Myth Man (2 page)

His escape plan depended on that information.

“Father Venezia is in the sacristy,” the guard informed. “I’ll take you to him, and he’ll take it from there.”

The killer had two plans to ditch the guard. One was to say that he’d been below years ago and knew the way. The other, if he proved a persistent escort, was murder. But the guard’s suggestion was even better. He tipped his hat again. “Thanks,” he said, keeping it simple. He feared the excitement might kill his Irish accent.

When the cathedral was built, they had to blast out concrete to accommodate the sublevel design. The double green bronze doors to the left led to the crypt. Every deceased archbishop from New York was buried there. He had hoped to provide the ex-archbishops with some added company, but alas, the current reigning fool had tripped, broken his leg, and was currently hospitalized. There were always other holidays on the calendar.

The tour continued farther, and they turned right. The guard pointed to a door. “Enter there. Father Venezia knows your coming.” He turned and strolled back to the stairs.

The killer cocked his head in satisfaction.
Does he know? Surprise, you’re dead
.

Out of his jacket, he pulled a long bamboo tube. With his other hand, he rapped his knuckles on the door.

Death comes aknocking.

Balor.

From dust you come, and unto dust you will go.

CHAPTER TWO

F
ATHER VENEZIA PREPARED. DRESSED in white vestments and purple pendants, he was every bit as dedicated as he was thirty years ago when he was first ordained a priest. Preparation was not making the ashes from last year’s Palm Sunday fronds (that was the Sexon’s task), but rather, Father Venezia prepared through silent prayer.

Ash Wednesday was a time of reflection, a period to recall our propensity to sin. The wonder of God’s forgiveness comes at an infinite price. Father Venezia prayed for mankind. The world was at another perilous crossroads. The Devil’s minions—oppression, starvation, war, genocide, and indifference—were on the rise. The evidence was overwhelming.

At an early age, Father Venezia felt drawn to God. His father was a fisherman, and every time he sat perched at the stern of his father’s boat, he stared across the sea into the misty horizon until he saw nothing. In the nothingness, he felt a deep calling.

As an eleven-year-old, he had asked his father if it was okay if he put a cross on the cabin wall, next to the captain’s chair. He was unsure what his father would say. His mother was the one who made him go to church, while his father was strictly a Christmas and Easter guy.

His father had looked him in the eyes and asked, “Do you believe in God, Son?”

Unwavering, he had answered deliberately, “Yes. I do.”

His father looked him over and said, “Well then. On the next voyage, God will be my copilot.”

Thrilled, he’d run to the church store. On an overcast morning, he watched his father hang the cross on the cabin wall.
Bon Voyage
.

A few days later, he was lying in bed when he heard his mother crying. Softly, he descended the stairs, but a sudden creak gave his presence away.

Even in the dim morning light, he could see his mother’s moist, puffy, red eyes. She didn’t command him back to his room but instead called to him. He ran to her open, but shaking arms.

An unexpected northern front collided with a strong southern pressure system. The storm was ferocious, and wreaked havoc across the northeastern seaboard. Downed electric lines, an abundance of automobile accidents, broken branches, and uprooted trees clogged the flooded roads. More precious beach land was stolen by the oceans.

At sea, the wind was howling at fifty knots. The coast guard reported thirty-foot swells. Communication had been lost with many vessels, including the SS
Hacklehead
, the ship his father captained.

Mother had already talked to some of the crewmates’ wives. Captain Venezia was experienced and seaworthy, but the
Hacklehead
was not meant to brace waves of the storm’s magnitude. Everyone was concerned. The worst was feared.

The young boy heard the wind and rain pound the house in tandem. There were other sounds: branches whipping, car alarms beeping, garbage cans rolling, and then something else—subtle, like a small pulse emitted in the chaotic cacophony of the storm’s dirge, something deeper.

Sal Venezia spontaneously left his mother’s embrace and charged to his bedroom. He leaped into bed. On the wall was a cross. It was identical to the one that hung on his father’s boat. He bought two of them. It just seemed right.

He ran his fingers along the cross, closed his eyes, and prayed. He never prayed so hard, even when he had asked God for a brother or sister. Medical complications prevented that dream.

This time, his prayers felt different.

He stayed fixated to the wall until his mother came up to check on him. Desperate, she looked worse than she had an hour ago. He motioned her to sit beside him. With his free hand, he took one of hers and placed it on the cross.

In a modulated tone she’d never heard her son use before, he said, “It’s okay, Mom. Have faith. This time my prayers have been answered.”

“Yes,” she said to her son. She didn’t want to scare him, but she doubted the veracity of her words.

He held his mother’s hand tighter. “Have faith. Dad will call us tonight.”

His mother did not truthfully believe him, but she did look at the phone differently with each ring while they sat for dinner. Pizza and soda were on the table. So was the dire situation. This time, though, the mood was positive. They pictured heroics over the unthinkable. They never used his name in the past tense.

The phone rang again. He stared at the phone, knowing. It was his father.

His mother slid her chair back from the table and trudged toward the counter. She lifted the receiver and dropped her jaw. Her mouth trembled. She looked at her son in wonder. It was a miracle.

When several years later he announced his decision to devote his life to God, his parents accepted the notion without hesitation. As an only child, there was some small pride in continuing the family tree. But they knew their son’s calling—priesthood.

Through his years of service, Father Venezia never lost that faith. He was sure of God’s hand in the order of things. Following Christ’s words, he made it his mission to tend to the poor and less fortunate. Now forty days (not including Sundays) before the glorious celebration of the resurrection, he marked the first day of Lent by renewing his fight for those who required assistance.

He hunched over an open Bible and looked at a familiar verse of the Gospel of Mathew 6:16–18. As he peered through his oblong reading glasses, a knock came from outside.

He thought:
That must be the visiting priest from Ireland they phoned me about.

Turning in the chair, he called out, “Please come in,” and then rose to face the entrance.

The door opened. A man dressed as a priest stepped in and shut the door swiftly behind him. Instantly, Father Venezia knew the visitor was not a member of the clergy. There was evil in his eyes and some rod-shaped device in his mouth.

In shock, he stared wide-eyed as the man’s cheeks puffed. His forehead felt an impact. He tried to inspect, but his arms would not obey. He was immobile; his body would not obey his mental commands.

Although he was unable to move, his eyes still saw the intruder. Was this the first few seconds of afterlife, as his soul left his mortal body for the kingdom of heaven?

The intruder clarified. “I know you can see and hear me. You’ve been shot with a powerful paralytic. You’re not dead … yet,” he hissed. “Since I have you’re undivided attention,” he paused to laugh at his evil wit and then finished his thought, “I’d love to deliver you a sermon on your religion’s blight on humanity.”

Father Venezia wanted to reply, wanted to defend his church, but the drug prevented any response. He watched as the killer reached into his coat and pulled out another weapon. He’d seen enough television to know that the cylinder attached to the gun’s barrel acted as a silencer.

The killer seemed to read his mind. “Ironic,” he said playfully. “Silent and about to be silenced forever.” He chuckled again as he used a tool to extract the poison dart. Then he put the gun against the wound. “Perfect aim. Right in the center.”

Father Venezia could not feel the cold steel of the gun barrel pressed against his skin. He saw the man laugh at him with a wicked malice as he pulled his index finger back.

His last living memory.

He lived for God.

He died for God.

CHAPTER THREE

P
OLICE DETECTIVE LIEUTENANT DOMINICK Presto took the loaded 2 cc syringe and raised it vertically to the light to look for air bubbles. Pleased, he positioned it in his fleshy hand, his thumb poised on the plunger.

He lumbered into her bedroom. The room was warmer than the rest of the three-bedroom prewar Tribeca apartment. No fewer than six glass-encased candles cast shifting beams of light across her gaunt body.

Using an alcohol swab, he dabbed her exposed stomach. Her eyes momentarily flickered open, but she squeezed them shut and turned her face into an oversized pillow.

With her frail physique, there was not much meat on her bones. He pinched her belly. It was more loose skin than actual fat. Her limbs were like splayed pickup sticks, crossed and spindly.

Dominick took the needle and pierced her skin at a ninety-degree angle. She bit her lip but held firm. He pushed his thumb, and the .45 cc insulin load entered her body. He withdrew the needle and then placed another alcohol swab over the injection point. Next, he applied a circular bandage.

Presto. He stepped back. “You know I love you, Mom, but I hate doing this even though I know it’s necessary.”

The candlelight twisted shadows over his expansive width. Comfortably, he was dressed in a triple-extra-large, navy blue hooded sweatshirt and almost matching, baggy sweatpants. His usual leisure attire. His fleshy face bunched up like a beach ball that was slowly deflating. Then he exhaled like he’d performed an arduous task.

Her head came off the pillow. “You’re so silly. In a jiffy, I’ll be back on my feet, dancing a merry waltz. And don’t forget that I’ve been pricking myself with those damn needles for over fifty years.” She jutted her head out like a vain peacock.

Cleo Presto was used to the diabetes, but being bedridden after a terrible fall was another matter. A tumble down subway stairs broke her left kneecap and ankle. She also fractured her right wrist, which made self-injection impossible. It had been two weeks since surgery, and she was getting weary of her confinement.

Dominick smiled. He loved his mother as a mother loves a son. They were a team. It might not be ideal, but they made a good tandem. You have to play the cards life dealt you.

His father had been murdered when he was thirteen. Well, not directly, but he was killed by a criminal cause nonetheless. He’d been a dockworker when an unauthorized and illegal cargo of hazardous waste fell off a forklift.

A chemical company had found a solution to trim overhead costs. To the cheers of shareholders, a cheaper way to dispose of dangerous byproducts was secretly found. On this particular day, the CEO had been on hand for the clandestine cruise a few hundred miles out to sea.

Eight workers were hospitalized. Only two were released, but their lives had been changed forever. Some said the dead fared better.

There was accountability and a large settlement. As a child, he played a role. While mom rushed to the hospital, he grabbed a fishing pole and his new camera.

He’d snuck close enough to get some pictures of men in white hooded suits cleaning the area where his father labored. There was also a man in a suit. Dominick knew that men who wore suits amongst those that do not tended to be important. He made sure he snapped several shots of the well-dressed man.

When he got home, his elation was crushed. The unthinkable had happened. His father was dead. Dominick did not understand. His father was the strongest of his friends’ dads. How could he be dead?

But he was.

The next day, he showed his mother the pictures he’d taken at the dock. She phoned her husband’s union boss, who sent their attorney to the Presto’s residence. The rest was history. The company paid millions in restitution, while the complicit board of directors fired the CEO, but not before it was clear that his immediate future was prison. He had, after all, tripled the stock price in less than two years.

Devastated and broken, mother and son forged an unbreakable bond. When people face adversity and emerge whole, but not unscathed, they harden and form an impermeable alliance.

Twenty-six years later, it was still only the two of them. Living in the same apartment, having the same conversations, playing the same games. Needling each other, but really knitting their cohesiveness.

Dominick looked down at his mother and gave his classic fat, jolly smile. “Ma, the last waltz you did was when we went to Ms. Klein’s senior citizen spritzer. And, need I remind you, that was on account of a few too many cocktails. You did three pirouettes, got dizzy, and flopped on the couch. From there you did not venture, other than a meandering bathroom run.”

He stepped and swayed in imitation, bouncing into walls. An extra two hundred plus pounds enhanced the visual.

She raised one eye. “Don’t fall, Son. Mr. Stagnuts finally hung that expensive chandelier. If he sees it start shaking all over, that bad heart of his might go off kilter, especially if that wife of his starts yapping.” She chuckled and smiled at him.

He laughed too. He was no longer sensitive about his weight, to an extent, and his mother’s jibes were good-natured, not mean spirited.

He was set for a sharp retort when his cell phone rang from the living room. Dominick looked at his mother gravely.

The call told him a few things. Someone had been killed. This was not just any murder, though. Not if
this
phone beeped. The situation had to be awfully dire for them to call.

After solving the three biggest serial killer sprees to hit New York City in the past decade, he suddenly became anointed as the NYPD guru in such matters.

He needed time off after his last case, plus he wanted to assist his mother during her recovery. He told his boss not to call unless their precinct lottery pool won the mega-millions sweepstakes.

Presto would never be a candidate for the, “most popular cop” award. Prejudice is not always determined by skin pigmentation. Human shallowness also vacillates against the handicapped, vertically challenged, and poorly complexioned. In Presto’s case, it was his weight. Presto’s successes were attributed to dumb luck, which to a certain extent was true.

Shy in front of groups, Presto chose his words carefully and never palled around with
the guys
. Little solidarity forged, he was a pariah in the precinct. Other than the dialer of the incoming call, he was basically friendless.

So this was a big to-do.

He shook a head full of unkempt hair and waddled out of the bedroom.