Blind Instinct

SEVEN

The walls dulled all reverberation of the aboveground evening traffic that filtered down to them as a strange lilting chant resonating through the ancient stones, creating its own tone, pitch, note, and timbre. Even the walls chanted, remembering the words Mihi beata mater… Theirs was a cave below the beleaguered city of London, a rat's den, yet a holy place where they might practice their special brand of religion unharmed and unrestrained. They were in complete safety from blind humanity above who went about their regimented lives like ants without question of time or space or God or soul. It was a place cool in summer and warm in winter, a place where only the sacred tred, where nothing profane nor evil could step one single foot before being smote into ash, so predicted their leader who had painstakingly sought out and found this place.

“Hear the walls?” he often asked. For here, the walls spoke a clear oommmmmm, oommmmmm, oommmmmm that never stopped, no more than the trickling water sounds could be stopped. Lately, the walls reverberated with the three words Mihi beata mater, Mihi beata mater, Mihi beata mater…

The walls bled water that seeped in from the streets of London above the ancient, Roman-built catacombs where they met in secret ceremony. The walls became slick and mirror like in their wetness, the evening rains above finding them. The ancient walls told stories, spoke of Roman conquest, of debauchery and defilement, of a time when Christians had been slaughtered here, further making this place sacrosanct. The walls might as well run with blood as with God's tears, their leader had more than once declared.

“Why are we beseeched so? Why are we tested so? Why, Oh Precious One? Why do You make me blind that I will not know, but must accept all Holy Writ on faith and faith alone?” he preached aloud to those who followed him, in the makeshift chapel, where an ancient altar of thick, coarse oak, and an equally ancient cross of the same wood, stood as sturdy props-the only holy props aside from the torches and the branding fire that awaited use again. “Why are we tested so?” he repeated, his words like thunder.

“Offer us hope!” cried out one among the congregation.

Their leader looked out on his small following, which was dwindling with each new meeting. There appeared less than forty who would step over into the true millennium with him and the newfound Christ.

“Send Thy divine message through this wretched vessel, so that others might also accept Your grace and reckoning,” he continued. “Be not dismayed at our weaknesses, our failings, and give us Thy strength. If not in numbers then give it to us in power-the divine power that is You, Lord Jehovah.” He slavered at the mouth with his pronouncement.

The others wore the robes of monks-robes he had secured for them-their faces covered in hoods like cowls, and each looked up in solemn wonder at the depth of their leader's passion, his compassion and his faith. Each thought: He must know. He must indeed have the ear of God as no man else.

It made perfect sense, even if on the surface of it they did appear to have failed three times in their attempts at the resurrection of a life, a life which the Son would inveigh with His very own divine presence in the Second Coming, to mark the second millennium-the true millennium. Their leader, a man of worldly knowledge and otherworldly passion, of outward and inward beauty, had said so. He had explained it entirely and utterly to their satisfaction, more than once.

The message went forth clear and concise, a kind of soliloquy in which their humble leader lamented again his choice for the Messiah. “As spiritual father of the collective, believing in all that we do and have done in the name of the Father, I cannot now unbelieve anymore than I can undo the steps we have taken. I accept the wisdom of the Son and the Holy Ghost, believing in all that we have put our blessed trust into… In Your name, Lord Jehovah, we beseech Thee to guide our darkened path.”

“It is dark indeed!” cried out one of the many.

“Show us the way!” pleaded another from behind closed eyelids.

Their leader had, after Coibby, turned to the well-to-do, bom-again radio personality, Theodore 'Ted” Burton. He had believed beyond any doubt that the man was the Messiah walking… The Messiah, walking the Earth incognito, begging to be brought out into the light of recognition for all to see. For a time, Burton had looked like, felt like, sounded like, smelled like, and appeared to be God's Son-the Jew who had renounced Judaism in the name of Christ the Lord.

“Who better than a Jew to become Jesus, who was, after all, a Jew?” he'd instructed them back then.

“We all did love Burton for the part,” he reminded his congregation now. “For his having renounced Judaism and his embracing the true church. But in the end. Burton proved an even greater disappointment than the two previous sacrifices. What say you, my followers? Is it not time to select a new Messiah?”

He looked out over his diminished flock, and it-they- seemed to be disappearing, vanishing before his eyes. One here, one there… They appeared defeated, tired, shriveled, atrophied as a group. They looked old, worn, frustrated, yet wanting guidance and reassurances. A fleeting thought beamed through the electrochemical network of his brain: He wondered if he were not they, and if they were not he, all in all, one in the same? Mannequins in a mindless world of chance and hallucination, smoke and mirrors, none of it real, none of it under the control of any universal power, more chaotic than Alice's Wonderland. But even as the thought formed in his head, he banished it with a more pious and self-recriminating one: How dare I exhault myself above the others, to stand here at this altar over their heads while they keep dropping off? Dying from view. I can't walk among them anymore, can't truly touch them ever again, so separate have I become. I, too, have vanished, and I, too, am weary of this tired world, but I have been called on, and I must heed His call to find the fourth Messiah.

Then it occurred to him: as a sea washes a lovely starfish to one's feet, so the idea came floating from an unseen hand. And it fit. It made perfect sense that God's Son would be a matrix of human qualities, that no single human posssessed them all. That in crucifying the others they had in fact created a kind of bank, a holding place, for all of the virtues Christ must have for the Second Coming.

Now he must determine when, where, and how to best explain this new revelation to his followers. The simple poetic vision, the simplicity of the truth alone, must be seen by the others as Divine Intervention. He raised the blood of Christ to his lips and drank a toast to the beauty of it all, the perfect syncopation of a plan that he'd taken on blind faith but was now coming into full-blown focus.

The York proved absolutely gorgeous, a fabulous place to stay, and the plush bed that Jessica slept in had allowed for a good night's rest. Dining in the breakfast nook overlooking the Victoria Gardens proved so relaxing that she almost forgot why she had come to London. She cursed the fact that she did not have time to see the sights, to breathe in the history and romance of this ancient city. Her limited time here would be wrapped up with the dark underbelly of London and the bleakness of forensic work, the evil at hand, the evil destroying the peace, an evil staining all the beauty.

On arriving at the hotel in late afternoon the day before, after her Burton autopsy, she'd walked out to the spot where Copperwaite and Sharpe had first encountered Katherine O'Donahue's naked body. In fact, Stuart Copperwaite, who had gallantly escorted her to the York Hotel, had offered to also accompany her to the Victoria Gardens Embankment. Below the bridge stumbled the same drunken bridgeman, who had frightened off the Crucifier and had run over the “evidence.” He foolishly waved at them as they searched the crime scene.

Jessica walked the path most likely taken by the Crucifier. Copperwaite and Sharpe had shrewdly assessed where the killer's “transport”-as they called his car-had most likely been parked so as to draw no attention. Copperwaite pointed out the spot. He also pointed out the likely trail where the body was carried toward water's edge before being dropped when the bridgeman's headlights surprised and frightened the killer or killers. No footprint impressions had been found as just enough rain fell in those hours before dawn to obliterate human tracks. Copperwaite explained, “But tire tracks were found and impressions taken that night. Unfortunately, the impressions matched literally hundreds of thousands of tires used in England, and so long as there remains no suspect, we have no suspect car to match impressions to.”

As she'd walked with Copperwaite last night, Jessica had asked, “How long have you and Sharpe been partners?”

“Not long at all, actually.” Copperwaite reminded her of Hugh Grant with some girth. He wore a perpetual, sly grin. “Sharpie lost his last partner in a gun battle over some drugs filtering in from Algiers. Nasty bit of luck. Then I come on with him, almost a month after. It's been two years now.”

“You seem awfully-I don't know-alike?”

“Alike? Sharp and me? Ha! As different as chalk and cheese, we are.”

“Close, then. You seem close.”

“Aye, that we are. Have to be close in every way, now don't we? Have to know the habits, the good and bad of one another to put your life in another's hands, you see. Isn't it done the same in your country?”

“Yes, very much so.”

“Sharpie's one of the best, if not the best. Ought to have had Boulte's job, you see, but then, you know how it goes. Over here, we have a saying 'bout that.”

She smiled knowingly but said, “Oh? And what's that?”

“Buggin's turn, we call it.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning every fool is given a turn at a job until all the fools have been exhausted. Meaning Sharpe was unfairly treated, and Boulte was promoted in order to demonstrate the height of stupidity in the Yard, to demonstrate Boulte's special brand of awe-inspiring incompetence.”

“I get your meaning.”

“You read what the Times had to say about our flaming Boulte? They're right on, they are. The man's a clot, a bloody, blinking, ballying, flipping, flaming, ruddy bastard! And he's a clawback as well, he is.”

“A 'clawback'?”

'Toady, I suppose you'd say. Claw at your backside as it were.”

She wondered what Boulte had done to deserve Copperwaite's total disdain. “Can you say that again, in its entirety, from the beginning?” she asked. “About Boulte. It sounded so resonant.”

They laughed. Jessica turned to stare out across at the majestic Thames that wound its shimmering, ribbonlike self about the palacelike structures on either embankment. Sightseeing boats and ferries dotted the water. The sunshine and surroundings defied the fact of anyone's having been murdered here, and she said as much to Stuart. Copperwaite handily replied, “Curly it was, awfully curly that dark morning we come on her.”

“Curly?”

“Awful gruesome, mum, Doctor. You can't imagine, seeing those bloodied hands, the gaping holes through 'em.”Jessica and Copperwaite walked back to the York where he had tea and she coffee with crumpets. Tired, she had said good night to Stuart in the lobby.

That had been last night. This morning, Jessica had taken the London Times, left at her door, down to breakfast with her, and read the lambasting given the Yard for having done nothing visible about the murdering Crucifier and for allowing the monster to roam freely through the streets of London. In a scathing attack on the steps-or lack of steps-taken by Scotland Yard, sidebar photos of the dead victims posed in life and in death framed the story. A reporter named Culhertson tore into Chief Inspector Paul Boulte as being unable to “rise to the level of competence.” She thought the quote sounded suspiciously like something that might have come out of Copperwaite's mouth.

“The only ray of hope in all of this horror,” wrote Erin Culbertson, “is that Inspector Richard Sharpe is leading the investigation and has wisely brought on a well-known forensic specialist, Dr. Jessica Coran, from the FBI, America.” After this, Culbertson listed Jessica's previous wins, ignoring all the losses, many of which were supremely personal losses accumulated over a life given to chasing such abhorrent creatures as the Crucifier.

She walked the short distance to the Yard, enjoying the beauty of London along the way, feeling somewhat overwhelmed and yet fulfilled here on her second day at Scotland Yard.

On entering the building, Jessica found herself immediately besieged by the duty sergeant with a message. Having left an overseas E-mail address for the Yard with J. T., she felt not at all surprised to electronically hear from John Thorpe. Informed of the transmission and directed where to go in order to read her E-mail and respond, she found herself alone in a vast array of computers manned by computer drones. J. T.'s transmission read:

Wish you all the best of British luck over there, and you know how lucky the British are, right? Right. Currently, having some difficulty tracking down the artist who did the fantastic artwork on our dear friend Horace the Tattoo Man, but have found someone who actually recognizes the art and artist, a so-called cutting-edge artist in the field a fellow named Jurgen Dykes, who takes his inspiration from a mentor named Kyle Winterbome, who takes his inspiration from H. R. Giger, whom everyone knows from the Alien trilogy of movies, his artwork famous the world over. Fantastic stuff in every sense of the word.

She electronically replied:

At least now you know the name of the artist. You can begin to track him down. Have you a location on Dykes?

She didn't expect a ready answer, realizing that J. T. was not likely out of bed yet, given the hour in America, much less at his computer terminal awaiting a reply from her.

She continued to read the remainder of his message:

Last known location of the artist somewhere in upstate New York and Florida before that, but he appears to have vanished off the face of the Earth. Will continue to investigate. Have plenty of help from division.

Jessica typed in an addendum to her earlier question, and then she looked it over for correctness and clarity. It read:

So far, here, J. T., it's not going so well with the Crucifier case, either. Please, keep me informed of your progress there, and I will do the same from here regarding our case at the Yard.

Jessica took in a great breath of air and signed off, hoping the best for J. T. and the strange case of Tattoo Man, when she looked up to find Inspector Richard Sharpe coming directly for her. He held an enervating glint in his eye and a sly turn to his lip.

“They told me I'd find you here. Is all well in the States? Hope you found the York to your liking.”

“Yes to all three questions, and how are you this morning?” He seemed in a fantastic mood. She wondered what had brought it about.“I've been better. The Times article has Boulte on my backside, I'm afraid. The least of my worries, however, the least.”

Jessica guessed that seeing Boulte made red in the face had done the job for Sharpe, and that even as Boulte lit into him for lack of progress on the case, Sharpe enjoyed seeing the man out of control.

Sharpe continued, almost chipper. “I understand you had a go-round the O'Donahue site with Stuart last evening?”

“Yes, I had… a go-round, yes.”

“Anything strike you?”

“Nothing that will change the opinion of the Times, or help you with Boulte, no.”

He shook his head and frowned. “Politics, really. Has no bloody place in the Yard, but then it's endemic now, actually. They wouldn't know how to ran the place without politics.”

“The press pushes buttons here like they do in America. A strong force.”

He shrugged this off. “Culbertson's a friend. She rather prints what I feed her, rather dislikes Boulte for good reason. He treats her like an anaconda.”

“Is she?”

“In some sense, yes, she is.”

“How well do you know her?”

'Too well, some would suggest.”

“Boulte, you mean?” She wondered if the reporter woman had slept with Sharpe, either figuratively or literally.

His half smile answered her unasked question. “You are a quick study, aren't you, Doctor?”

“I've been called quick, yes. I think it time you called me Jessica.”

“Right-o, and you must call me Richard.”

“Well done,” she said, mocking his British accent.

He smiled in return.

“Come on, let's have at it. We've got work to do,” he said, strolling ahead of her.

Jessica shut the terminal down and got up from the computer, following after Sharpe.

“What sort of work?” she asked, catching up and walking alongside him down the institutional-gray corridor.

“Luc Sante has had time to examine your tongue-Burton's tongue, rather.”

“Thank you for that clarification,” she jested. He confided, “You'll find Father Jerrard Luc Sante an interesting old bird, I should think.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Boulte thinks him certifiable because he can't understand a word the man says. Quite the intellectual where life, death, murder, and psychopathology are concerned. He is, besides a priest, a psychotherapist, and he's working on a book.”

“Really? All that?” she replied, curious. “What is the book about?”

“His notes mostly, on clients in therapy. Says it's a book that will begin a great debate over the nature of evil as we know it, or as we think we know it. That's Luc Sante altogether. Sometimes I think he talks just to hear the sound of it all, the sound of his voice, the choice of his words, always entertaining and usually of great help in understanding the most aberrant deviates among us.”

“Hmmm. Yes, indeed. Sounds like my kind of guy.”

Inspector Richard Sharpe introduced Jessica to Father Jerrard Luc Sante, who flew from the chair like a witch to take her hand in his. He'd been sitting behind Sharpe's desk, studying the hard copy of the message left at the base of the tongue, presumably by Burton's killer.

Luc Sante stood rigidly stiff, a man in obvious physical pain, holding himself together through sheer willpower and defiance. His vivid, mesmerizing, stark blue eyes shone clear and icily lucid. Even in his handshake, she could feel the virtual wince that coursed through his body at her touch.

Sharpe had promised an ancient man, but he had said nothing of the man's infirmity, his demeanor, the folds of skin, the rutted wrinkles of a face that had seen too many evils in one lifetime.

“I have heard so much about you, Dr. Coran,” his voice, unlike the body, came forth with ease, free of any hacking or cough or wracking pain. The wispy hair, like cotton candy, made angel-like push-ups atop his head.

Jessica wondered if he'd live long enough to actually see a book written much less printed. “And I have heard a great deal about you, sir.”

“From Sharpe here, no doubt. We have worked a number of cases together, have we not, Sharpe?”

Sharpe cleared his throat and said, “Dr. Luc Sante has helped clarify a number of certifiables for us over the years. He's had a long association with the Yard.”

“How long now, Richard? Tell the young doctor.”

“Thirty some odd years, Dr. Coran.”

“Remarkable.”

“And in that time, tell her what I've done for Scotland Yard.”

“Father Luc Sante, as Dr. Luc Sante, has helped tremendously in our understanding of both killers and their victims over the years.”

Luc Sante muttered something under his breath, unhappy with Sharpe's brief and general reply, now taking up for himself. “I have helped solve over seven hundred cases, thanks to my knowledge of how evil works through men, my dear.”

“Indeed a grand history, sir.”

“Of course, I haven't the reputation you have, and in most cases, I'm well behind the scenes, acting as a psychotherapist, you see.”

“Father Luc Sante also knows Latin. What would you translate this little message to mean, Father?” asked Sharpe.

Jerrard, some sixty plus years of age, Jessica guessed, debilitated through some disease he likely kept at bay with prescription drugs, swallowed hard before replying and said, “Well, Richard, it's fairly straightforward. No mystery here. It simply reads, 'Grant unto me, Blessed Mother.' “

“What does that mean?” she asked.

“It is a supplication, a prayer.”

“What kind of prayer winds up as a brand beneath the tongue?”

“It is a supplication to the Virgin Mary to bestow special honor on the deceased.”

“Special honor?”

“Quite…”

“I'd say it looks like a fairly twisted honor, from where I stand.”

“Read my book! And Richard, you must purchase a copy. You owe me as much!” He held up a copy of Twisted Faiths: A Jungian Examination of Wrongful and Harmful Beliefs Throughout the Ages, which had been lying on Richard's desk. “Finally just had the damn thing bound-self-published. No more time to waste with wretched and incompetent people in the publishing world.”

“Rejected, huh?” asked Richard.

“Like a two-shilling whore, Richard, but I tell you the publishing world is one colossal whore, a giant bitch! All of them, merely interested in the almighty pound and what some teen-aged Hollywood brat has for breakfast. Who or what Fergie is feeling today, or whether the Queen's ass is held too high, or if her hair will be allowed to go white this season or not- shameless twaddle!”

Jessica took the book from him and fingered through the opening pages, seeing an introduction by the famous psychotherapist guru, Dr. Phillip Deacre.

Meanwhile, Luc Sante, like a fount, continued to talk. “There've been twisted beliefs and twisted awards bestowed for those very beliefs for… well, for countless generations.”

Sharpe broke in, asking, “So, Dr. Luc Sante, what do you make of this tongue branding? Has it… Have you ever come across it before?”

“A cult of St. Michael, originated as early as the resurrection, you might say, revived during the Dark to Middle Ages, yes, and never fully extinguished. Believed to inspire both the recipient and those in audience to cling a bit closer to God, you see.”

“Inspire? But how does the cult inspire?”

“By driving out Satan, all his minions, including but not limited to the mental hellions.”

“By driving out evil?”

“Combating evil as defined by the cult, of course-exorcisms, all that, which can include arresting sickness and boils and all manner of physical demonics, you see, as well as mental demonics.”

“I see.”

“Nothing really new under the sun in religion, actually, Dr. Coran, merely new twists on old tales, most rather predictable at best. Not unlike your American cinema, really. Save these followers, these fans, believe what they do constitutes the salvation of their souls.”

“What are you saying? That Burton may have been a member of a cult?”

“Quite possibly, or their unwitting sacrifice. Either way, it bears looking into, wouldn't you agree?”

“Well, yes, absolutely,” replied Richard, as excited as Jessica had seen him.

Jessica closed the book and looked from Sharpe to Luc Sante who declared, “Don't you see, Richard, my boy? If Burton accepted the emblem of a cult, then perhaps his death leads directly back to this very cult activity.”

“Luc Sante, you are a genius.”

“I did not find the markings. She did,” he replied, pointing a shaking, shriveled finger at Jessica who felt the finger pierce a spot between her eyes. “She's your hero this time round, me boy.” He then glanced at his watch. “It's half past ten! I've already missed one appointment. I must run, Richard. Keep me apprised, and as always, I will do whatever in my power.”

“Let us give you a lift, Father,” suggested Sharpe. “Get you there in half the time.”

“Run the siren?” he asked with a glint in the eye. “If you like.”

“You well know I love it.”Jessica and Richard exchanged a smile at the old man's expense. Jessica thought him lovely. As they made their way to the motor pool, Jessica asked Luc Sante, “The words the ancients used in their tongue branding, Father…”

“Yes?” he replied.

“Would they have been the same as those we've found here today?”

“Actually, they would have been quite close, indeed. But not likely identical, no.”

“Perhaps we are dealing with someone who knows about this ancient cult or similar cults in early Christianity.”

“That is a likely possibility, yes, my dear, yes. However, no coincidence is also an enormous force in the universe, controlled at the hand of Puck, the devilishly sneaky orphan of Satan who enjoys a good laugh at our expense.”

“Puck?”

“Of course, Puck. What? You do not believe in evil spirits or mischievous spirits aloft in the world?”

“I believe in a palpable evil.”

“That finds its mark and inhabits a man's heart.”

“Or a woman's, yes.”

“Agreed then we are.”

She thought he spoke like the Star Wars character of Yoda.

The siren wail all the way to his church and office delighted the wizened old man. “How like a banshee wail it is,” he said repeatedly, a smile gracing his weathered features.

Father Luc Sante's church stood amid the squalor of a rundown neighborhood, looking like a castle under siege, held hostage by its surroundings. The church, built on the order of a small cathedral, had seen better days. It hardly measured up to the great cathedrals abounding in London. Still it displayed magnificent oak doors with huge metal hinges and a beautiful cupola, graced on all sides by wide-eyed, curious gargoyles staring down on them as they entered, making Jessica wonder if stone could think.

A light rain had driven them to rush from car to entrance-way rather quickly and hurriedly. Once inside, the priest quickly found himself on familiar ground and moved with more fervor than before, going straight for the office he maintained at one end of the rectory. A pleasant-looking, mild-appearing, gray-haired secretary named Janet, her gray skin like that of the gargoyles outside, greeted Luc Sante with a stem warning. With gritted teeth, as if meaning to bite him when finished, she said, “I won't be made the fool for you, Father.”

“Whatever can be troubling you, my dear Miss Eeadna?” asked Luc Sante, taking both her hands in his in a protective gesture.

“I won't stand and lie for you, not here, not in eternity, not anywhere, Father.”

“Ahhh, my patients, is it?”

“Will you tell me what I'm to say when you fail to meet with one of your… so-called patientsT'

“Keep patience, my dear Janet. Always keep patience in your heart, dear.”

A younger man in vestments came from a second office, hushing Miss Janet Eeadna, as her desk nameplate had her. The younger priest asked if Miss Eeadna would care to take tea with him. She beamed, delighted, taking the young priest's arm and sauntering out with him.

“That's Martin, soon to replace me here. Good man, really. 'Fraid the bishop won't be calling me out of retirement, no. But what I shall do in retirement, I don't know, Richard. I pray the police keep me active.”

“We will call on you, Father, no doubt,” assured Richard. “Look, we must be getting back. Much to do today, you see, so-”

“Oh, no! You must stay to meet Martin. He'll be right back, I'm sure. Oh, here he is now! Martin!”

The younger minister beamed, grasping hands all around, shaking vigorously and apologizing just as vigorously for “poor Miss Eeadna” whose mind, it seemed, wasn't at all what it once was. “I shall have to clean house once you've retired. Father,” he chided the old man, “but I do appreciate your leaving the old parish picture up,” he finished, pointing to a pastoral little parish in a wooded area in a painting behind the desk which Jessica thought beautiful.

“My first parish, painted it myself,” explained Luc Sante with a shrug. “Once dabbled in art but gave it up.” He then said to Jessica, “Dear Miss Eeadna needs rest, and the church will most certainly see to her getting a fair pension.”

The two men seemed most agreeable about the changing of the guard, Jessica thought.

“Allow me, Richard and Jessica, to introduce my young prot6g6, who will be taking over my duties when I retire in a few weeks, Father Martin Christian Strand.”

Sharpe introduced himself and Dr. Coran to the younger man whose blond haired ponytail marked him as of a new generation of clerics. “Saint Martin, we call him round here,” said Luc Sante, a twinge of bitterness in his tone. “Such a do-gooder, Richard, you've not seen the like before! Has no business in this business, and certainly no future in it, going at it the way he does!” He roared at his own joke. Strand joined in the laughter, Richard following suit. Jessica managed a smile.

The room felt darker than it actually was, what with the old, darkly stained wood bookcases all around and the huge, oak furniture with anthropomorphic legs.

Strand modestly declined the sainthood, explaining, “We don't need any more saints in the church. What we desperately need here in the community center is a new toaster and a microwave!”

Suddenly, a door burst open and from within Dr. Luc Sante's inner office stepped a man with a wild shock of hair and eyes both bloodshot and bloodthirsty, shouting, “I need to talk to you, Luc Sante! Now!”

“Jessica, Richard, go with Martin, and he will show you around St. Albans. I must see to Mr. Hargrove here who has been so very patiently awaiting my arrival.”

“ 'Fraid I can't stay, but you go ahead, Jessica,” Sharpe told her. “I'll leave the car and driver for you outside.”

Sharpe's departure came so suddenly, Jessica hadn't time to protest. She and Strand took to the massive corridor. Strand pointed out the paintings adorning the walls and the Italian marble floors as they moved along.

He explained what they did by way of helping the homeless and helpless of the neighborhood around the old cathedral located near one of London's most notorious bazaars where anything from drugs to an honest to God medieval table and chairs set could be had for the right price.

Strand appeared a devoted disciple of Luc Sante's, and was most obviously devoted to the old man's causes. Strand showed her a room where local children played at games and made things with leather and hemp. He showed her the soup kitchen where she saw the poor being fed.

They walked back toward Strand's and Luc Sante's offices afterward. Martin Strand-handsome, tall, powerfully built, remarked on how sad it sometimes became. 'Toiling here inrelative obscurity, it pains me to see Father Luc Sante's work going ignored. He is rather a genius, after all,” finished Strand.“So, you've read his book?” she asked.“Every word he's ever committed to paper, yes.”

Jessica saw Luc Sante's red-eyed, wild-haired patient ambling fast away from the office and out the oak doors, the sunlight pouring into the corridor as a result. The aberrant thought that Dr. Luc Sante had just been murdered by one of his own patients crossed her mind like a fleeing bird before it escaped on seeing the old man in his office doorway, waving them to return.

When they reentered there was no Miss Janet Eeadna to disrupt them, and no more patients to see for the day, according to the old man who looked pleased.

“And how is it with Mr. Hargrove today, Father?”

“He is a man plagued with as thorny a bush of perplexing problems as I've seen in years. Still hearing the voices, I'm afraid.”

“Surely, they're no longer telling him to kill his wife?”

“No, they've quaffed that issue it would seem.”

“But 'ave grown shrill on other issues, is it?”

“By my word, Martin! Have you placed one of those bugging devices in me office?”

“I 'ave not, but I will if you wish it so.”

“Can you imagine that, Dr. Coran, every word a patient says in there”-he stopped to point to his psychotherapy office-”heard at some remote location by any and all who happen along? It would be the ruin of me, but perhaps it might also enlighten some otherwise intelligent folk who still have not one flimsy idea that evil walks into my office every day.”

Before Jessica could reply Strand cautioned her, saying, “You'd best watch this old magician, Dr. Coran.”

“And why is that?”

“Do you know what we in England call a psychiatrist, Doctor?”

“Inform me.”

“A trick cyclist is what.”

She laughed at this and Luc Sante sneered. “Go on with your duties. Saint Martin. And if you haven't enough to keep you busy about here…” he threatened.

“I'm gone, I'm gone, and how very pleasant to've met you, Dr. Coran.”

“Out! Get out!” The old man ended near tears of laughter. Jessica thought him sweet; obviously a man who lived every single moment to the fullest.

Father Strand and Doctor Luc Sante's relationship was charming, and Jessica felt the latter was an extremely likable, knowledgeable Renaissance man, quite up on criminal psychology. He had quickly won Jessica's confidence and friendship.

“I wish to thank you for the tour of the cathedral, Dr. Luc Sante, and for deciphering the mysterious words found under Burton's tongue.”

“You are leaving so soon?”

“There's a great deal waiting back at the Yard for me, yes.”

“At least keep this and read it,” he said, lifting the copy of his book that Jessica had skimmed in the car coming over.

“Let me pay for the book,” she insisted. And while he began to protest, in the end, he willingly took the British currency amounting to $24.95 American.

“It barely covers the printing costs. Dr. Coran,” he apologetically added. “But I'm pleased, in the end, that you have taken a copy of my self-published treatise on the subject of the ultimate evil.” Jessica read the book's abbreviated title, without the Jungian preface, giving pause to the words: Twisted Faiths. A tagline read: A History of Fetishism and Cultism in Middle Europe and Great Britain 1400 to Present Day.

Jessica said her good-byes and Strand returned in time to usher her to the door where he smiled and said, “He's a wonderful soul, that man.”

“Yes, I think we can well agree on that.”

“I could do nothing to harm him. Yet here I am taking his one love, St. Albans, from him in a matter of weeks.”

“He seems to have made his peace with it, and he… Well, I daresay he couldn't have selected a better successor. Will you also be doing the trick cyclist's work?” she quipped.

“I have some certification papers to finish up, but yes, as a matter of fact, I will. Regardless of what some think, the Vatican is interested in our carrying on as usual here at St. Albans.”

“Good luck to you then, and I'm sure we'll see one another again.”

“I'm sure.”

He waved her off, the handsome Billy Budd of the place, looking like Richard Chamberlain in his youth, a regal and muscular young turk, she thought. The man was at extreme odds with the old man of St. Albans, so filled was Strand with rich life, earthy color, vigor, and power. He waved to her as she dashed down the walk doing her best to remain dry without an umbrella.

The midday drizzle had turned the sky a gunmetal gray, and the gargoyles far up overhead, guarding St. Albans as it were, wept under the steady drenching they stoically took. Yet, many of the gargoyles enjoyed the wet, even ciphoned off water from the roof, their tubular interiors acting as waterspouts, a utilitarian use of art if Jessica had ever seen it. On the one hand, the statuary stood as sentinels between two worlds, on the other, as sediment-filled drainpipes-quite the concrete opposite of the otherworldly symbolism attaching to the grim-faced stone monsters, and an oddly disproportionate thing to behold, she thought. But then, each day she discovered something new and queer and fascinating about London, England, and with this final thought on the matter, she climbed into the police car left behind for her “transport needs” by the ever thoughtful Inspector Sharpe.