Evil Eternal (12 page)

“Come in.”

She straightened out a crease in her skirt and took a deep breath. Mayor Spinelli was sitting in his leather chair, feet propped up on his desk. It was the most casual she had ever seen him.

“Good afternoon, Aimee. I bet you’re wondering why I called you in here.”

“I assumed it was to go over the cadet graduation ceremony,” Aimee said as she reached into an accordion file and searched for the latest news on her current project.

“Oh, no, that wasn’t it,” the mayor said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Aimee shut the file, momentarily perplexed. The mayor was a man of action and not one for chitchat, or in this case, vague intimations.

“You’ve been working hard during your time here, correct?”

“It’s never a problem,” Aimee stammered, not sure where this was going. “I love this job and this city.”

The mayor suddenly sprang from his chair so he could sit at the end of his desk.

“You don’t need to give me some good personal PR, Ms. DeCarlo. I just want you to realize that I know how much effort you’ve put into your job and I appreciate it.”

Aimee shrank back in her chair, ever so slightly. Was he leering at her?

“In fact, just to show my appreciation, I’d like you to accompany me to the convention at the Javits Center next week. Not as a date, mind you. I’m married and you have your boyfriend, Shane.” He chuckled, trying to lighten the mood, show he was ribbing her. Aimee gave a nervous laugh in reply.

The mayoral convention was a gathering of over five hundred mayors from across the United States. It was basically a gigantic photo op and networking session, not to mention a chance for everyone to pat each other and themselves on the back for being such a swell bunch of men and women. Mayor Spinelli was the host and scheduled to give a speech that would be covered live by all of the major and cable news networks that were cropping up like dandelions lately.

“Seriously, Aimee. I want you there by my side so I can show everyone what a tremendous staff I have. You guys are what make my words work in this city. Consider this my way of saying ‘thank you’.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Aimee said, caught between apprehension and pride.

“I could think of a few things.”

Yes, the mayor is acting strange
, Aimee thought.
Almost like he’s hitting on me, or is it something else? I can’t tell. He’s my personal hero. And he
is
taking the time out to thank me. Me, of all people. Maybe he’s just having an off day. I hear the rumors about him and his wife. Maybe things are as bad as they say at home and he’s just getting a little twisted being around another woman.

Aimee smiled. “Thank you. Yes, I’d be honored.”

“Wear something nice. If you need a new dress, feel free to charge it to me. We can’t have the pillars of our city landing on the worst-dressed list, now can we?”

Now, Aimee genuinely laughed. “No, I guess we can’t.”

“Great. You just made my day.” He gave her a wink.

Three phone lines began chiming at once.

“Duty calls,” the mayor said with an odd smile. “Until then.”

“Until then. Thank you again.”

“You’re welcome.”

Aimee left the office in a daze. Invited to the mayoral convention. A formal affair. It was a far cry from going to a concert on a Friday night. Then there was that strange vibe coming off the mayor.

Something else was bothering her, about her encounter with the mayor, as she walked to the elevator.

It hit her as the doors closed.

How the hell did he know her boyfriend’s name?

Chapter Thirteen

Shane sat listening to the most incredible tale ever imagined by even the most fucked-up, out-of-their-mind horror writer. Here he had been bugging Father Michael to speak for days and now he only wished he could make the frightening priest, or whatever the heck he was, shut up. The fact that Father Michael’s resonant voice sounded something akin to an echo from the grave didn’t make matters any better.

Monsignor Stanton joined in every now and then, filling in greater, sometimes more graphic details. There were things Shane never wished to have invade his conscious. Stories of demons, hideous murders, torture of children, entire societies obliterated from the earth. Through each tale emerged one figure, rising from the flames of corruption with a power and penchant for death perhaps more horrible than the demons he, or it, was divined to fight.

Father Michael.

It started with the murder of a woman and her child, the family of a man called Liam. Then of Liam himself and his rebirth into living death and God’s service. An avenging angel made into flesh. Flesh that could never be killed. Then it backtracked to the story of Cain and Abel, one of the few Bible stories that survived in Shane’s memory from afternoon religion classes.

“But that was just a story, a fable,” he said to Father Michael.

“Shane, have you ever heard it said that the Bible was written by God?” asked the monsignor.

Shane shook his head. “I thought it was written by a bunch of different guys at different times.”

“Yes, it was,” Father Michael said.

“What that means is,” Monsignor Stanton said, “the writers of the Bible were wholly inspired by God. Think of it as being from God’s mouth to their ears, then to paper. Now, there are some fables all throughout the Bible, stories meant to teach, but there are far more eternal truths than you may think.”

Father Michael continued on with Cain’s tale, his expulsion from the land of his father, just as Adam had been expelled from the one and only Father. How Cain’s hatred for Adam and God survived even after his expulsion from his homeland, a hatred so raw and pure that Satan himself caressed the savaged soul to his bosom and granted him an eternal life on earth.

“If he has eternal life, then how come he ends up as different people?”

“Cain has no flesh to call his own,” Father Michael said. “He lives on as an emotion, a shade of pure animus that wreaks havoc only to disappear like ether on the wind, crouching in the bowels of the sublunary world to feed off a never-ending supply of human bitterness and suffering, awaiting the call from his master, growing stronger and more malevolent with each passing century. The more people at his disposal, the greater his strength becomes.”

Shane abruptly got up from his chair. “So what the hell’s the sense? This thing can’t be stopped. There’s like billions of people on earth, and at least half of them are miserable. We’re all screwed. Right?”

Father Michael removed his sunglasses so Shane could see the truth in his eyes. It swirled like cumulus clouds on a windy day, twin pallid orbs that had seen so much yet could convey so little, unless warranted. Shane started to shiver despite the oppressive warmth of Monsignor Stanton’s office.

“I said Cain could not be killed. He can, however, be stopped.”

Aimee left work in a walking daze. Invited to be a personal guest of the mayor! The strange aura the mayor had given off had been long forgotten. Thoughts of dress shops and making appointments to have her hair and nails done took precedence.

She couldn’t wait to tell Shane. Not because he’d be particularly excited about it. In fact, Shane disliked the mayor intensely, especially Spinelli’s views on art and what constituted freedom of expression. Shane thought Mayor Spinelli was a closet pervert afraid to face his own demons so he lashed out at anything that would tickle his inner id. No, it wasn’t Shane’s reaction she was looking forward to seeing. She was so excited that she wanted to tell everyone she knew, including her cynical boyfriend.

She started by calling her sister, Carolyn, and worked her way down to Iris, her second cousin whom she rarely saw, save for the occasional wedding or funeral.

When she was done, it was nine o’clock at night. For the first time in hours, there was silence in the apartment. She finally noticed the beating of the wind on her windows. Snow was beginning to fall. Aimee shivered, not so much because it was cold in the apartment but from how frigid it looked and sounded outside. She made a quick prayer to God that Shane wouldn’t try to rough it tonight and would ring her bell any minute now.

Shane was more than a little intrigued by Father Michael’s current story line.

“You mean to tell me that Cain was Jack the Ripper? No way.”

Monsignor Stanton elaborated. “He entered the body of an innocent man, a typesetter for a local paper in London. The Ripper of legend is credited with only five murders. There were, in fact, dozens. Police reporting wasn’t as it is now and many similarities were missed.”

Shane had always had an interest in the Ripper story. When he was sixteen, he’d found police pictures of the murdered prostitutes in a book and had gone on years later to paint them. He’d even sold one a year ago to an art collector from Westchester who’d passed by a table he’d set up a block away from Times Square.

“So, you killed Jack the Ripper?”

“He only destroyed the vessel that housed Cain at the time,” Monsignor Stanton answered. “Which is why the true killer was never found.”

“Incredible. Next thing you’re going to tell me is that this Cain thing was Hitler, Mao and Stalin.”

Monsignor Stanton cringed. “Those three were far more unthinkable than demons. They were men, through and through, capable of evil far beyond most demonic capabilities.”

“How come you weren’t sent out to kill people like them?” Shane said, turning to Father Michael. “If you’re here to protect the world from evil, why let assholes like them run wild?”

The ensuing silence from the priest made Shane regret his words.

Finally, the monsignor spoke up. “With each appearance of Father Michael, there lies the potential for discovery. Yes, he was created to fight evil, but a
specific
evil. The corruption of men’s souls needs to be battled by men, not…” Monsignor Stanton was momentarily at a loss for words, unable to easily describe the being that was Father Michael.

“Angels,” Shane finished for him. “God’s army. I understand. Not all angels are cute, chubby kids with wings sitting on clouds.”

Father Michael sat still as a stone the entire time. For the first time, Shane noticed the priest didn’t even breathe, at least not enough for him to perceive.

“I will tell you what you truly are,” Father Michael rumbled.

“What if I don’t want to know?” Shane replied.

“That choice has been taken from you.”

It was late in the mayor’s office. Several close staff members had received an e-mail earlier from the mayor to stay late as he had a special announcement to make to the city that he wanted to review with them before finalizing.

John Patrick, the deputy mayor, sat at the edge of Muriel Clarke’s desk discussing the sheer inanity of the
Sean Hannity Show
the night before. In total, a dozen staffers milled about outside Mayor Spinelli’s office, awaiting the big announcement. Events like this were nothing new during Spinelli’s tenure. He was a man who lived and breathed the job. They were just grateful this wasn’t one of his three-in-the-morning, emergency meetings.

John turned when he heard the metallic ping of the elevator. David Nelson, the police commissioner credited with making the NYPD the highest rated police force in the nation, made his entrance with his trademark quick, measured strides. He had been a marine for ten years before joining the police force at age twenty-eight, moving on to become one of the most decorated cops in New York City history. Nelson was a tough man who demanded discipline in all facets of life, not just for himself but for everyone that worked with him. Civilians and even most cops thought he was a hard-ass, but no one could argue with his results.

“Mayor Spinelli ready yet?” he practically barked at John Patrick.

“He should be very soon,” he said, rising from Muriel’s desk and reflexively standing at attention.

“He better be. I have a crapload of my own work to get through before I kiss the missus and turn in.”

Just then, the twin doors to Mayor Spinelli’s office swung open.

“Ahh, the dulcet sounds of Commissioner Nelson,” Spinelli said with a grin so wide it looked as if someone had taken a machete to the lower half of his face. “Hail, hail, the gang’s all here.”

He clapped his hands and proceeded to dance a jig around a stunned John Patrick.

Commissioner Nelson turned to leave. The mayor hopped over and grabbed his arm.

“Got a hot date?”

Nelson leaned in close to the mayor’s ear so as not to be heard by the others in the room. “Look, Peter, if you’re finally going to have that breakdown the whole world’s been expecting you to have, do it on your own time. I don’t have patience for games.”

The white, blue and black of Spinelli’s eyes bled away to be replaced by solid scarlet. The commissioner tried to move away but the mayor’s grip only tightened, so much so that his fingers, somehow transformed into knife-points and sturdy as steel, dug through the cloth of his coat and shirt and pierced the underlying flesh.