The Judas Line

The

Judas

Line

Mark Everett Stone

Seattle, WA

Published by Camel Press

PO Box 70515

Seattle, WA 98127

For more information go to: www.Camelpress.com

www. markeverettstone.camelpress.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Cover design by Sabrina Sun

The Judas Line

Copyright © 2013 by Mark Everett Stone

ISBN: 978-1-60381-901-5 (Trade Paper)

ISBN: 978-1-60381-902-2 (eBook)

LOC Control Number: 2012935942

Produced in the United States of America

BOOK ONE

FRIENDS

Chapter One

Jude

Two air sprites flitted down the street, lifting random scraps of paper, tossing them about before moving on to the next bit of rubbish. Then they saw a little old man wearing a black fedora walking slowly down the sidewalk against the stiff winter wind, clutching his trench coat tightly to his skinny body. With whispery cries of glee they snatched the hat from his head, revealing a liver-spotted scalp. They tossed the fedora to and fro down the sidewalk.

I didn’t want to interfere, but the old man’s expression—sadness and frustration at knowing he didn’t have the strength to run after his hat—tugged at me, so I whistled. Soft, like a breeze through aspens, the sound was still enough to distract the tiny elementals. Howling gusty cries, they dropped the hat and flew off. A scent like lemongrass tickled my nose.

The old man tottered to where his fedora had fallen and stooped to pick it up off the cement, damp with snowmelt. He carefully wiped off the brim and placed it on his bald head.

“What was that, Jude?”

I turned to the man sitting next to me. “What’s what, Mike?”

“What was that?” he repeated, his shrewd blue eyes giving me a once-over.

“Just a couple of wind sprites messing with an old man’s hat. I asked them to stop and they did.”

My best friend for the past fifteen years snorted. A big man, still trim despite being on the wrong side of forty, he sported a black handlebar moustache and a flat-top haircut. His ski-slope nose jutted out under icy eyes that presided over high, sharp cheekbones and a chiseled jaw line. He was a classically handsome man still in his prime. That face had broken hearts all around the city, the reason being the accoutrement that rested comfortably around his neck: the collar of a Catholic priest.

“Always the crap artist, eh Jude?”

“Crap art is what I do best, man,” I replied, watching the old man stumble away. “That’s what you love about me.”

Mike snorted and gave me a wry look. “You didn’t call me all the way down from my warm church just to pull my leg while I freeze my butt off, did you?”

The park near Con Agra, normally so green and peaceful, looked dreary, brown and sad on this cold January day. It matched my mood perfectly. “I had something stashed down here I wanted to give you, Mike. You know, to keep it safe until the right time.”

His gaze was skeptical. He knew me far too well.

“Okay, okay, man.” I pulled a folded manila envelope from the inside pocket of my brown leather jacket. “This is very important, Mike, possibly dangerous, so if you accept it, know that there are those that wouldn’t think twice about killing a priest to obtain it.”

Alarm replaced skepticism. “What is it?”

“If you don’t hear from me within a month, you can read what’s inside and then do with it what you will, reveal it to whomever you wish. Consider it my confession. Until then, keep it at St. Stephen’s. My Family and their lackeys won’t violate the sanctity of the church; they’re scared of it.”

His eyebrows threatened to join his hairline.

I sighed heavily. “Don’t ask because I can’t answer. I need someone I can trust and you’re it, man.”

As usual, he saw right through me. “It’s not just about your family,” he stated flatly.

“Yeah, not just.”

The bench shifted slightly as he leaned his bulk toward me. “Come to the church, Jude.” A beefy calloused hand landed with surprising gentleness on my shoulder. “All this time you never entered God’s house, even though you’ve told me you’re a believer. It’s time, long past time.”

“Long past time,” I murmured softly. “Long past time … long past time.” I rubbed my face. “It has been long past time my whole damn life, Mike. It’s not going to do any good now.”

“God wants you to come to him. So just give in and come unto the Lord, Jude. He welcomes us all.”

My smile was mirthless. “Me and the Family aren’t on speaking terms with the Lord.”

“Just because they don’t believe—”

“Oh, they absolutely believe,” I interrupted, shaking my head. “They just hate Him.”

Mike stared at me, mouth agape. I don’t know what made me reveal that fact. Perhaps my darkening mood, the feeling of impending doom, broke my give-a-shitter, but I spilled those few carefully hoarded beans with surprising ease. Things were going to come to a head and I desperately needed him.

“Do you hate Him, Jude?” Mike whispered, blue eyes holding a wealth of sadness.

“Aw, no, man. Of course not … if I did, my best friend wouldn’t be a Catholic priest, and I wouldn’t want with all my heart to feel God’s blessing on me. Naw, Mike, I just think God doesn’t care too much for me.” Christ! I was starting to sound like a Danielle Steel character. Next thing you know, I’d pull out a monogrammed hanky and delicately dab my eyes as they leaked bitter tears.

“You know, that’s the first real thing you’ve said to me in over six years,” Mike mused.

“What did I say that was so real last time?”

“ ‘I’m buying.’ ”

“Damn, what the hell was I thinking, opening up like that? Sounds like I almost grew a vagina right then and there.”

“No need to be a misogynistic prick, Jude.”

“Sorry, man, it’s been one of those centuries.”

“Seriously, what is up with your family?”

“You know that’s been a touchy subject for me.”

The manila envelope slapped me on the chest. “Then keep your secret documents or whatever they are.”

“What?”

A hard finger poked my chest and his breath, smelling of peppermint gum, washed over me. “You don’t drop a bomb about your family hating God and His apathy toward you, then expect me to hold onto … whatever this is. I’m a priest, not an idiot.”

Well damn, not how I wanted this conversation to go. Had I been prone to panic, I might have. A thread of unease rippled up and down my spine as I realized that even though my Family might consider Mike the enemy, I had no one else to count on. After all these years of hiding in plain sight, I saw Mike as the only person I could sincerely call a friend. Julian wanted to use me, while the rest of the Family wanted me dead and gone in the worst way. All Mike wanted was the truth. Could I handle that?

No choice … you take your friends where you can get them.

“Tell you what, amigo,” I retorted, slapping the envelope back into his hands. “You go ahead and read what’s in here. If you can handle it, if you think we still can be friends, then call me. The number to my new disposable is in there.”

The fear that Mike would hate and revile me after reading the contents of the envelope blazed up inside, causing my stomach to clench. Nothing for it, however, but to trust him and hope for the best.

He clutched the envelope in one hand and stroked his ridiculous handlebar moustache with the other; something he always did when perched on the horns of a dilemma. “Okay, Jude,” he said, folding and unfolding the envelope. “You got it, but I have to ask … what’s going on?”

My eyes trailed up the side of Woodman Tower to where wind sprites frolicked on high. “What about the holy water I asked for, Mike?” I hedged.

“Having a courier deliver it to your place. Should be there sometime this afternoon. I don’t know why you keep asking me for ten gallons of holy water every six months, but the donations are appreciated. Now … answer the damn question.”

“What’s going on? Well, I have Family business to take care of soon.”

Chapter Two

Jude

My place was a little white ranch-style affair on 61
^st
near L Street, smack dab in a quiet middle class neighborhood where the houses are small, but the backyards are large. The kind of place you find newly married couples and the retired.

Omaha in winter is only slightly less windy and cold than the Ninth Circle of Hell, the frozen lake trapping the traitors to mankind. The previous day saw a wind chill of -65º F, cold enough to shatter the plastic quarter panels on my neighbor’s blue Saturn coupe. I didn’t mind the deep freeze, as long as the blessed cloak of anonymity covered me.

Before the keys left the ignition of my red Hyundai Sonata, my belt buckle vibrated slightly, sending a small thrill through my navel. The car filled with the aroma of lavender. Someone had tripped one of my many alarms. I had a guest.

“Damn.” Just what the doctor hadn’t ordered. My best guess … Family visit.

Magic was out of the question. If I used a Word, it would be detected, a scent that any mage within a hundred feet would pick up. That suited me fine. I could do without, and I’d spent a great portion of my Family’s vast fortune on alternative methods.

Molecular thread, one of my best, most enjoyable toys. Linked iron molecules held rigid by an inch-long magnetic bottle attached to a six-inch slim cylinder. Not great as a weapon—having such a short blade—but perfect for detail work.

You may have seen movies where the canny thief uses a circular glasscutter on a windowpane, removing a perfectly round piece in just seconds with hardly a sound thanks to clever editing and the audience’s willingness to suspend disbelief. The molecular blade requires no such flouting of physical laws. It cut through my bathroom window in a moment, allowing me to unlock it and slither in quietly.

With just the slightest whisper I drew my K-bar from its ankle sheath, readying it my left hand, right hand carefully opening the door to my bedroom, staying low. One of my few indulgences was fine furniture crafted out of heavy, sturdy wood and polished to a high gloss. If you look hard enough, you can find someone in any good-sized town who specializes in woodworking. I had found an elderly gentleman who had been crafting furniture for decades and commissioned several pieces to the tune of several thousand dollars. The centerpiece of the collection was a queen-sized sleigh bed made of stained red oak. The auburn wood gleamed to perfection and smelled faintly of the lemon oil I used to polish it. When I stepped into the bedroom, I detected evidence of a new smell—thus a new occupant.