenger. Zac was a maelstrom of fury. The pressure in his head made his eyes bulge out. Once again, he
might have to expose himself, something he just didn’t allow himself to do. When Zacs’ plans went wrong, which
wasn’t often, his head felt like it would explode.
Although Zac couldn’t see who was in the cab, he knew it was Lil P. He knew because the other girl was leaning
into the window. Zac watched the cab turn south onto Dickerson. Lil P, Zac knew had been alerted by the presence.
He was sensitive enough to know that some people would react to him no matter how he tried to conceal his sinister
touch.
Zac knew she was heading to her car. He had followed her one night all the way to downtown, a three an a half mile
walk. Lil P hadn’t taken a cab that night. She had caught Zacs’ eye , walking toward the night with the sun rising on
her back. Zac had followed her to a pay park lot. She had her own space, paid by credit card. Lil P was an imposter
on the track. He knew this when she drove off in a new BMW. That had incensed and offended Zac to no end.
Tonight she had escaped, but not the other one. This girl was weak-minded and completely guided by the world. She
was clueless that the author of her final chapter was watching.
Kera was not a happy girl. Her get-together with Lil P was cancelled. Damn, she was pissed. She decided to go
back to the Crossland motel and see if anyone in the stable was still awake. Lil P had given her fifty dollars, just on
g.p. (general principles). It was going on 4:30 a.m. Kera wanted to get a fat rock and post up. Maybe Missys’ hook-up
would come through. He was known to deliver at any hour for fifty dollars or more. Suddenly without a sound, Kera
was in the powerful grasp of Zac. The hand over her mouth was cold steel. The arm around her waist, an iron band
Hot breath rushed into her ear. Kera couldn’t make out the words at first, probably because she didn’t want to
acknowledge the words.
“Bitch, judgment is upon you” hissed Zac. “Your sins against man are unpardonable. Your devotion to vice,
shameful. You are now fit for punishment only. No redemption. No mercy”.
As Zac paused for breath, Kera kicked back hard with her right foot, while biting down on the hand covering her
mouth….It worked, she was free, but as she tried to run, she found she couldn’t move her left foot. Frantic with fear,
she kicked at the arm holding her left leg. She looked down to take aim, saw the gleam, a mirror shine swiping
through the air. The blade caught her left Achilles tendon. Her leg was useless. The pain primordial. Kera screamed,
a high-pitched herald of fear and pain. Zac hit her with the butt of the big knife across her temple. Mercifully, Kera
felt no more fear or pain, for now.
Atkins told Carl to put a rush on the prints from Bratchers’ car. A complete autopsy would take several hours, but
preliminary findings had been faxed to Atkins office. The documents waiting for him when he arrived. Cause of
death appeared to be exsanguinations, bleeding out. Bratchers femoral artery had been incised clean, along with a turn
of the blade had guaranteed separation. Atkins would have to wait for morning for the complete picture…time of
death, toxicology, etc. Right now those considerations could wait. His couch was inviting him to sleep. He was not
going to turn it down.
Kera awoke with a pain racked body, so many parts screaming. The pounding in her head made it almost
impossible to think, to pinpoint all the sensations. When he spoke, it all became clear, agonizingly crystal clear. Her psyche almost cracked wide open. She thought she might scream, but she didn’t. She couldn’t see.
All he had said was, “Ah, you’re awake”.
“Why are you doing this?” she sobbed.
“ I’ve already told you” he whispered.
Kera was being kept in an old maintenance building beside the pool of an abandoned hotel less than three blocks where Zac had hoisted an unconscious Kera to his shoulder.
At times like these, Zac went into a semi-fuge state. Another consciousness took control of Zac, not completely, but
in such away to make motor functions the others domain. Zacs’ autism, lack of real emotions, greed, self interest and
intelligence made him the perfect host body for the dark prince, a fallen angel, once a royal sentry to the archangels’ domain. He became a spy for the most unclean. His spoken name Diablephetes (Dee-ob-le-f etees) called Dio. Dio
was above Seraphim, cherubim and the nephelim of the earth. Dio had been in the highest ranks of angels in heaven.
Before, many millennium before, a third of the earth would fall under his brilliant light whenever beckoned. That
was before, before his wickedness, before he was turned, before he knew shame. His light had been used countless
times to herald the coming of the Angels of the Lord, those whom the Lord God kept always in His presence. Those
whom conversed with Him daily and spoke freely with the Council of the Twelve. Dio had become full of pride and
arrogance, he had made himself a target of the deceiver, Lucifer. Gods’ most beautiful and fantastic creation, Lucifer.
Dio had listened to Lucifer, first out of respect and duty, but soon the velvet cords of that cajoling, coaxing voice
coursed through him. Declarations had been made. Promises of station worthy of Dios’ light and beauty. All lies.
The human, Dio had in his grasp, gave no resistance. Its’ mind was impossible to decipher. The soul was black, the
heart emotionless. The thing moved with purpose at each of Dios slightest commands. It soaked up Dios’ superior
discernment. Under Dios control, this empty human was a formidable adversary to anyone whose perception was
limited. Most would know to give it a wide berth, for those that challenged, death, swift and merciless.
That un-describable power coursed through Zac. Zacs autism gave him an ability unknown to the presence inside
him. Zac was a savant. He could split reality, not physically, but perceptually, externally and internally. He kept the
powerful presence busy with the body, its senses, mobility, surface functions. When the “other” was sufficiently
occupied, Zac would wander inside of it. He absorbed vast amounts of information. Oceans of time came and went in
minutes. Thousands of years condensed into memories, Zac understood completely. He could recall any fact. Soon
he would know more about the “other” than it knew about itself. Zac was gaining power from a presence that
believed Zac knew nothing of it.
Zac had carried Kera to the desolate hotel, undetected. He had moved down the alley staying in the shadows. The
quiet time, minutes before dawn. The birds had begun their twilight symphony. Zac had dashed across Dickerson
Pike, the burden on his shoulder borne effortlessly.
Now, in this place, Kera understood. She had to find a place within her. She knew…..she knew with all of herself,
that unspeakable acts would soon be forced upon her. She was helpless to do anything. Her mind was racing to find
an answer, a way out, either to convince her captor to let her go or find a place within to disassociate mentally from this
real life nightmare.
Her Name. The slightest glimmer of hope. She had heard, you must put a name in the killers head, make them
humanize you.
“Hello, sir?” she said tentatively. “My name is Kera. Kera Kelley…Are you there?”
Her head was held steady, unable to move, the knowledge brought a new wave of terrifying fear over her. Instantly,
her eyes welled up with tears.
“Look.” she gasped,” I’m some ones daughter….I love my mother…Oh my God…Please …Please”
Her plaintive pleas became a crescendo. At the mention of God, Zac became a fury.
“Talk to your fucking God through this you dirty, unclean whore” he hissed. She made him out vaguely moving
toward her. Suddenly pain burst into her lips and teeth. Blood and chunks of teeth filled her mouth. She blew out
hard, spewing blood and tooth matter straight up. Zac had taken the head of a sledgehammer and rammed it through
her lips and teeth. He raised it again. This time, with more force, he came straight down. The eight pound piece of
steel was planted firmly in her mouth.
The idea of what had just happened to her, compounded Keras’ terror and pain. Trying not to drown in her own
blood was excruciating. The jagged edges of her teeth, broken to the gum line, kept rubbing against the cold, bare
steel . Choking, coughing, terrifying agony. Now, barely holding on, Kera was blasted by a new pain. Something
hard, insanely long and wide was being thrust upward, into her anus. The pain was amplified, almost more than she
could bear. Mercifully, the steel was removed from her bloody mouth and replaced by the end of a hose. The plastic
felt enormous to Keras torn lips and stubbed teeth. The hose/tubing was clear, one and a half inch diameter flowing to
a Y. Zac wrapped the tube with a rag, smelling of dirt, grease and gasoline. He taped the rag and tube around Keras
lips and neck securing it in her mouth. She could no longer spit up her blood. Thankfully, it flowed more slowly. All
she could do was swallow it now. Keras world existed completely of pain and fear…yet, even worse awaited her.
Pure evil had yet to completely rear its ugly head.
Kera knew she was about to die. She tried hard to calm herself, but panic was all she knew. She was blowing blood
out her nostrils when she exhaled and sucking it down her throat on the intake of air.
Kera Kelley was being tortured.
Zac rolled the table closer to the wall. He had been preparing for almost an hour, while Kera had been knocked out.
He moved her so she could see what he had in mind. The pause in the torture was deliberate. He was giving his
victim time to adjust, time to come to her senses, time to feel every vile moment for what it was.
Kera saw the reddish rubber bag hanging on the wall above her. The pain her mouth had become a throbbing ache.
No longer so acute as to distract her from watching for the next horror.
“I need to clean you out, little girl” Zac hissed. Reaching above her he began to pouring water from a gallon jug
into the bag. At first, she misunderstood. She thought he planned to drown her, but the water never passed her lips.
The tube in her mouth was so large, it would have been almost impossible to swallow fast enough to keep up. Instead
the water, a tepid seventy five degrees, began to fill her bowels. Immediately she understood. The coolness of the
water spread throughout her abdomen, filling her.
Another jug was hoisted up by the mad man who held her captive. He poured and squeezed the large, red bag
forcing the water to penetrate and expand her bowels. Looking under the table he saw foul, brown liquid leaking,
dripping around the hose. Enough. He raised the bucket to her cheeks, grasped the hose and with one fluid motion
pulled steadily. The tube was bloody and smeared with feces as it came out of her anus.
“Aww, did that hurt?’ He taunted her. Keras muffled scream had provoked his words.
In a rush of fluid and gas, her bowels emptied into the dirty metal bucket. The foul odor reached her nose and she knew he had kept the her shit.
“Now taste of what you are made, whore.”
He began a litany, while pouring the fresh waste of her into a funnel connected to her “feeding tube”.
“Eat of your corruption. Choke on the bile of all you have wrought. Your decadence feeds you” he chanted the
words while Kera struggled not to vomit on her own waste. She lost. Shit and puke sprayed from her nostrils. She
was about to pass out when the tube was abruptly jerked form her mouth. The contents of the tube dumped on her face
and chest, as an outrageous plume of blood, bile, shit, spit and puke blew from Keras Kelleys' mouth . Deep, racking
coughs came after. Kera was reduced to less than an animal. Her last instinct, raging hate was all she had. Anger, ravaging murderous abandon. No more tears.
“Youewww….fuckinggg…sick fuckinggg bastard” she yelled, slurring the words, drawing them out. Slurring because she had no front teeth.
“Fucking kill me now! You fuck faggot. Sick fuck I swear if you don’t kill me, I will kill you. I promise”.
“SILENCE” Zac bellowed in her ear. Literally making her ears ring with inhuman resonance.
“Fuck you” she screamed back.
“Aw, God, where are you. Please …please” Kera pleaded, again helpless, her resolve waning.
“I’m so sorry. Please stop this. Some one pleeeease.”
Inside Zac, Dio had retreated inward. What Zac was doing now, was all his own. Dio had never been a possessing
demon. He had guided, coaxed. Dios’ power of suggestion was unrivaled. Even Satan, himself, had used Dio.
Personally calling on him, because at times, finesse and subtlety were required, virtues, the prince of all lies, did not
possess. The first time Dio had entered Zac, he knew he possessed an extraordinary spiritual being. In the last eight
thousand years, Dio had entered scores of humans for various reasons. None felt like this monstrosity of a man.
Whenever he pulled away, he felt as if their roles were reversed. Dio felt invaded, though he knew that could not be.
No man had yet discovered how to exist on the spiritual plane. Dio had finite knowledge, but it was eons ahead of
mans. He knew that man was close to the truth through science. Dio knew one day man would discover the other
realms, quantum physics, membrane therapy, relativity. Yes, they were close. They had already deduced eleven
dimensions, of course, Dio knew there were twelve. Dio was an unusual benevolent demon. More artistic, more
creative than destructive. Dio knew that the evil prince did not like to use him, but the fallen angel had practical
abilities useful to the cause. Still, this creature he was manipulating now, was the most evil being he had ever
encountered, except for Lucifer, himself. Dios greatest liability had been simple vanity. Dio had not an evil light in his
body…if you could call it that. Practical, he did what he was told. He was powerful. He was a skilled warrior.
Mostly, he was curious and thoughtful. What he didn’t realize and would not have believed possible, was that against
this human, Dio was vulnerable.
Ric Lay was at the Nashville archdiocese. One of Rics best friends was special counsel and a bishop in the service
of Cardinal Xavier Jerrocoh. Ric knew Bishop Adams was still at prayer and devotion, it was only 8:45 a.m.
Thursday.
Ric entered the main sanctuary. He has never ceased to be moved by the beauty, the reverent silence of Gods house.
Ric walked gazing at the stations of the cross, the marble statues were real saints, Mary, Jesus, Michael, Gabriel,
Raphael. As always, he was drawn to the Archangels. Michael, the supreme general of Jesus’ heavenly army. Gabriel,
herald, message bearer of the gospels. Raphael, companion, giver of strength and Gods healer. He loved them all. He
loved what they symbolized, love and power, greatness and humility, war and peace.
Just being here in this place where God is declared almighty, gave Ric strength and peace. He took a deep breath,
genuflected beside the pew, crossed himself and sat down. He pulled down the kneeler, planted both knees on the
padded rail and began to pray.
First he gave thanks. Next, Ric asked for help, strength and wisdom. After giving glory to God, Ric begged the Son
to protect those around him, before himself. To send warrior angels to battle by his side against the darkness and
principalities of evil, which he would soon be facing. His prayer was heard and answered instantly, because Ric had
put others ahead of himself, had asked for the protection for others first.. With that one simple act of selflessness, he
caused a gathering of angels anxious to go to his aid. Bishop James T Adams eased into the pew behind his close friend. Ric was enraptured. He continued to give glory and praise to the father and son. Being Catholic, he closed his prayer with a plea to Mary to look over his friends and family. Finished, he rose from his knees and sat silent in the pew. Bishop Adams cleared his throat before he spoke.
“Hello, my dear friend” he greeted Ric.
Ric turned to meet his eyes. “Jim, we have a problem.”
The fact that Ric dispensed with any formal greeting for the bishops station, confirmed the dire nature of the visit.
Although Adams had no talent for discerning the other worlds, he knew, all too well, his close friends’ incredible
abilities.
“I’m concerned, Jim. This time it’s worse. I can feel it. Jim, I don’t think I’m up to the task. I feel inadequate.”
Ric met the gaze of the bishops cool hazel eyes. He felt the love and compassion flowing from him. Adams was
seventy one years old, yet if one had to venture a guess, most would say, fifty five. Pure, clean living had preserved
the old cleric. Adams reached out and grasped the side of his anguished friends shoulders.
“Ric”, he said, “none of us are ever up to the task of fighting evil, you know this. We don’t have to be, my son, our
lord and savior has all dominion. We simply invoke His holy name and he will fight the battle for us”. Then as if
stating the obvious, “you know this”, Adams paused and chastising, he said, “Ric, don’t make any agreements with the
devouring lion…make no mistake. All doubt rests on the head of the deceiver”.
Rics’ body sagged slightly. Already he felt tremendous relief. “Thank you, your reverence”. He took the old
priests right hand in both of his and kissed the ring on his finger.
Atkins hadn’t called Detective Lay. He wanted to be sure of what he was dealing with. He headed down the hall
toward the lounge. It was already 9:45 a.m. The coffee in the small kitchen should be sufficiently old enough to wake
him up. He grabbed the patrol officers morning crime scene reports on the way to his office.
Something about the two recent murders, smelled the same to him...he wasn’t sure yet, why…it was just a cops
instincts ringing that bell in his head.
While reading the reports he came across a possible eye witness to Bratchers’ final minutes of life. A motorist,
traveling the same direction, had seen the Camry pull onto the street. As he approached the location where Bratcher
had pulled out, he saw two people, a white male and a white female. While he did get a close look at both, the sighting
was brief.
Other officers would be canvassing for video tape surveillance this morning. Another report indicated that the
female was fairly well known on the strip, the Pike.
Right now, Atkins was about to begin his chronological reverse play-back of the events. He found this exercise
useful in finding aspects of the case he may have overlooked., but first, he should call home. It was well past check in
time with his wife and kids.
Zac was close now. The best still to come. He was aroused. Zac generally could not even produce an erection, but
now in the ecstasy of torture, he experienced a sexual awakening. Soon, very soon, he would climax.
Kera was bleeding from her mouth and rectum. Her body was wracked with pain. Unfortunately, for Kera, she was
young and healthy, new to the track. The vigor and strength of youth were a curse to her now. She remained silent,
barely breathing. She could see clearly. She was being held in a shack. It reeked of stale oil and gasoline. From her
perspective, Zac appeared to be caught up in some kind of internal reverie. His arms were across his chest as if to hug
himself. He was rocking rhythmically back and forth. She watched. Every sixth rock he would sway side to side. She
turned her eyes away. She wanted death, but her body would not consent to her wish.
With a vision only possessed of heavenly inhabitants, the archangel watched with a different sight, it was if he were
there with her, with Kera. Truth be known in the physical realm of mans world, he was many light years away, but
Raphael was not limited to mans physics or laws. He watched because even though the adversary was not present to
witness the vile acts to come, Raphael would be. Slowly, with power and resolve, the angel spread open his wings.
He wore on his feet sandals, straps of gold wove over his feet and up the ankle. His robe was a shimmering midnight
blue, ripples of color and reflections moved through the garment, rendering it almost a living cloak. Yet, this was all
forgotten compared to the glory of his wings. The inside of the wings were like mirrors, shimmering concentrating
light as if a million suns had exploded all at once. The wreath across his brow, woven gold and silver, stopped at his
temples. The belt, like the robe and cloak, alive, a vibrant burgundy, brilliant in its splendor. And the sword, forged in
heavens furnace in the heat at the birth of the stars. It was like nothing else in all the known dimensions, unbreakable,
seemingly made of crystal or diamond. Light was pulled to its edges and like a prism, it bent and separated light. Its
edges living color, sharp enough to penetrate any armor, any shield. When it was swung in battle, it would sing in
glorious tones as it split the ether of space and time.
Raphael pulled the sword from its sheath pointing it upward toward the Most High. His voice, a velvet baritone,
spoke in prayer.
“O Holy Cross by you hell is despoiled, by you its mouth is closed to the redeemed, by you demons are made afraid, restrained and trampled under foot. Glory be to the Father, Son and Holy Ghost. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be. Amen.”
Raphael knew he couldn’t help the girl. Silently he asked the Blessed Virgin to help her at the end.
Diablephetes would not show himself. The former royal sentry and traitor had receded into the soul of the man., leaving orders then taking the cowards path. He had never slain the first born of a kingdom. Dio had never turned a city to salt or made all water as blood.
Raphael had stood with Michael, Gabriel, Phillip, Talbot, shoulder to shoulder he had stood with all of Gods’ first
knights, the archangels. He had fought the wicked fallen, battled almost to the death with Little Horn, until Michael
came and saved him. Raphael was meant to be a healing spirit, a companion in times of doubt. Through truth he
would restore faith to those who stumbled. His sword was the Sword of Truth. Nothing could hide from it, man or
not. God had created all things and the Sword of Truth was most mighty. Michael wore the Sword of Justice, Phillip,
the Sword of Liberty, Gabriel wielded the Horn of all Heralds, Talbot the Bow of Integrity, which kept the arrows of
love and goodness. Together, these were the weapons of the word of God, the foundation of heaven. Everything in
heaven and on earth was, because God spoke it.
Raphael swept his wings once, up and down, instantly he was in flight. He soared above the heavens, looked down
to earth, drew back his wings and vanished on a rail of light. He moved many hundreds of times faster than light speed.
A being made of light, but not of any spectrum known to the science or wisdom of man. His destination was in the
southeast of the new world. There he would meet several seraphim, volunteers prepared to be destroyed in their effort
to assist the man whose soul they already knew. A gathering would take place away from men. Offerings had to be
made. Praises to be sung. After the rituals were completed…battle.
Kera had barely coherent thoughts. She was on auto pilot. Breathing, staring, occasionally she would say “please.”
Zac was about to bring her back. Make her acutely alert. He let go of the metal clip, it was spring loaded, made to
attach to an electric post. Jagged little teeth squeezed mercilessly into the flesh of both of Keras’ nipples. New sharp
pain brought fresh, harsh muffled screaming. Zac put duct tape over her mouth. He had run the extension cord from
the electric service box. Kera was directly connected to four hundred forty volts of raw electricity. The clips now
running dark red with her blood would close the connection. Zac pushed the male pronged end he held, into the
extension cord.
No sound was made, Keras eyes rolled into her head. Zac watched intently, filled with glee. One of her nipples,
black now, blew, sending the clip bouncing and sparking off her body. With each contact, her back arched unnaturally
bowing so much one would expect to hear bones snapping. Zac unplugged the cords. He approached her tentatively,
unsure if she could pass a shock to him. He removed the clip the other clip, the burnt smell of flesh searing his senses.
Zac loved it.
“You see, little slut. Now, you know what punishments awaits your kind.”
Kera didn’t hear the words. Her heart was fluttering, not beating. Organs had misfired. She had lost her urine and
feces again. Vomit filled her mouth and would soon make its way to her trachea. Keras brain was dying, starved of
oxygen, it would soon, gratefully, shut off.
Zac knew he could not bring her back to consciousness. He acted quickly, ripping the tape off her mouth, loosening
the vice on her head. He moved her up on the table, where her head would drop off the edge and with one swift swipe
of his blade he slit Keras throat. The cut so high up on the neck that the white of bone and tendons of the jaw muscle
could be seen. Blood flooded out of her. Zac dropped to his knees letting the warm cascade drench his face and
shirtless body. He climaxed. A deep, guttural, grunting gasp escaped him. Euphoria. Bliss. Aaaaahhh…He sat
motionless until the torrent subsided. Slowly, he stood, the blood congealing in his hair and on his body. Looking
down at the lifeless body, he snarled, ramming his hands into the gaping wound. He yanked the girls tongue through
the slit, a touch he wished he had thought of before. A shame, he thought, as his pleasure shrank away. This was a
good spot. Zac would find another, he always did. He knew things, somehow.
Zac stepped out into a new day. It was around 10:30 a.m. and the world was abuzz. He pulled the rubber tubing
from around his left bicep, felt the drug rush to his brain. A warmth spread through him. It was here that he was most
comfortable while riding the white horse, heroin.
Zac had stashed a change of clothes in the outbuilding several days ago, Zac was a planner. The entity, that he
allowed to take possession, made sure of that. What the thing didn’t know was Zac made sure it stayed busy too. He
had gone “traveling” through the being several times. Each time he would venture a little deeper into the thing. Zac
understood so much now. He knew a battle was raging. He knew he had been inhabited by a fallen angel. Supposedly
a demon, but Diablephetes was no demon. He should not even be here. Zac was amazed that Satan, himself, let this
creature anywhere near him. Dio, as this angel was called, was vulnerable to Zacs penetrations. Zac had been gleaning
knowledge, unprecedented to mere men. Zac could invade the angel now, at will, like turning on a switch. He
couldn’t control it yet, but eventually he knew he would. It had always been when he was on the drug that he had the
most access to the fallen angel. While the chemical affected Zacs’ body, it also made Dio more accessible to Zac.
Unfortunately, the downside to this was obvious, Zacs’ physical body had to pay an enormous price. Lately, Zac had
taken other substances, but none had been as effective.
Zac began the process of turning himself over to…Zac snickered…”the demon.” He quickly cleared his thoughts
as he felt the fallen angel returning to his consciousness. Zac was so used to a sort of vague checklist, that now it was
a natural change over.
Diablephetes felt the sunshine. Tentatively, he began to test the senses of the human; sight, hearing, taste, touch and
last smell. Earlier the coppery smell of blood had permeated the angel, even though he had receded far into the
recesses of this being. Dio was amazed at how easy it had become to acquire all of Zacs awareness. Sometimes it was
almost as if he was falling into him, pushed. Had Diablephetes had more experience, had he been a god-hating
depraved demon, he would have left this creature screaming. As it was, Dio was clueless. The angel had no idea he
was slowly, but surely, losing control. Dio loved the sensations when the mortal put the drug into his veins. He could
feel the sensations, the bliss. Although he didn’t have to feel any of it, Dio had become accustomed to the feelings.
What he didn’t realize was Zac forced the feelings on him. Zac was trying to make the angel an addict. If he
succeeded his control would be complete. Zac was a genius, a savant. He knew things, somehow.
Atkins punched in the number of Rics phone 555-7272 (papa). Lay had volunteered in a Big Brothers mentoring
program. He had gotten the number so the kids could reach him. That was then. This was now.
Rics familiar voice greeted Atkins, “hello, you’ve reached my mobile” the recorded voice said cheerfully. “If this is
a police emergency, please dial 911, otherwise, if you need me personally, leave a number. I’ll call you back. Thanks
and have a blessed day.”
Atkins waited impatiently for the beep. “Ric, it’s Atkins. I’ve got a couple of homicides and well…I think they’re
connected. I don’t have any solid evidence yet, but I do have prints from both scenes. Call me.”
Atkins hung up his office phone. He began to look at the whole picture. Something was nagging him. Atkins desk
phone chirped at him. He had turned the ringer on low while he was awake.
“That was fast”, he thought.
“Homicide, Atkins” he answered.
“Hello, detective. This is Tom Frey. I work in the lab over at forensics. Anyway, I have a positive I.D. on your
Jane Doe from last Saturday.” He said. “Her name is Wendy Cutler. She’s a runaway from Elizabethtown, KY. She
was only eighteen. You already have the tox reports and other stuff, right?” he asked.
“Yeah, I got it.” He paused. “Damn shame. Who’s doing next of kin?
“Well”…the lab tech hesitated, “it’s still on you guys according to M.E. Preston. Sorry, man. I’ll get you
everything you need, names and numbers.”
Atkins blanched at the news. Last week the administration had told some of the captains on the force, the medical
personnel would be notifying next of kin in homicide cases. He could imagine the medical examiners and other
doctors balking at the request.
He reached for the phone again, time to check on those prints.
The Archdiocese of Nashville sat high on a hill in the Brentwood suburbs. A massive brick and stone edifice with
columns and ornate sculptures adorning its eaves and gables. The grounds were impeccably tended. Statues of the
saints and martyrs set throughout the expansive greens. Pathways moved in and out through the shrubs and gardens. In
and among the birch, oaks and maples Ric walked beside his friend. Adams was focused intently on Rics words as
they wound their way along the path.
“You know I’ll do all I can to keep this from spilling into the street.” Ric said solemnly. “I feel so helpless right
now, because I know he’s out there. I know souls are being destroyed, but worse, I know my adversary knows me and
I don’t know him. There’s no telling how many will fall before I even begin the chase.”
“And what can you do about any of that?” Adams asked, sternly.
“I know, I know. It’s just that I’m full of doubt. Yet, I know this time something is different.”
“What do you mean?” his friend asked.
“I’m not sure.” Ric replied, “Something in my visions…I see a man, a mortal man, no spirit, no Satan, this time.
Yet, I don’t feel adequate to the task.
Adams stopped on the trail. Ric continued a few steps then turned to look at the older man. The priests hand
moved to his chest, grasped the bottom of a large bejeweled cross, held the icon away from his body and looked into
Rics eyes.
“None of us are up to the task, my son. The power of the Lamb of the world is all you need. Pray on this, hard.
Repent of your doubt. Trust in Him who has all power.”
The priest was moved to support his friend, he pressed on, “read the twenty-third psalm. Let the Word of almighty
God be your rod, let the Word give you peace. Do not believe the deceiver who wants to weaken you.”
He took the cross from his neck and put it over the head of his friend. Ric looked at him incredulously. He knew
the cross to be a gift form the Holy Father. As he brought the cross down to Rics chest he prayed, “May the Lord who
made heaven and earth make provision for thy victory over thy enemies. May grace and mercy be yours. May the
Lord bless and keep you. May the peace of Jesus be with you. All glory to God the father. Amen.”
When the bishop concluded his prayer, Ric, knowing what the cross meant to him, reached to pull the heavy gold
chain from off his neck. Adams stopped him.
“Look, I can’t possibly accept this and you know it.”
“And I never said you could keep it, now did I?” Adams said, his lips curling up into a smile. “You need the cross,
what it represents. Even more what it will mean to the ones who will come against you. Take it, until you no longer
need it to fight the good fight. A time will come when you can pass the sacred cross back to me or whoever needs it
most.”
“O.k.” Ric conceded, “fair enough, I guess. Thank you.” There was more to it than that, Ric thought. He knew this
man too well. They had broken bread together, prayed together, cried together. Over seven years ago, Ric had begun
to experience the most realistic nightmares one could imagine. At the time they seemed meaningless, random. A series
of homicides had shown them to be prophetic rather than random. The dreams grew in intensity…until they could not
be ignored. Not sure where to turn, Ric had contacted a priest, Father Dunn, who had helped Ric on a case in the
churches’ neighborhood. Father Dunn had tried to help and he did, finally, with his dying breath. He said, “Bishop
Adams. Go to the bishop.” And with that…Father Dunn was gone, a victim of the first heavenly conflict Ric had been
drawn into. From the beginning, the priest had believed the conflict was meant for him and him alone. That was, in
the end, what killed him. His vanity and jealousy of Ric. Unlike Dunn, Adams knew Ric was the chosen warrior, he
knew it was not his battle to fight. His role was to teach Ric the nature of his enemy. This did not cause the bishop
any bitterness or consternation, quite the contrary, he was deeply humbled to have been chosen a mentor to the
detective. That had been over seven years ago and that struggle had bonded the two men. Each held the other in the
highest respect. Truth be told, Ric loved the bishop as a confidant, friend, father, brother. The feelings were
reciprocal.
Adams could sense his friends’ doubt. Like before, Ric was too humble, felt himself unworthy. If anyone had
asked Adams to pick between the pope and Lay to fight this battle, the Holy Father would never even have to unpack
his bags. Ric didn’t give himself enough credit. He had put the pieces together while coming under relentless attack.
It was only through seven selfless actions that he had prevailed. Seven was heavens integer, Gods’ holy number.
Satans’ number was six and variables of six. Ric had known nothing about the numbers. Adams had figured it all out
after the conflict was finished. He had never told Ric about it, figuring his friend had enough to deal with. This time
would be different. Already, waking visions had begun to haunt his friend. Adams knew Ric would need every
advantage. The first thing he needed was confidence, in himself and in God. The bishop would help see to both or die
trying.
Zac had made another successful transition into the fallen angels’ mind. Everything in this domain was light. Not
just light known to man, the visible spectrum of sight was a drop in the ocean of what Zac could perceive with Dios’
senses. Everything mass, memories, space, time, all things were light. Zac could attach himself to any of it and gain
understanding. He could also watch events as a spectator, present, but unseen. So many folds and creases with myriad
views and vantages. It had taken Zac, what seemed like many months, to master moving through this realm. Time
was different here. Once Zac had even become enthralled watching seraphim singing praises. Millions upon millions
caught up in reverie, moving in rhythmic waves. The scene had mesmerized him. He had startled himself after hours
and hours, so it seemed, imploding in on himself. The method was usually slower, but it alarmed him. As he
accelerated toward his plane, he felt solid again, consolidated, he regained his realm.
Incredibly, he found himself looking at his watch and laughed out loud. His laugh brought looks from others in the
convenience store. When he began the split, he had been checking the time. He had been “inside” for what seemed
like many hours. Yet, in his time, barely a few seconds had passed. Zac learned he could control this temporal
anomaly at will, dilating or constricting real time with little conscious effort. If he wished, he could stay in that
separate reality for as much as forty eight hours without consequence, mere minutes would pass. He could also remain
close to the primary consciousness and speed everything up. The problem, with this “speeding up,” was in the real
world, Zac would speed up too. The residual effect appeared exaggerated, somewhat Charlie Chaplinish. He had to be
careful how he used the technique. Infuriating to Zac, was Dios inability to stay with him when he killed. He
wondered how useful that other worldly speed would be.
Zac knew a conflict was still raging. He found it distasteful to think in terms of heaven and hell, up and down
good and evil, but he couldn’t find anything better so, fuck it. Heaven and hell, it was.
Zac was sliding backwards in time, moving on the light. There was no way to describe how he knew where to go,
hw to navigate. He simply thought of what he wanted and he was on his way. At first, the confusion had baffled him.
A kaleidoscope of images would play across his reality so fast he cold hardly make them out. But, practice makes
perfect, and so he had surfed the light until he knew how to engage a thought and disengage all others. Zac was
slightly autistic, he was a savant. His special talents were made for this. His ability to split his consciousness and
remain aware, 5 X 5 on multiple levels. These talents were hidden on the human plane, but here, among the very
fabric of everything, he became a most remarkable being. What he didn’t realize, and God help us all if he ever did,
was here, in this realm, his power could be virtually limitless. Zac was going back now, screaming tward some distant
past. Many millennium passing in seconds. Zac stopped abruptly. There, he saw the angel which currently inhabited
his physical body. Diablophetes was resplendent. A beautiful being in shimmering silver. He seemed a soldier to
Zac.
The being approaching Dio was beyond all description. It was as though a pure, multifaceted diamond had come to
life. Gold and silver vestments and towering ivory wings adorned his back and a long ruby-red, shimmering cape
followed, the ends carried by cherubim.
“Diablophetes. Greetings, my brother.” When he spoke, the voice resonated everywhere, Zac even felt the
vibrations. He was enthralled by the glowing angels’ voice.
“ The peace of Almighty God be upon you, prince Lucifer.” Dio said, reverently.
Lucifer, so this was the highest archangel , the morning star, the most unclean. Zacs’ vision wavered for an instant,
he had temporarily lost his concentration, but instantly recovered. He had to see more.
At the mention of God, Lucifer recoiled, “Arrrah” he hacked, hissed all at once, the sound of many voices trying to
get a bad taste out of their mouths.
“The peace of my father does not interest me, guard.” Lucifer spat. “What of the counsels vote. Am I to become
Lord of the Earth?”
Dio cast his eyes downward. “I’m sorry, prince Lucifer, they still meet. It seems three of the twelve question your
motives.” Dio paused, “Sir, many suspect you want to be equal to the Father.”
“How did this happen!” Lucifer seethed, enraged now, “ Who among us would betray my trust.” It wasn’t really a
question, more a statement.
“Find out, Diablo. I must know what creature betrays us. They threaten our plans. They threaten everything.
Find them and I will make you a chief in our new kingdom. You will finally be praised for your true worth.” Lucifer
promised.
Zac could feel Diablophetes emotions. The angel was unsure of himself, confused. Lucifer was vastly superior to
him. He conversed daily with the Father, even arguing with Him on occasion. Dio was torn, he loved God, but he
loved to be important. He wanted something...some recognition. He had served faithfully from the beginning, and
now, there were whispers, murmurings of a new being to be created in the image of God. A being imbued with a soul
of light, a soul like the Almighty Fathers. Lucifer wanted to reign over the orb of light. Life was to explode in that orb.
Angels by the millions had made the journey to view Gods’ work. Invariably, upon their return, they would join in
with the seraphim and all the beings of heaven to give praise and glory to the Lord. Zac could feel Dio’s resolve and
loyalty to God breaking down.
Zac could engage his talent further by dividing himself again, to follow others on paths of light or to look behind
heavens doors. He had never dared to approach the throne room of God. He had been to antechambers but never
farther. His intuition was heightened here as well. He knew if he entered the Holy of Holies he would be destroyed.
Zac didn’t know how he knew, but he knew. Some how, some way he felt Lucifer was behind the information. He
knew it. The dark prince had encouraged him to explore longer and deeper. They had never met. Neither knew what
would happen if they were openly aware of one another. Each had flirted with the idea. One day they would meet,
when the time was right.
Zac was on a special mission this time. He kept on concentrating on the realm of man, earthy men. Each time
only brought him back to his own singular awareness. He wanted to move along the bands of light here in his world,
apparently it was not possible. He could speed up, somewhat, but only his motions. To others, he appeared cartoonish.
He could use this speed to his advantage any time he need except when he was torturing someone. Those were the
times Dio left him on his own.
“Big pussy” Zc thought to himself. He was about to give up on using Dio to navigate on his plane of reality when…
he saw them. Zac froze. Diablophetes wasn’t aware of them yet, to Zacs’ perception. They were like specters, ghosts,
but seen through Dios’ eyes, they were magnificent. Brilliant beings, shimmering in light and beauty. Zac moved
deeper into Dio. The fallen angel gave no resistance. It seemed to Zac, the angel suddenly saw them too. Now,
Diablophetes practically forced Zac into himself. Zac knew the angel was terrified. He also discerned that Dio
believed himself to be safe from the other angels as long as he remained in the forefront of Zacs’ mind. “Fine”, Zac
thought as he caught the light. In less than a fraction of a second, he was searching through Dios’ eyes.
Michael had found the angel and the man easily. He rode the light with his wings to the darkest place. He saw Ric
and Bishop Adams because of the prayer. They were safe. Raphael came in a blaze of glorious light.
“My general, I bring news” Raphael said reluctantly.
“Please my brother, whatever you have found is not your fault. Now, tell me what news you bring” Michael said.
He could tell by the pain in Raphaels’ voice the worst had happened.
“My apology first. I know I should not allow my compassion overwhelm me, but she was a child, her memories,
her hardships…and then to die at his hand.” Raphael cast his eyes downward.
Michael had already given the light record of all Raphael had encountered while investigating Keras’ final hours
and death. The arch angel showed no emotion. The world of the earth-bound was horrific. Michael, himself, had
brought sulfurous hailstones of fire down upon cities and nations. He had slain first-born sons, turned bodies into salt.
None of what he had ever done could compare to the evil, the madness that men wrought on each other. Some of
them were so hurt, so full of guilt, shame and pain that they killed themselves seeking only to feel okay, to feel
anything better than the contempt they felt for themselves. Michael closed his eyes. It had been eleven thousand years
since Lucifer had deceived the first of them. Since that time, terrible wars had raged in heaven and earth. The Word of
God had become a book of floods, fires, wars, betrayals. God, Himself, became manifest on the earth. He became one
of them, man. The Counsel of Twelve and all the angels in heaven had grieved for thirty three years. Even the arch
angels had wailed in despair when they marched Christ up to Calvary. Michael had to be restrained. The hand of God
had reached out, had held Michael back until the last second. As Christs’ spirit departed earth, Michaels roar of pain
had split the very fabric of creation, crossing into the dimension of man. The thunder and power of his painful cry split
the earth, boiled rivers. Animals who could hear the sound, fell dead. Thankfully, the people of earth were ignorant of
what they saw. A burst of the natural elements. Seraphim, cherubim, nephilim had been blownlike smoke in a gale.
For a moment, the Heavenly Host had been scattered. Michael had not been punished. So great was His love, God
made Michael first among the heavenly angels. His sword was made the Word of Justice. Christ was seated on the
throne of life.
Michael opened his eyes. Diablophetes had let the man become him. The arch angel had never seen this before.
His orders were clear, he could not destroy the man., but he could help the chosen warrior of the earth. Michael
looked at the others. His eyes met each one, instantly they were whisked away on the light. Each had a purpose. They
went to fulfill what had been decreed. Still, this outcome was unwritten. Michael knew his adversary. They were
once brothers of all who resided in heaven. Only Michael and Christ had known true pain, true anguish and one other
had tasted the bitterness of something different, Lucifer. Lucifer knew the worst of emotions, not hate, pain, jealousy,
no, he had tasted from the cup of regret. All other emotions could be healed, but regret could only be forgotten.
Angels never forgot.
Ric got into his dark blue Crown Vic. Wherever he went, long before his arrival, the car telegraphed him as
police. It was about as “plain” as Metro got. Ric wasn’t sure where he was going now. Somehow he knew something
would develop today. He couldn’t see the angels in his back seat. Raphael touched the phone in Rics console. Ric
reached into the console and turned on his cell. After a few moments, the phones tones told Ric he had a new
message He flipped the screen open, pressed the menu button and scrolled down to voicemail. As he listened to the
message from John Atkins, he knew John was right. The murders were connected. Not only were they connected to
the perp, they were connected to him as well. Ric just knew it, somehow.
Atkins, though weary, had been in a flurry of activity since he awoke. Incoming and outgoing calls had kept the
detective busy all morning. He was on the phone with his wife when another line indicator flashed red, announcing an
incoming call. He quickly said his goodby to his wife, she understood, but really gave no indication she cared or
otherwise. Atkins cared. He loved his wife, even though her greatest thrill seemed to be wounding the man. He had
learned not to let her get to him. She wasn’t going anywhere. He would have the chance to love her enough for both
of them, one day.
Answering line three, Atkins greeted, “John Atkins, homicide.”
“John, hey , it’s Ric. What have you got?”
“A pretty fucked up week so far, my friend.”
“Ouch” Atkins regretted his words as they came out of his mouth. Lay never swore…well almost.
“uhmm, sorry Ric, it’s been one of those days already.”
“No problem. So what’s eating you?”
“Well, I have two dead male and female victims. Since I left you the message, I now have two matching prints,
one or more from each scene. Plus, we have an I.D. on the first vic. A nineteen year old female, standard story,
Dickerson Pike.”
“Okay, damn, too bad.”
Next, we have a middle-aged school teacher, about sixty miles from home. Slice and dice, left femoral artery. Still sitting in his car. Oh, and Ric?”
“Yeah”
“She was in her…check that…in a stolen car as well. Both wet work. Clean, neat, bleed-outs. Cept the girls neck
was snapped. I don’t think it was intentional, though.” Atkins finished.
“Okay, John. Anything else?”
“Oh, yeah, almost forgot. The street beaters may have drummed up an eye witness.”
“Come on John, street beaters? John they’re cops, okay? One day they’ll have our jobs.”
“Well, until then, they’re street beaters.”
The humor may have seemed inappropriate, but it wasn’t meant to be. Both men respected the deceased and both respected the cops on the street. The banter eased the strain. It made coming face to face with what people did to each other, easier to bear.
“I can be there in about ten. I’m coming from Brentwood, right now.” Ric said.
“Okay, Ric, I’ll have everything laid out for you.”
Raphael wasn’t exactly sitting beside Ric. He was sliding along with him. The cars mass did not affect the angel in
his realm. While Ric was approaching forty mph in his Crown Vic, to Raphael, he was hardly even moving. Space and
time, in the six dimensions on Raphaels plane, was undetectable on the earthly plane of just four dimensions, three of
space and one temporal.
Rics predictive abilities, his power to know things, had always been a mystery, till now. Lately, his dreams had
revealed more. Ric knew he was not alone. Raphael also knew that Ric had perceived him. Raphaels’ smile spread
across his face making him glow with beauty.
Zac was completely immersed in the spirit realm. He looked across an expanse of indeterminate distances. His
eyes met Michaels eyes. Both angel and demonic/mortal intentions were conveyed. Zac had a purpose. Zac had the
advantage, question was, did he know it?
“Zachary” Michael spoke first, “Zachary, you are being deceived. Leave this world now or the wrath of God will
rain down upon you.”
Zac needed time. He spread his wings and caught the light. In less than a blink of an eye, he was away.
Something was terribly wrong. First the sound, like metal on metal, awful screaming, wailing, ripping, gnashing. This
wasn’t the usual, here, he was in Diablophetes body. Zac had full possession of the fallen angel. He and Dio were
fully separate, each in the others realm.
“Oh, fuck no!” he thought. “What’s happened?” He thought desperately for a few seconds. Slowly he realized all
he had to do was think. Just a thought and he would whisk away, back to himself. It was Diablophetes who had fled
his own body, fear crippling him.
“Yes” he thought. “The archangel” Zac said out loud. Zac began to laugh now. It wasn’t just the realization of the
simple answer to his problem. No, he heard himself speak. He had spoken in angelic verse. The rich, baritone
vibrations resonating through him. Everything struck him as funny, hilarious. His incredible strength, his unnatural
ability and vision. He could see through everything, even the fact that he was a prisoner, thrown down to earth, stuck
in only ten to twelve realities, his understanding of everything was incredibly enhanced. To Zac the world had opened
up. He could skip across realities at will. He could move through times, in and out of temporary loops. His mind
could span vast universes of space. In this “prison” Zac was free. Zac laughed uncontrollably, after all, Zac was
insane. Laughing while surrounded by tortured souls.
Zacs’ body fell to the pavement. “Aaaahhh” Diablophetes roared. Pain, real solid, physical pain tore through
“Zac”. Dio was man, completely. Shocked, he said,” Oh my God, help me”. His eyes suddenly wide, wild. The voice
was tinny, small. This was not right. Something was wrong. Diablophetes had never imagined what a humans world
was like. The body was so weak, it smelled awful. The sun was blinding. Every sense was intense, but only
immediate, no scope. He had to get control of himself, but his chest was burning, spots in his vision, his head was
dizzy. He didn’t know what was happening. He took in a great gulp of air and expelled it just as fast. The breathing
in and out, came and went until he became used to his chest moving all the time. Diablophetes started to calm down.
The mans problem was claustrophobia, even being outdoors on a clear day. Dio felt completely constrained, limited
on every level. He was used to seeing across dimensions. He was used to moving faster than light speed. After
almost an eternity of existing limitless, the limits of hell had almost driven the fallen angel mad. Many millions of
heavens creatures now spent all time in the pit. They were slaves of worldly things. The bodies now in decay, unable
to die. Unwilling to admit they were wrong for fear of Satan and his generals wrath. But, here in the real world, Dio, for the first time, felt the plight of man. All at once, he started to run.
Michael had witnessed the transformation of Diablo and Zac. He followed Dio undetected by the limits of the
demons human senses. Diablophetes ran and ran. He left Dickerson Pike. The body he controlled was heaving in
great draughts of air. Finally he came to a grassy lot. It was nearing noon, traffic was heavy. Dio was ignored by the
masses moving by. Each oblivious, unconscious to the fact that a royal sentry of the holy throne room of God, a fallen
angel, cast down from heaven in the great conflagration, was, for the first time in his existence, shedding tears.
Wracked by gut wrenching sobs, huge tears coming fast, Diablophetes dropped to his knees, then fell to his hands.
The emotion pouring out of him had built up for a thousand, thousand millennium. Every envy, every moment of awe and most of all an ocean of regret, spilt forth. A supernatural being trapped now in a mortal natural man. Slowly the
thick black hair at Zac/Dios temples turned silver. The brown eyes turned to an iridescent hazel.
Michael wanted to reach out, wanted to pick up his former friend, but he could not. He clenched his fists and
turned away. The archangel had to remain stoic. Soon he would reveal himself to the fallen angel, the demon. For
thousands of years the two of them had greeted one another, praised God together. Diablophetes was once a trusted
and dutiful soldier of the heavenly hosts, now nothing more than a traitor. A deceitful member of the damned. Cut off
from all light. Cut off from the glory of God, forever.
Diablo now knew the heat of the day, he knew hunger, fear, despair, pain. His compassion for man counted for
nothing. He was loyal to Lucifer. He had persecuted man…for almost eleven thousand years. Why then did he shed
tears so freely? He had watched gleefully while others had shed the same bitter tears, knowing the sorrow would
change to hate. Dio had helped kill, maim and destroy, all to one purpose…..to cause hate and thereby to gain souls.
The demon/angel knew he was intrinsically bad. Diablophetes wasn’t evil, otherwise he could have remained conscious of the monstrosities carried out by the human whose body he now inhabited.
“Diablo” The voice was unmistakable. “Diablophetes, look at me”. Those rich tones, the resonance beckoned his
eyes to go toward the voice. There on the earthly plane, on the space/time -------of man, stood Michael in all his glory
and majesty.
“Well, Dio, you have finally managed to do something you will always be remembered for” Michael said.
“Wh-what do you mean” Dio sputtered.
“ You mean you don’t know!” Michael began the sentence moderately and increased to an alarming crescendo in volume. Diablo had to cover his human ears from the blast.
“No” he cried. “ I don’t know. Please, what did I do?”
“You have released a monster below the plane of man. The creature you have loosed into those ten realities is more
vile, more corrupt, more dangerous than any slime of the pit.” Michael said then continued, “Your ignorance, your
cowardice will insure your infamy. You will certainly be remembered Dio. You will be remembered in the same
breath as Judas, Herod and Caiaphas. None of this will be written, your name will be stricken from every record.
None of what I say is meant to sting. Your suffering is justified. Here, on this day, I have spoken to you the truth.
Now I turn my face away from you. May our father, God Almighty, have mercy.”
Michael was gone. Dio looked around himself. He was alone. Michaels words terrified him. Dio knew the natue of Zac. But, Zac was trapped. Dios’ angelic body was fallen. He could only travel between the ten lowest dimensions…but the havoc he could cause for men. Where was Lucifer?
Michael had summoned Raphael as Ric was parking at Detective Atkins office. Ric was instantly recognized as he
got out of the elevator. He had worked vice and homicide from this division. As he made his way toward Atkins
office, several officers stopped him to say hello or catch up with him. They all had considerable respect for him, both
as a man and a police officer. Most of the officers on the fifth floor knew about the tragedy he had lived through seven
years before. None of them knew the real truth, only the deceased Father Dunn and Bishop Adams. The men of the
First Division Metro downtown knew he had lost a wife and two daughters, that he had been wounded while trying to
save his family. He had killed the man responsible and nine others. Twice he had to be brought back. No one,
including the doctors, believed he would survive. Ric had lost most of his blood before the E.M.T.s found him. The
coma had lasted six days. On the seventh day, Ric woke up. News crews, from all over the nation, had made the
hospital, ground zero. All of the killers victims had been young girls between fourteen and nineteen. All had been
tortured and mutilated. The murders had put the whole city in the spotlight. Ric had been one step behind. At first he
was days behind, but by the time the maniac had targeted Rics family, the detective was just minutes behind. Minutes
he had never forgotten and never would.
Atkins door was open when Ric stepped in. “Knock, knock” Ric said.
“Hey, guy, come on in” Atkins greeted, “I just got off the phone with the boys at the lab.” He leaned back, stuck
out his bottom lip and blew a stream of air up through his hair. “They match” he said.
“What? Both scenes, same perp?” Ric asked.
“Yeah, prints are a match. The lab’s running them through the national data base right now. We’re running them
locally too, but if we have them, national has them too. I just don’t want to take any chances.”
Lay understood his friends sense of urgency. He also knew the murders were connected before he even arrived. He
wasn’t about to give anything away, not yet. If Atkins suspected this to be a supernatural adversary, it might be too
much for him. Through the years, Ric has learned his colleagues pic-a-dillos. Atkins was not abstract He was
concrete. Strictly a bricks and mortar kind of detective. He built his case on hard evidence, one ‘brick’ at a time.
Until no prosecutor could say no and no defense attorney could tear it down. Rics world was different. He hunted the
shadows. He spoke the language of insanity. While Ric chased the ghost, Atkins collected the pieces falling across
the debris field of the chase. Together, they made a formidable team. Ric knew a lot about John Atkins and Atkins
thought he knew a lot about Ric. What Atkins didn’t know, could fill a book. Ric Lay was a medium. Ric was
‘sensitive’ clairvoyant. Atkins would have dismissed that fact immediately. Ric was spiritual. He prayed most of the
time. He would never force religion on another, but if someone opens the door…well, Ric will walk through it.
Ric and Atkins had a name. It seems Mr. Cunningham had been receiving an S.S.I. disability check since the age
of twenty two. Records were extensive. Although he had never been convicted of any serious crimes, he had made
the formal reports of several agencies as a ‘person of interest’. In some cases, Zac was the high confidence suspect.
Unfortunately, he was also highly intelligent and disciplined. He had eluded all efforts to put a real charge on him.
Therefore, he remained able to continue receiving his monthly government checks of nine hundred twenty seven per
month, not a lot, but Zac could get free housing and a whole party basket of other free government goodies. While this
made Zac easy to track it also gave him resources.
Zac was a fast learner. When he was a boy, it had been difficult to pull Zac out of himself. Being slightly autistic,
teachers and care givers thought the boy might be retarded. Zac spent huge amounts of time analyzing. Zac didn’t see
the world the way most saw it. He pushed the boundaries, he took the world beyond face value. He could evaluate
five different aspects of the world at the same time, pushing, pulling, probing, prodding. All internally, all with his
mind. Consequently, the adults around him gave up trying to get him to engage. The time came when he had learned
all he could. He “came out”. Now Zac could instantly evaluate his surroundings, his situation. He seemed to know
things, somehow. The downside to his unnatural, keen intuition? Zac was a machine, no conscience, devoid of
emotion save one, gratification. Unfortunately, Zac could never fill the hole in him. The hole in Zac was caused by the
one person in his life who should have filled the hole, loved him, protected him. Instead, ‘she’ had hurt Zac in endless
ways. Shame and guilt were his daily bread. Punishment was Zacs’ constant reward. Zacs environment only
amplified his natural inability to care. Still he was able to function, to learn. Zac knew he had taken over an
…inadequate demon. Zac knew this with the demons mind and with his own. He was absorbing knowledge at an
exponential rate. He was close to a breakthrough, an understanding, waiting there for him to find. He knew that the
world, the physical world, existed in only four dimensions of space/time. Three dimensions of space and one of time.
He also knew that there were actually twelve dimensions. Combining Diablos memories with where he was now, had
been a key to his discoveries. His ‘gift’ had allowed Zac to roam the memories of Dio, of a time when the demon
could cross all dimensions as well as processing where he was now. Finally, Zac was realizing the limitlessness of
what everything was. It strained his intellect. Angels could cross over different ‘planes’. They could see across
realities. They existed on the highest ‘plane’, a combination of all twelve dimensions. There was a seemingly infinite
number of ‘planes’, any combination of the different dimensions created another ‘plane’. Zac was in awe, but he was
also trapped. He had known this from the first moment he had taken possession of the fallen angel. ‘Prison’ was the
first thought he had. Obviously, the ‘plane’ of man was open to him. Earth was only three ‘planes’ removed from the
lowest, the ‘pit’.
Michael was moving faster than light. His wings were spread to their full glory. Human eyes would not have been
able to look upon the archangel. The underside of the wings would burn out a mortals eyes, so brilliant was their light.
Michael was moving on an electromagnetic rail of light, highly dense quantum of photons, agitated by his wings. He
was on the ‘plane’ of thought and motion, a two dimensional ‘plane’, one of the curved strings of the membrane of
reality. He could move from one end of mans universe to the other in mere seconds. Now he was going to find the
black soul of the mortal who had claimed Diablophetes angelic body. It had been seventeen mortal years since Michael had to zero in on a single human thought. Michael slowed as he discerned the man. Michael was suddenly blocked by the misshaped presence of Lucifers’ loyal servants. The inner state of these wicked angels had transformed them, what once had been beautiful and pleasing to the sight had been made hideous. The wings now covered with gray heavily veined skin, the feet, now talons, sharp, black weapons. The features of their heads were like bats, pointed ears, flat flaring nostrils, heavy extended brows over eyes of red dots surrounded by blackness.
“General of Host, my lord Lucifer would know what business have you here” the largest demon rasped. His voice
full of wheezing air, each enunciation spat out with phlegm through gray, cracked, sharp pointed teeth.
“Tell your master, if he would know my business he can present himself to me” Michael replied, his sword lightly singing at his touch.
There were three demons, the largest had obviously been a captain of Host before the fall. Michael wondered if in
its diminished capacity, if it could even remember any of its former glory. The demons spread out, at the barely
perceptible tones emanating from the sword of their adversary. The largest of them remained in the center, the beady
red pupils darting from the sword back to Michaels gaze.
“Our lord would not lower his station to speak with one such as you” it spat.
“Actually, demon, it was I who had to descend” Michael replied. As he spread his wings, he said, “ Now behold I
come as one who worships the Lamb of the world.” Michaels voice rose to a shattering volume, his wings caught the
light, blinding the demons.
“And in His holy name, I devour you!”
The Sword of Justice swept across the expanse. A wide arc of multicolored light following in its wake. The
swords song was a luminous baritone punctuated by a high pitched ring as Michael slid it back into the woven sheath.
Each demon looked at one another. They had been woefully over matched. Satan knew this. He had sent them
because they had become haughty, drunk with lust and power. Power gained torturing the claimed souls of Men. To
little horn, they were useless. Ironically how the dark prince detested the very defects for which he had been cast out.
The large demon began to speak, then the demon to his left spat black purple blood from its mouth, the demon to his
right folded its wings back behind it, the weight pulling the body over backwards, sliced in half at the waist. Only the
talons held tight, piercing the glassy surface of this in-between plane, where even the lost knew fear. The demon to the
left fell forward, pulled by the sword it had drawn. It came apart just below the shoulder and across the chest. It had
been severed clean. The sweep of the Sword of Justice had not wavered. Michaels strike had been from high to low, a
perfect twenty five degrees. The center demons last thought was one of hate for the archangel. The blackish purple
blood flooded from the demons body as it too came apart. Michael closed his eyes. All his power and concentration
focused on his wings. The light from them flowed down to the demons bodies, they became cinder and quickly blew
away from an exhaled breath of the angel.
Michael had lost track of the man. He felt something sinister emanating from every direction. A black cloak
seemed to move about everything. He had seen this phenomenon before. Over twenty five centuries ago, Raphael had
been dispatched with the Book of Truth to prophecy to Daniel, (Daniel 10:4-21). Lucifer had dropped a cloak of
darkness over Raphael. To his credit, Raphael slashed and tore at it for twenty one days straight, until Michael came
with light to show Raphael the way. So it was written. Now the black cloak had been dropped to keep him from
discovering the man. Satan was up to something, but what, Michael wondered.
Zac was still enthralled with himself. All the discoveries. All the potential. He could scarcely believe the power,
the sense of invincibility. The feeling was short lived. All encompassing darkness engulfed Zac. He looked around in
desperation. All light was lost. Fear enveloped Zac, he spilled his consciousness. He kept his primary awareness,
objective. Fear was an emotion and while Zac seemed to care only for himself, he really did not. He could care less if
he lived or died. Slowly an image began to form out of the gloom. Lucifer created a sort of bubble around himself
and Zac, an area between the planes, a purgatory. Zacs consciousness of fear was trying desperately to come to the
forefront, to become his ‘primary’, Zac would not allow it. Before him was the king of the world, the dark prince
himself, Lucifer. Zac could feel the hate, rage and loathing of the beast. He drank up the wealth of depraved thoughts
coming from the fallen archangel. Zac knew the devil. Yet Satan wasn’t sure how to address the man. Satan hated
Zac for what he was. A being with a soul bestowed on him from God. He also knew this man was an evil being. A
black soul. He searched himself for how he might win the man for his own cause.
“Zachary, do you know why you are here?” Satan asked. His voice intentionally non-threatening, but still an
impressive low pitch with an edged timbre.
“I’m here because I chose to be here, demon. While you are here because this is your prison.” Zac said, trying not
to reveal any weakness. For all he knew, the demon could snatch him from within the lesser demons body at will.
Satan stepped closer. Zac saw for the first time, Lucifers true self. A most gruesome manifestation of the prince of all
lies.
Lucifers feet were black cloven hooves. The legs were the grossly muscled calves of a man. The thighs like the
rear haunches of some four legged beast. He had the torso of a man, bare with thick rippling muscles and blotched red
and black skin. His legs were covered in thick curly black hair. His sinewy arms and shoulders conveyed awesome
power. Massive muscles framed the neck, tensing tendons just under the skin seemed to be in a perpetual strain. The
wide chin jutted outwards, impossibly long. The black lips were full and yet still revealed the ends of yellowed
canines. Flaring black holes, the nostrils. The forehead seemed never to end as the giant horns base swept upward.
The horns were like those of a ram, sweeping back, down and out coming to a point just outside of his temples. Last
the eyes. Pure reflections of black hate. They could become a bright fiery red or so black your soul could be
consumed by the abysmal emptiness.
It was this monstrosity that was walking around Zac, now. It clicked as it walked, the hooves clacking on the
glassy surface of the plane. Lucifer spread his wings and bent low. He stretched out. He should have fallen over, but
gravity did not affect him. The nostrils flared as he sniffed about Zac. A low rumbling reverberated through out Zacs
existence, the voice was a blast of contempt.
“I smell your fear, son of man.” The devil sneered. “You are not on solid ground. If I wish it, you might burn for a
million years,” he paused, then spat, “Son – of – man” he drew the words out punctuating each, revealing to Zac who
had control here.
“So, why am I here then, devil?” Zac asked.
With supernatural speed, Lucifer snatched Zac up. Zac was seven feet tall. The monster holding him was closer to
eleven feet. The hands gripping Zac were steel vices. Now Zac was beginning to worry.
“I was seated above the twenty four elders, before Tetra breathed your name.” Lucifer bellowed into Zacs face. “ I
lived among the Council of Twelve. I was the highest of my kind. I am a prince.” Satan continued his boasting, a
multitude of voices seemed to be speaking all at the same time. “I am a God. Who are you to ask me anything. You
are nothing but an animal given gifts you will never know what to do with! It was I who guided you to this realm, my
realm. I who compelled you to follow the whore. Everything you do, all you can be is because of ME!” Lucifer
bellowed the last word. Releasing his grip, the blast of searing breath sent Zac, arms flailing, fifty feet from the lord of
lies. Lucifer strode toward him, hooves clacking, the darkness moving with him. It was if a fog of black ink kept the
dark demon in its very center.
Zac was smart, he knew things. First he felt the devils hesitation, the thing could not kill him. If it could, it would
have, all ready done so. Zac also knew the ‘black curtain’ was camouflage. What was it hiding from or who?
“My apologies, lord, I am at your command. What is your will?” Zac decided to play along.
Lucifer could see through the petty deception, of course, and while it was distasteful for him to even allow a son of
man in his very presence, he knew there was much to learn from this black soul. The mans lust for blood intrigued
Lucifer. The dark prince had watched many evil men, but only briefly. None of those had the capacity or talent to
crossover like Zachary. He was sure the man could be manipulated. Sinners were all to easy to claim. Lucifer wanted
saints. Lucifer desired, above all else, to convert the innocent. He wanted a pure soul to worship him. This man
would be his vehicle toward that goal. First he would have to study how the change worked.
Things had been different in the beginning. The creatures of the earth were available to all of heaven, Seraphim,
Cherubim and Neliphim. All the wonders of the earthly plane could be experienced by all. Then, he created man,
imbued him with the very divine light of which God himself was made. The Host of Heaven had rejoiced. New songs
were sung. Man was held above all of heavens angels. He, the Morning Star, the Prince if Princes, the right hand of
God was to be a servant. Lucifer had rebelled. There were endless conflicts between Lucifer and God. Soon the Lord
Almighty turned his face away from him. Lucifer pleaded with God. He wanted to rule the earth. His entreaties
found no audience. Lucifer began to talk to man, insult. God created woman. Lucifer had begged to rule man, to be
mans deity. God was silent toward Lucifer. The archangel took his pleas to the twenty four Elders, they too showed
him their backs. Desperate not to let man be above him, Lucifer began a campaign. He deceived billions of the Host of
Heaven. His lies turned soldiers, captains, servants, choirs, every group and every kind, he turned them. When he
thought he had enough, he sought to wound God Almighty. Lucifer wanted to stab the sovereign Lords heart. He
believed if he could hurt God enough, he would declare Lucifers superiority. After all, Lucifer thought, who else but I
would be high enough to take His place on the throne of thrones. So confident with those he had won to his cause, he
went down to earth. There he beguiled the woman, she ate of the tree that was in the midst of the world. He had her
convince the man to eat, too. Now, he thought, God will surely cede to him, but Lucifer had deceived himself. His
pride and vanity were folly, for when God walked among man he saw mans shame. He cursed man to die, woman to
bleed. He cursed her with pain of child birth. He cursed the land to bear fruit only by the sweat of man. Then, he
turned his wrath toward heaven. Lightning came from his eyes striking billions of angels. A third of the heavens
were marked by the Lord, and so began the Battle of Battles. The angels fought brother against brother. The war
raged for a thousand years. At last Lucifer was brought before the Lord, chained, deaf, dumb and blind. He neither
saw not heard his creator. He was simply thrown down. God swept his hand across the expanse of heaven, one third
of all fell with Satan. Lucifer was loose to roam the dimensions, just beneath the earthly plane. Since thought was also
an extension of the soul, Satan could influence thought and he taught others to do the same. Now, he controlled most
of the earth and its ways. Satan got his wish, but he had never been able to possess one of the earths inhabitants, not
completely. Always there was resistance, but with this man, this aberration, he would know man. He would become
like Christ. He would be like God. So he thought.
Ric and Atkins had been putting the puzzle pieces together for several hours. Running ideas and theories past one
another, making connections. Both victims had frequented areas of vice. Both, more than likely, either knew the perp
or were not threatened until it was too late. Most important, the weapon was probably the same. Skin is thick with
several layers, the striations marks of the cuts looked the same. The M.E. believed the weapon to be some sort of
Bowie knife or hunting knife, which ever, the edge was as sharp as a scalpel. The girl had been seven months from her
twenty first birthday. Toxicology was typical of poly-substance abuse, diasipan, cocaine, THC, meth, alprazolam. She
hardly had any blood in her chemical stream. She most likely had a pimp. Like most sex vendors, she paid the pimp
or her old man sixty per cent of her take. She would stash the rest to pay for her habit.
Ric thumbed through the pictures of what used to be Ashleigh Anne Moore. As he did, he couldn’t block the
images of his own daughters. One would be nineteen now, the other sixteen, sweet sixteen. He dropped the photos on
the desk. The sinking feeling was overwhelming. Rics chest sank hard. He had made a mental mistake, he had
imagined what his daughters might look like today. As soon as the dream hit his mind, the nightmare of reality tore it
to shreds. The senseless waste invaded Ric completely. The husband of a slain wife, the father of murdered children,
began to pray.
Atkins had been called away. Several minutes later, he came through the door. The detective was ashen. “Ric” he
whispered, looking at the floor, “We have another one, a girl. Ric, its bad, real, real bad.”
Lays hands were still folded in prayer. Slowly he looked up. “Lord, give us strength” he asked. Rising from his
chair, he said ”Let’s move.”
Ric and Atkins drove in silence. The Peach Tree Inn was just off the Trinity Lane exit on Interstate 65. The
business was closed. Some investment realty group sign advertised the property for sale. Squatters, crack heads and
homeless had used the place, mostly wintering on cold, wet or snowy nights. The sign was a large wooden edifice of
peeling paint and faded print.
Atkins was driving, they pulled up to a uniformed patrolman. It was eighty eight degrees not a scorcher but hot
enough Atkins never even put the power window down. The patrol officer waved the car around toward the back. The
pool area was in a court yard in the middle of the structure. Access was through gated breezeways opening at intervals
every dozen rooms or so. Another officer was beckoning the car forward to the middle entrance.
The place was swarming. The coroners van was already there. As Atkins and Lay got out, a large balding man approached.
“John. Ric. This one is well it’s….hell I don’t know how the hell to describe it. Lt. Santiago was first on the scene.
He was training some new bird. Anyway the rookie tossed his guts and decided not to stay. He’s over there at the
Shell station. He’ll be all right. Any way, I looked, it’s real bad, boys. Twenty six years, I’ve never seen anything
like this.”
Rics extra senses were firing on all cylinders. The mental images cascading all around him. Rics special talent
didn’t apply to everything in the world. His enhanced perception was specific. He couldn’t detect bombs, he couldn’t
tell you the pick three lottery numbers or guess your birthday. If evil had come near, if evil presented itself, Ric Lay
could feel it. Ric could go inside of it, touch it, taste it, see it, smell it, but worse, Ric could experience what evil had.
He would feel the bliss, the anticipation, the risk, all of it. For Ric, the elation the perp felt, always left him feeling
invaded, dirty. Detective Lay was awash in evil. He knew what they were about to examine. He knew it intimately.
Not all murders or torture or heinous crimes had evil overtones. Many were passionately committed or accidental
manslaughters during disputes. This wasn’t one of those times. This entire hotel was cloaked in evil. Much more had
occurred at this location. While Ric and Atkins made their way to the courtyard, seemingly unimpeded, Lay felt like he
was walking through an atmosphere of glue, so thick was the supernatural.
“Stop, John” Ric said, as he looked at the myriad of solemn faces staring at them, all Metro officers.
“Men, at this time you are all under a gag order. I don’t care who has of hasn’t seen inside this building.”
Ric was turning scanning the faces, meeting their eyes. He could tell who might stoop to gain favor with the media.
Sports tickets, dinners at upper class establishments all used to bribe the morally challenged police officer. Ric took
special care to gaze slightly longer at those he perceived as weak.
“All of you will sign, now, disclosure contracts before your shift ends.” He continued, “Clear this area, set up a
grid beyond the courtyard. I want everything not moving, photographed. If it’s moving, nail it down and shoot it.
Understood?”
“No problem and yes sir” were plentiful. He made the point he had to make. Most of these officers knew Ric Lay and
by the end of the night the ones who didn’t, would.
“Lt. Santiago, what’s the name of that rookie across the street?” Ric asked the burly lieutenant.
“Uh, lemme see uh it’s, damn. Toon!” he yelled, “ what’s your partners name?”
“It’s Pete, lieutenant. Peter Manley” the officer replied.
“Santo, I want him waiting in the back seat of Atkins car in thirty minutes” Ric ordered.
“Ten four, detective” Santiago said as he disappeared around the corner.
“Hey, Carl” Atkins greeted his forensic tech. “I didn’t expect to see you again today.”
“Yeah, well believe me, I could have done without this one” Carl said, as he handed Atkins what appeared to be a
cold cream jar. Atkins dipped an ungloved finger into the jar and passed it to Ric. He took a healthy dab and applied
the white cream to his top lip. All three men now had white ‘Hitler’ mustaches. Carls was considerably smaller. The
cream was an odor masking device, lemon to be specific.
“She isn’t ripe yet, but unfortunately her organs were” Carl warned, “sorry guys, you should be prepared.”
Ric opened the door to the out building and stepped in. Immediately the noise in the confined space was
everywhere, the buzzing. Hundreds perhaps thousands of flies. To the others it was simply flies, to Ric the sound held
infinitely more. The voices of a hundred demons were taunting him. John Atkins and Carl Beck approached the body
of Kera Kelley, their eyes fixed on the young girl. A few hundred flies remained in agitated flight around the body
while a swarm of many hundreds formed a cohesive swirling group. Ric Lay closed his eyes, the seething,
screeching voices daring him to look.
“What the hell?” Carl said. The tech had turned to address Lay and saw the flies as one unit spinning around the
detective like an insect tornado.
As Ric began his prayer, the demonic swarm paused, then as if on cue the buzzing intensified and the swarm
rushed toward Carl. The man had never encountered anything like this in his life.
“God of all goodness, grace and mercy, deepen your will and presence in us your servants. Bring us the peace of
your Son, Jesus. Bind these evil spirits in the name of your Son, who has all authority. In Jesus Christs name, we
pray.” Ric prayed, his amen silent.
Atkins was fanning his hands furiously at the swarm accosting the C.S.I. tech. Carl had mistakenly opened his
mouth, allowing the entity to penetrate him.
“ I bind you in Jesus’s name” Ric yelled. The swarm broke apart, dissipating, losing structure. Ric rushed to
Atkins aid, picking up the coughing retching man. The two men literally fell through the door. A black cloud of flies
following, quickly evaporating as each went its own way. Carl Beck was lucky. He was down on all fours, franticly
spewing flies from his mouth and throat. Ric stood over the man silently giving thanks and praise.
Carl finally gained what little composure he had left.
“What the fuck was that?” His question was one of a man wanting to deny what he knew to be true.
“ My God, the voices.” He looked distraught at his companions.
“ Did you hear them? I ….I mean they knew things…things only I could know. What the fuck…I…I mean was that real?’
As the experience sunk in, it made things worse. Carl’s first experience with a miracle was unfortunate. It had
reduced the man to a cowering child. Ric knew he would never be the same, either for better or for worse. Ric prayed
it would be for better. They still had a job to do.
“Carl, let me have the camera” Ric said. Carl just sat there in the grass, his eyes unfocused, staring at nothing. Ric
took the camera from his neck. Later, in a few days, maybe, Ric would talk to him. Tell his story. After today, Carl
would believe. After today, Carl would know.
“ John, take care of him. I’ll process the scene. He’s done.” Ric told Atkins what he already knew.
“I got him, Ric.” Atkins said.
Ric opened a pouch on his belt, removed the latex gloves, bent down, grabbed the scene kit, took a deep breath
and went in.
Ric surveyed the inside of the work shed. Kera was everywhere. The blood was pooled in a way he recognized.
The demon had showered below her head. Kera had bled out before he had opened her abdomen. He had taken some
time in the presentation. Her intestines were roped around the room. Ric took his time. He had processed dozens of
murder scenes, but this one he knew to be a work of real evil…which means a man. While nasty and vile things,
demons had no imagination for this type of display. They work on the human psyche, placing ideas, doubts and lies.
They were especially adept at enhancing choices. Suicide being the most common. Rics ritualistic processing style
kept everything else at bay. The job allowed no distracting thoughts. If he had thought about that, he would have said
a prayer of gratitude. One by one he checked off each item. He took samples, gathered evidentiary materials.
“Detective Lay, may I enter?” A female voice called.
“Who are you?” Ric asked.
“I’m Deputy Medical Examiner Taylor Rossi” came the reply.
“Hold on Rossi, I’ll be right out.” Ric finished his last task, picked up his notes and swept the room with his eyes.
He had found a plethora of finger prints, all recent, all in blood. He took three more wide-angle shots from different
perspectives and headed toward the door.
Even though it was September, the weather had been unseasonably warm, still Ric was relieved at the coolness of
the afternoon. The sun had baked the shed all day making the temperature inside soar. Ric peeled off the latex gloves
as he turned toward Taylor Rossi saying “I’m Special Detective Ric Lay. Ric almost didn’t get his name out. Deputy
M.E. Rossi was stunning. No more than five foot three, she was petite, her fresh scrubbed, wholesome look caught
Ric by surprise. She had on the M.E.’s baseball cap with a long, amber brown ponytail protruding from the back. Her
dark blue eyes were framed by long, long lashes and thick perfectly arched eyebrows. Lay also noticed she was
impeccably dressed in BDV’s , the sleeves rolled up, military style, her boots so small they looked like a childs shoe.
Out of awe for her beauty and respect for Kera Kelley, Ric said “I wish we were meeting under different
circumstances.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. Um, Carl is really shook up detective. May I ask what to expect?” Her voice was
smooth and intelligent. He liked her professionalism immediately.
“I’m not sure how to prepare you, so I guess I’ll just tell you everything. Ric paused, “Inside we have a nineteen to
twenty year old female vigorously mutilated. A lot of the mutilation occurred post mortem. From what I can tell, she
was bound ankles and wrist to the legs of a wooden work bench. A hole approximately nine inches in diameter was
cut out before she was placed on top in order to expose her anus.” Ric waited to let Rossi catch up. To her credit, she
didn’t ask any questions. When she had finished her notes, she looked up meeting Rics eyes. Ric noticed her eyes
were cold steel. This girl is all business, good, Ric thought, continuing his narrative. “I’m not sure the order of the
tortures. Several implements were used. Before death, what appears to be the head of a sledge hammer was forced
into the victims closed mouth, shattering most anterior, proximal and distal teeth. The proximal lip was smashed
against the teeth and ??????s as well. Next.” Ric waited till her eyes indicated she was ready. “We don’t know for
sure, but it appears he evacuated her bowel with water. The containers are there. He used an old style douche bag and
cord, but he graduated the size until it reached two inches in diameter. This was forced into her rectum.” He paused
again. Ric noticed Rossi was getting angry, not at him, of course, but at the monster who had desolated the girl Rossi
didn’t know.
Ric continued to give her the other details. He described the funnel used by the offender to make her consume her
own waste. He described the ‘blood bath’, electric shock, the whole scene.
Rossi never wavered, she displayed only the professionalism the occasion required. The event was too horrific to
glorify it with any histrionics. Her stock went up with Lay. His senses were at their most acute. He felt no
undesirable emanations from Rossi. Though he had been taken aback by her physical beauty and misled by her
femininity, he respected her business-like approach to the madness he had just suggested existed directly behind the
door, three feet away. “Rossi, I don’t want you to process her body as usual. Do me a favor, treat her with the utmost
respect. I want you to be hyper-observant. Everything you find, document and sample. Okay?” Ric asked.
Ric Lays stock had just gone up in Rossis column. Aware of his past loss, she didn’t want to intrude too far. She
said only one thing she could for Lay to know she knew. “I understand, detective, I’ll do it right.” Her eyes stayed on
his. What passed between them was reciprocal. With that Ric said, “Thanks. I’ll talk to you in awhile. I need to
check on something.”
“I’ll be about forty five minutes to an hour before transport.” She said.
“Till then, Rossi.” Ric threw her a two finger salute as he walked toward the gate.
Atkins had seen phenomena with Ric before. The first time it happened he handled the event somewhat better than
Carl had. Though shaken, he simply asked Ric what he had seen. Lay had explained everything in a very matter of
fact way, just the way he liked things. Still, Atkins thought it was a little bit hokey, you know, sort of off the beaten
path. He simply dismissed it. By the third or fourth time, he was a believer. John Atkins became ‘born again’. He
took to Christianity, like he did everything in his life, through careful due diligence, finding truth, yet, John didn’t
dwell on the supernatural. Nothing could happen now to give him pause, he simply took care of the business at hand,
collecting hard evidence.
John was talking to the young man sitting in the back seat of his cruiser. Patrolman Pete Manley was livid.
Unsure of what or why he was feeling like he was, all he knew, was if he never felt this way again it would be too
soon.
Ric was walking up to the car preparing to tell a man he didn’t know…that he was a chosen son. He had felt the
mans presence when he and Atkins had arrived. Ric had looked across the street and saw the light around Pete
Manleys’ body. When Lt. Santiago mentioned the rookie, Ric already knew this moment was coming.
“Hey, John, wanna give Dr. Rossi a hand while I talk to Pete?” Ric asked, knowing Atkins knew the play.
“Yeah, sure Ric” Atkins said. “Listen to him Pete, listen close” Atkins advised the man. Peter Manley didn’t
reply. At this moment his confusion and distress were all encompassing. What he wanted more than anything was to
leave this scene, leave this city, leave this state.
“Hello Officer Manley, my name is Ric Lay. I’m a special detective. Call me Ric. Is it okay if I call you
uh…what Pete or Peter?” Ric asked, trying to get through the obvious disassociation the kid was experiencing.
“Pete is fine” the young officer said. Manley had been on the force for only seven months. He was a graduate of
David-Lipcomb College. Petes father had urged him to live on campus. There, Pete had found himself. He was a
strapping two hundred thirty pound, six feet four, brown haired, brown eyed converted sinner. In his sophomore year
his best friend, Tom Reynolds and his girlfriend had been murdered in Daytona Beach. After that, Pete took a
retrospective look at his life. He had been unimpressed by what he found. So, Pete stopped partying, he stopped
sleeping with whoever came his way. What had really changed him was a girl he met. She had introduced him to
Jesus. While Atkins had taken a no nonsense approach to Christianity, Manley had stepped through a liberating door, a
door to a whole new world. All his choices since, had been colored by his Christian experience. Life had become
amazingly fulfilling, until now. He had encountered something in that shed he couldn’t explain. Kera Kelleys last hours had played like a twisted surreal movie in the theatre of his mind. While he had certainly grown in his passion and Christianity, he still hadn’t learned about the war of good and evil. Right now, he felt devoid, soulless, something was draining him. He wanted to get away.
“You are not going to die, Pete” Ric said, bending down to look him directly in the eye.
“Come on officer, get up front. Hey, John hold up.”
“What’s up, Ric?”
“Lemme get those keys” Ric said, walking up to his friend.
“Sure, Ric” then he asked under his breath, “whaddaya think, is the kid gonna be okay?’
“I hope so, John,” Ric answered, “I hope so.”
Atkins passed Ric the keys to the cruiser.
“I’ll pray for him” John said.
“Thanks, John, well here I go.”
“All right, I can catch a ride with Santiago.”
“Okay, see you in a few” Ric said as he climbed behind the wheel. He could feel the young mans emotions as he
started the engine and put it in reverse. “Let’s get out of here” Ric said cheerfully.
“Yes. Yes, thanks, sir” Manley said breathlessly.
Ric put them on the interstate. He didn’t head toward metro, instead he took the Brentmore exit as he pushed the speed
dial button for the Archdiocese. These revelations would be important for any demonic interference, Ric knew those
grounds would be a safe place to tell Manley who he was. Not who Ric was, but who Peter Manley was and Bishop
Adams would lend the proper respect and credibility, just in case dark forces try to turn Manley.
“Hello. Yes, you may. I would like to speak to Bishop Adams, Detective Ric Lay is calling.” Pete turned to look
at him. Ric knew he was wondering what all this was about. That was good, he wanted him intrigued by the time they
arrived.
“James, I’ve just come from the opening encounter.” He paused while the Bishop responded.
“It was a mild manifestation, but still strong enough to come into perception, oh, James, I think I may have found
him” he paused, “I could see the corona from a good seventy five yards. I have him with me. I’m maybe fifteen
minutes out.” He said, excitedly. “And also with you” Ric closed the cell phone.
“Look, I know by what I just experienced, that something special, maybe even other worldly, is going on here.
Can you tell me please, if I’ve done something wrong? I mean what I felt, it was like death” Manley said.
“It may not comfort you, Pete, but the pain and discomfort you experienced at the scene was a good thing. You’ll
have the answers you seek in just a few minutes.
Pete felt safe. When he had arrived at the deserted hotel, he was uneasy. As he moved closer to the actual site, he
began to have visions. Not dream-state type visions, not prophetic. He saw, he felt, he died with Kera Kelley. These
feelings were glimpses to be sure, flashing agonies integrating into his very existence. Peter Manley knew things,
somehow.
When Peter first came to Jesus, he began to feel things. His choices became crystal clear. While he didn’t know
why he chose certain classes in college, eventually the reason became clear. Something would always happen in
unexpected ways making his choices practical and applicable. His love for Christ grew until he found himself wanting
more. He wanted to give of himself, to help. He changed his major to criminology his junior year. It was the logical
choice, most of the prerequisites were already behind him. Peter believed he could help others and being a law
enforcement officer would put him in the same trenches Christ had fought in, surrounded by sinners. The farther he
moved toward the selection process at Nashville Metro, the more exhilarated he became. Peter was one of the most
well read and educated rookies on the force. He devoured ancient literature. The internet had made history accessible
to everyone. Obscure documents, manifestos, all manner of scrolls and parchment were now a click of the mouse
away. For some reason, he couldn’t get enough information about angels and demons, heaven and hell. Lately he was
feeling depressed, pining and mournful and worse, he was unsure why. Somehow as they passed through the gates of
this edifice of worship, he felt safe, renewed. He didn’t know why, but it was like coming home.
Dr. Taylor Rossi closed the back doors of the three Quarter ton, black coroners van. She watched contentedly as
the vehicle drove away. Rossi had almost every particle of the young womans body. She had maintained the integrity
of the broken, battered body. She had bagged all the debris separately. The tools and utensils used against the victim
were en route to the crime lab. Her mind drifted back to Ric Lay. Taylor had accepted the opening at the M.E. office
for reasons she was not sure of. Her rotations at Vanderbilt niversity Hospital began with general emergency medicine.
She changed her resident choices twice. Forensics and Pathology had been squeezed in over the past fifty three
months. Dr. Rossi had worked tirelessly, as if driven. She still wondered why she had chosen to process homicides,
there was no one to save. As an M.E., the gratification of bringing someone from illness to health or saving a life in
distress, was not possible. Even though, in wrongful death the victim could communicate volumes about their last
moments, many times exposing the responsible party. Dr. Rossi would be far removed from the individual case by the
time the murderer was caught. Most days she didn’t know the final disposition of yesterdays cases. Something about
Kera Kelleys case was different. Specifically, Ric Lay. Something about him caught her attention. Searching herself,
Taylor was at a loss to explain this preoccupation. She was amused at herself. Was it his respect for Kera, was it how
quickly he left her. She laughed at herself. Taylor continued to think of Ric as she walked to her ‘company’ car, yet
another Crown Vic, black. She pulled a small bottle of hand sanitizer from a pocket of her utilities. Her mind went
back to work. She examined the scene again in her mind. As she put the car into gear, she decided a shower was her
first priority.
Diablophetes was starting to crack. His graceful heavenly body was almost without limit, existing as a being of
virtually pure light with hardly any mass, he was composed of anti-matter, a negative charged being surrounded by and
infused with tendrils of light. On the earthly plane he could influence thought, he could transfer energy, now the
pressure on this body was incredible. The feet hurt. He was scratching everywhere. Dio didn’t have a humans ability
to block out the small sensory receptors. He spirit had imbued this mortal body with a hundred times more energy than
it was able to contain. Though physically no damage had occurred, it was the mental and emotional overloads that
were affecting Dio. While Zac had used twelve to thirteen per cent of his brain, Dio was firing all of the gray matter,
hence his agitation. The smell of the mans’ body was overbearing and was sweating profusely. Dio was trying to
access the memories to find out why, but the images were all fleeting, no time to discern meanings. What Dio didn’t
know and what Zac had never counted upon was the difference between a being of light and a soul of light. A soul, being an infinite yet subtle entity, whereas an angel was a powerful, raucous blast of electrons, photons and speeding
molecules. In essence, Diablophetes had put the mortal body in danger. The heart rate was pulsing at one hundred
fifty eight. The body was on fire, its temperature one hundred three and climbing. Slowly Diablo was killing the flesh.
If he remained, Zacs’ body would last another four days. Zac had already caused irreparable damage when he had
‘quickened’ his body. Something had to change. Luckily Diablo knew this. He had perceived he was damaging
tissues and cells. He slowed down, taking in deep breaths and thinking of heaven. Could he do that? Would they hear
him? Worse, would Satan hear him? He didn’t think so, then again, Michael had spoken to him.
On the corner of Baxter and Plains, there sat a bench. Diablophetes practically fell on it. As he felt himself
gaining control over Zacs body, he contemplated the world around him. Even with angelic creativity and imagination,
he could never explain this world accurately. He was so wrong, about so many things. Existence on this plane was
wrought with danger and intricately woven ‘risk-reward’ dynamics. Nothing was what it seemed. Dio could hear
human thoughts, feel multiple emotions emanating from every direction. His supernatural perception combined with
Zacs brain created a hyper super-sensitivity. Even for an angelic/demonic being, it was overload.
Diablophetes was learning quickly. Through some sort of bio feedback, he had gained control. The heart rate was
down to ninety, temperature to ninety nine, the body no longer in danger. As he contemplated the precarious position
of these beings, Diablophetes began to change.
Satan had, over oceans of time, convinced his minions of mans inferiority. He had pontificated on mans plots of
subterfuge. He had shown how wicked, dirty and evil were the thoughts and desires of man. Here in a matter of hours,
adjacent to a modern Babylon, Diablophetes had experienced the selflessness of hundreds. He felt their love. He felt
the desperation of a father searching the street for his missing daughter. Searching, Diablophetes, with his
supernatural abilities, found the child. She was cowering in a dark room, her anguish, all consuming. He felt the
hunger of a young mother as she fed her baby the last of the food she had prepared. Diablo saw the beauty of the
infants toothless grin through his mothers eyes. Her hunger forgotten, drowned out by the living waters of a mothers
love. Diablophetes was gaining precious understanding. The angel continued to seek out the good, the beauty of mans
heart. Time and again through hunger, captivity, desperate loss, again and again, he saw hope. Hope, a shining,
guiding light. These people had hope. Now the demons own situation came crashing down on him. His burden would
always be with him. Regret. In his dimension, on the lower planes, there were no tears, but here in the diminishing
glow of twilight, his eyes stung. A flood came, as much for the people he had experienced, as for himself. The body
was wracked with heaving sobs. Diablo tasted the bitter salt of anguish for the first time in his existence. The angel
had gained priceless understanding in the few hours he had been on the earth. He knew why the battle raged on and he
knew how wrong, how selfish his choice had been. Diablophetes wanted redemption. After all, he had been deceived.
The angel realized he was still wrong. He searched himself. The reality was simple. Selfish motives were all he
possessed. Dio was exactly where his desire, his vanity had put him. What could he do to make amends? He would
figure it out. Now, in the present, he knew the body needed fuel…food. Finally, at last he had a purpose. He moved to fulfill it.
As the men entered the grounds, they saw that Bishop Adams was already in the central garden. Rows of towering
oaks planted every thirty five feet, surrounded this special place of worship. The trees were three wide and four long,
they rose seventy feet into the sky. In front of each tree stood a sixteen foot representation of a saint of the holy
church. On this day, the bishop was kneeling before Saint Jose De San Jacinto. He thought it was fitting to call upon
Father Jose. Adams heard the men approaching from behind him. They stopped at a respectable distance to allow the
bishop to conclude his prayers. After a few minutes, Adams rose and turned to greet the men. He had asked God to
give him proper words for the ‘new chosen son’. Ric had envisioned finding the young man, a week ago. Adams
remembered the meeting would come simultaneously with the discovery of a victim, killed by an evil one. He kissed
the cross he wore now, a gift from students at Vanderbilt University. He had lectured that summer on the
“Responsibility of the Church in Modern Times of the Secular Explosion”. Adams was a P.H.D. in sociology and was
a highly regarded speaker. He hoped and prayed, he found the right words today.
“Your grace.” Ric greeted his friend.
“Detective.” Adams said. They would remain formal until the young mans affiliation was confirmed. While Ric
had discerned goodness, it could be a ploy by Satan. Either way, now was not the time to reveal themselves, the battle
had just begun.
“Your grace, may I introduce you to officer Peter Manley.” Ric said.
“Uhm… nice to meet you, sir.” Pete said, unsure of what etiquette dictated he should say or how to address the cleric.
“Officer Manley,” the bishop offered his ring. Pete grabbed Adams overturned hand, knuckles up, and shook it vigorously. Adams said nothing.
“Detective Lay.” Adams again offering the top of his hand.
“Your grace.” Ric replied, bending to kiss the ring on Adams finger.
“Peter, that’s a fine name. Are you aware of its biblical significance?”
“ Yes, sir. Peter was the rock of the church. I guess it’s like the foundation….I mean I think.” Eter was unsure of himself, but he wasn’t the type to answer questions he did not know. He felt overwhelmed. Bishop Adams started to speak, but Peter interrupted him.
“I’m sorry sir, excuse me, I mean I understand something happened today. Also I believe that you and detective Lay have answers for me, but gentlemen, you have no idea what just occurred. What I saw. What I felt. Please bear with me. I want your answers, first I have questions, okay?”
“Peter”, Adams began, “we brought you here because we do understand. WE do know what you saw. We are here to help. Now, your questions, please.
Peter sat down on the bench in front of the statue. Then he looked directly at Ric Lay.
“First, do we know each other?” Ric remained silent and shook his head. “Okay…how did you know?” His eyes pleading for answers to questions he didn’t know how to verbalize. Ric looked at the Bishop and Petes eyes went to the cleric.
“Peter, do you believe in one God the Father the Almighty?’
“Yes.”
“Do you believe in His son; our lord, Jesus Christ?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Do you believe by the power of the Holy Spirit he was born of the Virgin Mary?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe he was crucified, died and was buried?
“Yes.”
“Do you believe on the third he rose from the grave?”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe in angels in heaven and demons in hell?”
If Pete had been asked the same question three hours before, he would not have been able to give a definitive answer. Now he knew, somehow he just knew.
“Yes, they both exist.”
Adams looked at Ric as if to say, okay, we can proceed.
“Peter, seven years ago I was made aware of a war. This war has stood now for the better part of fifteen thousand
years. We don’t know exactly when it began, we have some clues as to why, but we don’t claim to know the real
reasons. Son, you are now a part of this war. You have been chosen, drafted by God.”
Pete looked down to the ground, wondering how this could happen. He wasn’t special. He wasn’t particularly devout. Why was he chosen?
“Peter?” no response. “Officer Manley?” Ric said.
“Look, why would God choose me. I mean, just a few years ago I was a partying, womanizing sinner. It doesn’t make any sense.”
Ric started to laugh. He knew he had the right man. Adams smiled at Peter.
“Son,” Adams said, “Look at the scriptures. God wants sinners, Jesus used sinners. It is exactly because of our
brokenness that we can be healed by our lord. Don’t you see, Peter, God loves converts. Jesus changed lives. But,
make no mistake, your very soul becomes a most prized target of the father of lies. Satan will come after you. In fact,
Ric and I believe the first tact he uses, fear, has already been loosed on all of us. Satan has no need to assail the
wicked, they are already willing or ignorant ill-fated disciples. Ric and I will show you the door, but you will have to
walk through it.
Lil P was no more than a shadow on the carpet. The room was dark except for the antique tiffany lamp on the
nightstand beside a massive canopied bed. The bedroom was nothing short of palatial. Rare antiques decorated the
pristine and stately room. Regina called this room, home. For all its beauty and expensive furnishings, to her, it was
no more than a reminder of her sellout. The worse part of her shame was the fact that she continued to accept his
money.
Regina was too young to remember when her mother had married Burtrum Gardener. She had heard the stories.
How the retail industry mogul had discovered her and her mother. The industrialist and her mother had been on the
parkway one morning in a thick fog. They had been part of a seven car pile up. Neither had been hurt. As Burt was
going from car to car, he had met Melanie McDonald. The unlikely pair had not exactly hit it off. Melanie was twenty
four, divorced with a two year old. Burt was worth, in excess of, two billion. Melanie was beautiful. After initially
spurning all of Burts advances, he played his last card, money. It worked. Exactly one year and four months after that
fateful accident, the two wed. And that was how Regina, aka Precious, aka LilP came to be, seventeen years later, on
the carpet.
What Regina didn’t realize, as she lay with her knees pressed to her chest, her face buried between her knees,
trying to un-become, wanting to disappear, was that angels were ministering to her soul. Had she been able to perceive
the next higher special dimension, she would have heard the singing, she would have seen her own illuminate, a dark
blue pulsing light surrounded by intense, brilliantly bright reds, whites, yellows, all pressing against her tortured spirit.
She would have observed what happened next, with great trepidation. The angels all looked up as they were buffeted
from all sides by what appeared to be a shimmering vapor. The angels stood their ground as the brightest of possible
light grew. A crescendo of melodic, harmonic voices rose as the light enveloped Reginas spirit, her soul.
Every angel bowed and backed away. The smallest of light began to shine in the middle of her brokenness. The
voice tender, pleading, weak began to rise within the small light. The Holy Ghost, The spirit of God, Gods soul was
convicting her of sin. The light of God in her, singing, groaning, interceding on her behalf.
On the plane of man, Regina was in a battle for her everlasting life. She began to pray.
“Oh God, no, no, please, oh God,I don’t want this life. I deserve everything I’ve gotten. Please God, please,
please…please.” She didn’t know what to pray. She only knew pain and shame. Reginas heart was breaking.
Breaking for her life. Breaking for every time she had chosen the world over herself. Her tears swelled, hot, stinging,
fat tears filled her eyes and spilled her guilt. She sat up knees still on her chest, arms wrapped around them. Her
fingers dug into the flesh just above her elbows. The tears burrowed through the dirt and six days of sex, drugs,
decadence, making a trail of clean, fair, freckled skin a contrast to the darker, grime filled surface.
On the heavenly dimension, the light of God had begun to glow within her. The blue was turning a light lavender,
the middle, glowing pink. The harmonies were beyond beauty. The angels were praising God. The Holy Spirit in
Regina was growing larger.
Regina let out a scream. She jumped to her feet. She rushed to the small purse she had been carrying earlier.
Stumbling in her haste and crying, groaning in high-pitched, short moans and gasps, she made the bathroom.
Regina no longer cared about the contents. Frantically, she opened the thing and dumped it into the toilet.
Reginas life, while surrounded by luxury, was a dysfunctional and a hereditarian disaster. Melanie Gardener had
sold out. Reginas mother had found solace in a bottle. The womans life became a stupor. Burt Gardener had exactly
what he wanted. A mother who wanted nothing more than to keep her daughter out of her hair.
Burt had fondled Regina since she was three years old. She had been exposed to child pornography. Gardner for
his part, was a skilled pedophile. His wealth gave him the perfect subterfuge, unlimited resources allowed his
perversity to go virtually undetected. Melanies dazed condition from her every day use of alcohol, her vacations, her
shopping and general ‘don’t give a damn’ attitude was the perfect setup for Gardeners free reign over Regina. He had
twenty years experience at his game, like every thing else he did, he was successful. Gardener began fondling her in
her sleep. Her little body began its journey of betrayal. By the time Regina was eight, she eagerly anticipated coming
home from her private Catholic school each day. The school was connected to St. Marys’ church and the Nashville
Archdiocese. Burt performed oral sex on her every day, by the time she was ten, she was performing the same to him.
Through the years he had filmed her with men, women and himself. At thirteen, she lost her virginity, if you could
call it that, to Gardner. The next three years were filled with sex, drugs and every corruption that can be perpetrated
on a young girl. When she began to rebel at fourteen, Burt hooked her on cocaine, pain killers and ecstasy. His
lecherous ways knew no bounds.
Often, Regina found the drugs herself. One night the seventeen year old got in over her head. She went home with
three black gang-bangers. They broke her down with insults, screaming, laughing and spitting on her. They had their
way. She thought her life was over. They beat her bloody, her nose and lips were a flood, her left eye was swollen
shut. The three had urinated on her, ejaculated on her face and in her mouth. They had penetrated her anus with a
variety of objects each graduating to a larger one. Reginas torn rectum was bleeding as well. Her broken body
screamed with pain, but her spirit was indomitable. The three had tired of her, besides, now she was a nasty, stinking
mess. She didn’t know it then and still didn’t know that the men were evil and had planned to kill her and dump the
body.
It was business as usual for the crack slingers. They had ignored their phones long enough. The house was a
dilapidated shell. They had turned on the water and electricity, “tapped” from a neighboring house. The house was
located in the poorest, crime laden areas of the ‘hood’. The gang members had little to concern themselves, so with
their guns scattered around the living room, the men busied themselves in the kitchen area cooking up some ‘work’
(crack). Each was loudly boasting, testosterone running high. The astonished look on the face of one of her attackers
was not good enough bounty to satisfy her vengeance. The reason for his utter surprise lay in the barrels of the two
automatic pistols steadily aimed at his chest. He inhaled in preparation to speak. He never got the chance. The forty
caliber and nine millimeter bullets were exiting his back before his ears registered the blast. His companions never had
a chance to complain either. That night she went down a road that she thought was a road of no return. Thankfully, she
was wrong.
Regina didn’t realize who she was. While all of us are special, all of us are children of God, some are marked for
something more. That something doesn’t mean we are particularly blessed or cursed, just chosen. Chosen to fulfill the
will of our Lord and Father. Regina was such a one. Chosen. If asked to have this mark, she might have shrank, but
God had made her strong, so strong. He made her protector equally strong.
On Gods plane, inside the Holy of Holies, angels sang. On earth, it was the time before that fateful night, the night Regina killed.
Millions upon millions of heavens angels praised God. He was creating one of them. One whose story was not yet written, still he was the very word of God. The books of this age were not yet on paper. The Alpha and Omega, The one true God had spoken and so it was.
Oleshio, (oh lee she oh) was everything, Michael, Gabriel and Raphael were. His goodness, a song of heaven, his power, the wrath of God, his humility, like Jesus Christ. His sword forged by God Himself. His skin was olive brown. He stood naked before the throne of God, the sword at his feet. The sword rose at its tip, standing on its handle. Slowly it rose and stopped just higher than the new angel. Melodic tones came from the weapon and suddenly light cast itself in all directions. Every possible color inundated the universe of the heavenly plane, only God, Himself was brighter. Angels oiled down the skin of Oleshio while the swords rich tones resonated throughout the heavens. Harmonies of every kind made this event one of heavens most beautiful. As the song and illuminations from the sword continued, angels brought raiment for the new archangel. They drifted chain mail over his head and shoulders, the golden links covering his torso. Leather wrist bands, four inches wide, wrapped half his forearms, tied underneath in a perfect weave. His skirt was a mother of pearl iridescence with wisps of rainbow shimmering through it. Nothing adorned his feet. Lastly was his vest, tasseled shoulder boards of greenest jade on a double breasted burgundy wrap with double rows of golden buttons, seven to a row. Finally, God took the sword, its song instantly chiming impossible high tones, and brought the blade of light down on Oleshios left shoulder. The song grew as a blast of white sparks blazed from the contact. As the Almighty lifted the sword, the left wing unfolded. He brought the sword down to the right shoulder, again the same song, the same white sparked. The right wing unfurled. Now each wing held high, each touching. The wings were a reflection of all time and brilliance itself.
Oleshio folded back his wings, knelt before the throne with arms outstretched and brought his hands down to the surface of Gods foundation as he said, “ I am your humble servant, you are my almighty God. Only say the word and it shall be done.
Instantly the history of heaven, man and all creation was bestowed on Oleshio. His orders had been given as well. In a flash of lightening and peal of thunder, he was off, gliding on a light toward Regina.
In mans time, on the earthly plane, Regina had just sat down in the car of the three evil men. Twelve of Satans captains would fall to Oleshios sword over the next six hours. Raphael had once been held at bay for twenty one days. In that six hours, Reginas’ soul would be battered mercilessly. When Oleshio found her, when he ‘remembered’ all that had befallen Gods chosen, nothing could hold him back. He gave her strength and courage. He willed her to get up. Inconsolable, Oleshio gave her wrath. He knew he shouldn’t. He knew the guns were instruments of death. Still, he brought her to them, full of fury, she killed and killed again.
That was then, Oleshio had not been with her since that day. The songs of his brethren urged him into her presence. The light of the Holy Ghost bade him to love her.
Regina got up from the bathroom floor, turned on the light and stared into the mirror. Slowly, beneath the smell and dirt, beneath the haunted emerald eyes, she found her heart. She didn’t have to go on hurting herself, others had done that all her life. She didn’t have to bow down to money. Somehow she knew where to go. She knew who to see. Tonight, Lil P would die. Tonight Precious would cease to exist. Regina began her healing. Tonight she would go to Sister Isabella. Tonight her life would change. Failure was not an option.
Satan had taken Zac down into the desolate plane. To Zacs senses, it was as if everything was leaving, as if matter was un-creating itself. In truth, he wasn’t far from right. Lucifer had brought him onto a plane that men would one day discover…an anti-verse. Physical laws of mans plane would not fit into this strange, surreal world. Men would have m-theories or p-brains as they called them, for another twenty six years. When all seven were discovered, the so called theory of everything, would be completed. At any rate, Zac was not feeling comfortable in this nothingness. He had been brought to Lucifers throne, the furthest point from the throne of God. This place was moving away form God, cast out at exactly light speed. This was of no consequence to Lucifer. Were it not for the holy boundary, he could be at Gods side in seconds. For the past eleven thousand years, Lucifer had been restricted to just four dimensions, seven planes of reality to move through. It was like taking a free spirited man and putting him in a dark box, no sound, no light. Before his banishment, the great archangel could roam an endless assortment of space and times. To his twisted understanding, man had ruined all of that, man and God. While Lucifer was a created being full of light and life, man was given the very essence of God. Not created, begotten. Unlike Lucifer, man was not obligated to obey. Man fell under grace. Even before the blood covenant of Christ, man was spoiled, pampered. To the fallen archangel s way of thinking, God gave man the one thing he himself was banished for. Free will. Man could make any choice, could do any evil and yet still find favor, because he had the light of God within him.
“I can make you a prince on earth,” Lucifer said.
“Why?” Zac was curious, but also smart enough to know not to give away anything to this demon.
“Wouldn’t you like to be desired, worshiped?”
“No” Zac replied.
Lucifer was becoming enraged. “You are foolish to disappoint me. I offer you everything and what do you do? Throw it back at my feet.” The red-blotched skin began to glow.
“Wait. You said you would make me a prince, worshipped. I have no such appetite. No, you want something and I want something. Let us bargain together.”
Lucifers face broke into a hideous smile. The eyes began to dart around, as he looked up, four more eyes appeared across his forehead. The laugh that issued forth from the monster was of many voices, boisterous, sinister, then suddenly, silence.
“What is it you desire?” Several different voices, disjointed tones offered up the question.
“What I want is complicated.”
“TELL ME!” Lucifer bellowed.
Zac walked over to the beast and looked into the six eyes. He didn’t care the cost. He wanted what he wanted.
“I need to be undetectable when I wish it. I want no weapon on earth to hurt me. Last, I want to be irresistible to those I choose.”
Satan wasted no time.
“ No one will discern your presence, unless, one already has you in its sight. Only first, unobserved, can you maintain your cloak. No weapon made by mans hand will harm thee. To whom you desire, as you desire them, they will desire thee.” Lucifer finished. “Agreed?”
At that, Lucifer grabbed Zac up with another set of arms hidden against his sides, each hand had six talons, four fingers and two thumb-like appendages pointing backwards, as though broken. The wings spread back and Zac knew they were speeding away from the dark princes throne. Faster, faster, Zac wasn’t prepared, didn’t know what to do. He lost consciousness.
Raphael, Gabriel and Michael watched as the trio of men walked toward the rectory. Peter, Bishop Adams and Ric disappeared inside the church. Suddenly, Michaels head snapped toward the south. Gabriel and Raphael followed in quick succession. An apparition glowing in the distant light was rushing toward them. It was Michael who discerned the new archangel first. The three archangels were scores of millennia in age. The new archangel bearing down on them had been created by the Father only a few years ago by mans time. They knew of him but had never been in his presence. The new angels self imposed exile was over.
Michael squared his shoulders, Raphael stepped to Michaels left, Gabriel to the right. Each, one width behind the general of heaven.
It had been almost two thousand years since the archangels last royal salute. That salute had been to the risen Christ. Since that time, they had welcomed many saints and martyrs into Gods presence. This was a personal welcome. Michaels idea. Though the multitude would not witness this, the importance and meaning would be written. For this occasion was the Word of God. Michael knew this. The newest archangel walked into their midst and stood before them. Michaels eyes held Oleshios. Then in unison, the three drew the swords of heaven, the defenders of the Word. Each angel held the sword out and away from the body. Slowly, they went to one knee, eyes on Oleshio, they brought their swords down and straight across their bodies. They placed their right hand down in front of them, arms straight. Each lowered his head, pointed the swords up and raised them with outstretched arms. The swords lights stirred as song began to emanate from the weapons.
Oleshio knew too well the brotherhood, the respect being paid to him. “Brothers,” he said, “rise.”
“Brother” Michael said. Raphael and Gabriel repeated the greeting.
“He works in mysterious ways, brother. It is not for us to know why, our duty is to serve.” Michael said.
A bright yellow Mustang Saleen motored on to the property and parked in front of the rectory doors. Regina got out of the shiny, new sports car. She stood by the drivers door, contemplating whether or not she should go in. Sister Isabella would never believe the life Regina had endured. She would make her believe. All of it was more than she could ever bear. For the first time in her memory, Regina felt clean. Not the clean she got from the shower, this went beyond skin, beyond clothing, beyond personality. It was a clean slate. She didn’t know who she was, but she knew she had courage. She knew she had perseverance. She was resourceful. That is where she would start. Three virtues. That wasn’t so bad , was it? Yes, she was undefined, but her foundation was strong. Now to spill her guilt. So much to confess. She had carried the load long enough.
The rectory door opened on the three men just finishing a prayer. They had prayed for perseverance, courage, understanding. Three virtues. As they said their amens, Regina stopped at the threshold. She looked at them, looking at her. Almost of its own accord, her body began to morph into an inviting posture. Her vigilance was acute. Regina stopped her gestures of invitation. Pete was rapt. Her struggle, while lost on Ric and the bishop, was perfectly perceived by him. He seemed to know her, somehow.
“Uhm, I’m sorry to bother you, uh father?” She didn’t recognize Adams clothing. She had never seen a bishop up close before.
“Bishop Adams, how may I help you?”
“I’m looking for Sister Isabella Arturo. I know it’s late, but I really need to see her.” Regina was just short of tears again. Peter couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was fresh scrubbed beauty, but more than that, he could ‘feel’ her. Determination, vulnerability and intrinsic goodness. He looked at the bishop and Ric, then back to the girl
“What’s your name?’ Pete asked.
“Regina”
“Okay, Regina. Uhm, wait right here, okay?”
She looked at him strangely. “All right.”
Then under his breath, “Gentlemen, please” he stepped toward the sanctuary doors and Ric and Adams followed. Once behind closed doors, Pete could not contain himself. “ I know her, I swear it. I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but she is part of this. All of it.”
“I know, I felt it too,” Ric agreed.
“Well, we probably need to protect her until we know what part she plays” Adams offered. “Ric, she could be one of the sacrifices. Five are still to come. Right?”
“Yes. I’m pretty sure we have five to go, plus how ever many get caught up. So far we have three dead. One sacrifice. Two bystanders.”
“You mean this war of yours has claimed innocent lives?” Peter asks.
“ The war isn’t mine, Pete, and there hasn’t been any innocent since Christ.” Ric said gravely.
“Why don’t I go see about the girl and track down Isabella. Mean time, Ric will explain to you what’s been really going on.” With that said, Adams rose from the pew and walked away, leaving the two officers of the law in a heavy atmosphere. Ric got up and motioned for Peter to follow him. Once Pete was beside him they began to walk slowly up the center aisle. The beauty of the sanctuary filled their senses. The light from the candles flickered and danced off the marble statues and the fourteen foot high stained glass windows, each representing a station of the cross. The moment was pregnant with reverence and possibility. Ric cleared his throat.
“Pete, I saw you across the street, but not this you” Ric said indicating Petes body. “I saw the groanings of the Holy Ghost in you. The spirit of God. I saw it because I was meant to. Now I can’t say exactly what that means. My abilities wax and wane with my spiritual condition. When I got the call, it happened much like you. Convicted, I saw events from the perspective of the killer. I imagine you see the victims experience. Yes?” Ric asked.
“Yes” Peter answered. Completely captivated now.
“I was cursed to see a monster brutally murder my family. I also saw a close friend collapse into himself. He went mad, Peter. He saw what you see. The gifts have nothing to do with where we are. It is bestowed on who we are. This battle is a spillover. A spillover battle from a colossal war.” Ric paused for a moment. The two men were now at the front of the sanctuary. Ric crossed himself and Pete followed his example. “The crossover happened for the first time in 1952. Six people, thought to be just ordinary people, were tortured. Disgusting acts of humiliation and degradation were done to them. In 1952 it was Seattle. In 1959, Daphne, Alabama. In 66’ and 72’ Montreal. 79’ and 86’ Miami, in 93’ the tortures hit D.C. Then in 2000, Nashville. I’m sorry to say 07’ Nashville again. I wasn’t alone. Neither are you. We are assisted by the Host of Heaven, seraphim and the archangels, themselves. You are familiar with Ephesians 6:12?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Very well” Ric paused again.
“I know what you felt. My gift has grown into a supernatural talent. A talent that is exponentially increased with prayer. I know that you have always known things. Pete, the gift has a purpose. In 1986, I thought I was going crazy. Images kept coming. Images of despicable acts of violence. Pete, I felt as if it was me committing the murders.” Ric stopped, more for himself than for Pete. He had to tell the young man about the risk.
“Pete, I lost my wife, my daughters almost my mind. Bishop Adams and I have researched the killings, over and over again. Only one person with your particular gift, just one, survived. Back in 2000 Sammy Riggs stuck a shotgun in his mouth.” Ric hesitated letting that fact sink in. Riggs name was on the Wall of Honor at metro headquarters. Killed in the line of duty. Yeah, right. Ric had fought hard to get that mans name applied to that wall. Finally he had won the administration over. Only a very select few had known what Ric and Sammy were after. Most people never have to deal with the true evil on this plane of existence. Sure they get influenced but maybe one person out of one hundred thousand really knows.
“I just want you to know what is coming every seven years. It’s sketchy, but Adams and I think there was a crossover in ‘46’. Maybe the first. It took place in Mexico City. Seven, Gods number. Every seven years there have been records of six tortures, six murders. Six, the devils number. We don’t know why. Hell, Pete, I don’t care why. I stopped him in ‘2000’. His ritual was broken at three deaths. When the visions of my wife and children came to me, they were so close to my heart…” Ric stopped. His voice began to break. “I…..I felt his joy….I felt how wonderful his revenge was. At the same time I was breaking into a thousand pieces…..Pete, I could smell their blood through that monster.” Ric stopped and took a deep breath. “I came so close.” He turned to look Pete in the eyes. “If I'm right you will see through the eyes of his victims. You will feel what they feel. Do you understand?”