New Eden Chronicles – The Animal Interlude - Chapter 5

I'm dedicating the remainder of this body of work to the memory of my friend, Thomas Bolt. His works of fiction published on Facebook are what inspired me to bring this story that had lanquished for many years in my mind to this public forum. Thank you once more my friend for that inspiration. You are missed...

Now ... Chapter 5

Lt. Colonel Langdon Thomas Bradford makes his way down the long narrow corridor toward the cold gray concrete walled cubical he calls his office — and the ringing telephone that beckons his presence. The office, reminiscent more of a cell, is not the accommodations you would expect for such a distinguished member of the military. The small room is only dimly lit by a single fixture dangling from a long fraying chord attached to the ceiling. The light flashes sporadically, sizzling and popping similarly to a bug light you might expect to find on a porch somewhere frying mosquitoes on a hot humid summer night.

In the room a worn plain rectangular wooden desk propped up on four stubby legs sits perfectly centered within the surrounding walls. Atop it, also perfectly centered, is the old red rotary phone bellowing for his attention.

Langdon, nearing the room, is annoyed by the sight of the flickering light and makes a mental note — “Get someone to fix that damn light.”

His large muscular frame fills up the door-less entrance as he passes through and makes his way around the desk pausing long enough to pull an aged gray steel chair lightly padded on the seat and arms from its hiding place under the desk. The chairs casters come alive squeaking loudly as if painfully awakened from a long rest.

Another mental note — “Oil the casters.”

Langdon eases himself into the chair, removes his uniform cap revealing a head absent of hair, and places it carefully on the desk, nudging it slightly until it’s positioned just the way he wants it. His cold steel blue eyes narrow and fixate on the phone which has been ringing for quite sometime as he ponders who might be at the other end of that line.

“Only six men alive today have this number,” Langdon thinks to himself running the list through his mind; only three of them actually know the Lt. Colonel personally — and only one of them is considered a friend.

Langdon’s expression softens slightly as he reaches for the handset and brings it to his ear, “Hello, Charles,” he says without hesitation, “it’s been a very long time my old friend. I was beginning to wonder if I would ever hear from you again.”

At the other end of the phone Captain Charles Douglas is still amazed at the Lt. Colonel’s innate ability to know exactly who was calling him. These days, if he didn’t know any better, he would chalk it up to caller-id if it weren’t for the fact this man had been doing this his whole life.

“You do know the phone works both ways, Thom” says Douglas taking a dig at his old friend, “you could have called me; why is it I’m always the one that has to break the ice?”

“Touché, Charles,” Langdon shoots back, “but you know how this relationship works,” then pausing to give Douglas just enough time to prepare himself for the comeback, “we only call each other if we need something — have I ever needed anything from you, Charles?”

“You’ve got me there, Thom,” Douglas says knowing the Lt. Colonel is already onto him, “which I guess is as good as any a segue into the primary reason for this call.”

Douglas briefly collects his thoughts making certain he does not start this conversation off the wrong way. He respects the hell out of this man, and the last thing Charles Douglas wants to do is appear to his friend as being in a situation he cannot control.

“I’m certain you’re aware of the events transpiring here in New Eden, Thom,” Starts Douglas, “and, that based on New Eden’s previous history we were not as well equipped as we’d like to of been when this all began — but we’re managing.”

Langdon interjects in a reassuring tone, “Of that I have now doubt my friend, you have my complete confidence.”

“Thank you,” Douglas adds, “that means a lot coming from you sir. But, we have come across an individual that you may have some particular interest in, and perhaps be able to advise us on how to deal with him.” Douglas pauses briefly to again formulate his words before he speaks.

“Charles,” sensing the hesitation in his friend Langdon interrupts to give him the time he needs to gather his thoughts, “you know that if there is anything at all I can do for you all you need to do is ask.”

“I do,” Douglas responds, thinking he may have tipped his hand just a little, “and if this individual is what I think he is my men are ill-equipped, and lack the training to bring him in.”

“Special Forces ill-equipped…?” Langdon inquires.

“No,” says, Douglas, “Black Ops ill-equipped…!”

“Well now,” Langdon offers, “tell me what you know.”

Douglas recounts the day’s events to the Lt. Colonel. The phone call informing him of the murder; the scene at the church; the precision explosives pattern; the weapons cache and trophies; the fact this man had established a Catholic Church, installed himself as the priest for more than twenty years, and all without anyone figuring it out — including Douglas.

“Very interesting indeed,” says Langdon after briefly considering Douglas’ facts, “but if we’re looking at someone who may have been entrenched, or undercover for two decades what do you think would have been his motivation? I mean, that’s a level of dedication that is difficult to find, Charles — especially within our own organizations.”

“More likely,” Douglas offers, “he’s someone who left the service and finally cracked with the rest of this damn city.”

“Possible,” Langdon agrees, “I’ll do some checking, but you know the drill. Even if I do find out any information I’ll most likely not be able to share any of it with you.”

“I know.” says Douglas, understanding this man and his position supersede the friendship.

The Lt. Colonel is the guy you see in the movies who says, “If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you.” He commands a monstrous black-ops operation with a total annual discretionary fund at his disposal that equates to more than the entire wealth of some of the worlds richest men combined. The base of operations is a massive underground complex that quite literally does not exist as far as our government, or anyone else for that matter, knows. There isn’t a single entity or committee who knows the whole of his operation, or its location. Even the people under his command are shuttled in through an automated underground transport system from various locations across the country. Their duty in the “Tunnels”, as the complex has become known, is similar to submarine duty in that during their tour there is no outside communication allowed, nor do they know where they are.

Douglas continues, “All I ask is that you let me know if you need to send someone to handle this.”

“Understood.” says, Langdon, knowing that they both know the way this game is played. Under normal circumstances, and if it were anyone except Charles Douglas, this rhetorical question and answer session would have held as much water as a sieve. But the mutual respect and admiration between these two men meant that Charles was playing it straight with him, and in kind, Langdon would afford him the same courtesy.

“You haven’t given me a name yet, Charles.” Langdon reminds him, “I’m certain this individual has been operating under an alias, but a name and physical description would get me started.”

“Yes,” says Douglas, “I almost forgot.” but Douglas hadn’t forgotten. He had purposely withheld the name knowing that if there was any chance the Lt. Colonel knew the Priest he would have to find the right time to offer that information if he was going to pick up on any cues from his old friend. “He’s mid to late fifties, approximately 6’-2”, 220 lbs, graying black hair, goatee, and blue eyes — he’s been going by Nathan Darke, all these years, that’s D-a-r-k-e.” as Douglas spells it out for Langdon.

Langdon’s reaction at hearing the name Nathan Darke yields a subtle audible acknowledgement that it is nearly undetectable — but only nearly. That name registered with the Langdon and Douglas knows it; he also knows prying will not get him any more information than what the Lt. Colonel is willing to offer.

“I’ll get on this right of way, Charles — and thank you so much for the call.” says, Langdon. “I hate it had to all be about business, but maybe when this is all over you could come visit me again. There’s always an opening here for you when you’re ready my friend.”

“You never know, Thom,” Douglas starts, “when this is all over there may be an opening here in New Eden for you.” Douglas finishes that statement with rye smile on his face at thought of the Lt. Colonel giving it all up to be in command of the New Eden Police Department.

At the other end of the line Langdon mimics that expression, “We’ll see, Charles — we’ll see.”

With that the call ends. Douglas looks at the phone in his hand and mulls over the conversation in his mind, analyzing every aspect of it one more time looking for clues. But other than an overwhelming sense that Langdon recognized Darke’s name he doesn’t believe he gave up any information — willingly. Still lost in thought Douglas’ silent contemplation is interrupted by Sergeant Dan Grayson’s urgent plea for his attention.

“Captain — Captain, Douglas,” Grayson calls out snatching his attention back to the moment, “we’ve gotten a number of calls about Father Darke off the all-points-bulletin we issued earlier. Two are very recent sightings and nearby, sir. If we hurry we might be able to intercept him.”

At the other end the Lt. Colonel hangs up the phone and leans back slightly in his chair. Noticing the phone has shifted on the desk during the conversation he reaches up to re-center it on the desk. He stands and adjusts his tailored uniform, pulling the ends of his sleeves out and brushing his pants. He reaches for his uniform cap and places it back on his head, adjusting it just a little until it is perfect.

Reaching into his left breast pocket he retrieves a much more modern looking smart-phone like device. “Roberts.” he says aloud and the gadget promptly connects with Corporal Dillon Roberts.

“Roberts here, sir.” The young man responds.

“I need you to pull an archival data chip for me immediately.” Langdon directs, “I’m texting you the record number. Load it in a workstation but do not queue up the file. Understood?” asks the Lt. Colonel in a stern voice.

“Certainly,” replies Roberts, “It’ll have that ready for you shortly, sir; Roberts out.” and the device chirps sharply indicating an end to the conversation.

Langdon stands perfectly still and silent in the same spot a few moments while he considers his friend’s predicament. Charles Douglas was one of the most capable men that Langdon had ever had the pleasure of serving along side. That was why when this opportunity presented itself to Langdon, Charles was only one of a few men he had even considered letting in on the details. And that was in an attempt to lure him into serving with him once more.

That was just over twenty years ago, and Charles had all but committed to Langdon before he was pulled away to take command of an offensive against a serious threat on our own soil. That offensive had changed everything — for both men.

Langdon’s device chirps again, “Sir,” says Roberts, his voice somewhat shaky, “I have the file.”

“I’ll be right there, Corporal.” Says Langdon sensing there is a problem. Another chirp and the device goes silent. “Authorization Lt. Colonel Langdon Bradford,” says Langdon aloud bringing the gadget to life once again, “transport Oscar 94 to Romeo 13.” With that a steel sliding door closes off the entry way to Langdon’s office and simultaneously the cold gray concrete wall behind him fades away just enough to reveal a hidden door. When Langdon steps toward the door and it opens automatically, then shuts just as quickly behind him as he passes through the entry.

The brightly lit compartment behind the door is what’s known in the Tunnels as a Destination Tube. Designed for a single user they work similarly to conveying lines used to transport documents. Once entered the Tube loads into a larger magnetically energized spherical transport vehicle capable of traveling at tremendous speeds. The vehicle then utilizes gyroscopes to orientate the Tube within the larger sphere throughout the ride thus keeping the occupant in a constant stable position, as part of the intense magnetic energy created is focused back into the tube forming a stasis field to negate the effects of high speed travel.

In just a matter of seconds Langdon is transported miles away to Romeo 13, the records facility. The door opens to find a visibly shaken Corporal Roberts waiting for him. Looking past the Corporal Langdon can see the queued up file on the workstation’s console screen.

“Sir, I’m sorry, sir — I can explain,” says Roberts, “the file was in the older archival format which automatically queues itself when loaded — I had no idea it would do that — that it hadn’t been reformatted with the others I mean…”

“Stop,” says, Langdon, “walk me through this Corporal and everything will be fine.” trying to calm the young man down.

Everyone who is called into service at this facility has excelled in their respective field of expertise. That’s why they are here. Mistakes can’t happen, and secrets must be kept. When things go wrong here people lose their lives.

Langdon ushers the corporal back to the workstation where Roberts takes a seat. Langdon, standing behind him, asks him to eject the archival data chip and restart the process. Roberts follows his direction and starts the process from scratch so Langdon himself can see how much information Dillon Roberts may have been exposed to. As the system’s screen comes to life what flashes up first isn’t the record ID that he had texted to Roberts. Instead, the actual project name is was what appears: Project Darke.

As that fades Langdon prompts the corporal, “Tell me at what point did you stop viewing this record, corporal.”

“Yes, sir,” responds, Roberts, seemingly his anxiety easing. “it appears the programming is set to load from the last access point. So after the start screen it defaults to…”

“The Summary Agent Location Screen.” interjects Langdon.

“Yes, sir — that’s correct.” Roberts confirms.

The translucent world globe that manifests on the screen depicts the current location of Project Darke’s agents marking each with a red dot. Each agent’s location is tracked through a microscopic GPS device implanted in their body unbeknownst to them.

“Bring that globe around to the United States and zoom in on the Great Lakes region.” directs Langdon.

Corporal Roberts does as ordered and the Great Lakes fill the workstation screen, but what does not appear is more telling to Langdon — no red dot.

“Does this have something to do with New Eden?” asks Roberts.

It’s unclear if the young Corporal Dillon Roberts heard the loud “snap” that filled the room as quick powerful hands wrenched his neck, nearly separating it from his body, just before his world went black.

“He might of walked out of here,” Langdon thought to himself, “if he hadn’t mentioned New Eden.”

New Eden Chronicles – The Animal Interlude - Chapter 4

A thin veil of smoke hangs in the air above the sanctuary like a low lying cloud, and a thick sulfurous smell permeates the senses as Douglas and his men step through the threshold of The First Catholic Church of New Eden. Douglas’ newly formed forensics team is already on the scene collecting evidence by the time they had arrived.

With the eminent threat of the Animal ever present since Douglas inserted himself into the leadership role of New Eden he never went anywhere without his six bodyguards. They were some of his best people who, by committee, had decided until the Animal was stopped Douglas was not to be alone.

Although it was a pain in the ass for him, Douglas had gone along with the idea if for no other reason than to humor his men. After all, while capable, these six men guarding him combined had far less experience and ability than he himself. Nor had they ever seen combat. And not if, but when the Animal struck, it would be combat.

As Douglas passed through the narthex and walked down the nave flanked on either side by row after row of long benches for the parishioners, his men peeled off and took up positions throughout the sanctuary where they could remain vigilant while giving the Captain his space.

Father Dixon Grant, a short portly man with crown of hair which made him resemble a monk more than a priest, stood at the lectern on the opposite side of the church confessionals and at the bottom of the long sloping isle. He was still visibly shaken and glanced up at the approaching Douglas for just a fraction of a second as he continued his recounting to Douglas’ lead investigator, Thomas Lake, of what had transpired within the church just shortly over an hour ago.

At first glance, other than the smoky haze and smell of sulfur, the church was pristine. Douglas stopped a few feet short of the two men and listened as Father Grant continued. When Douglas’ man realized the Captain was there he looked up long enough to lock eyes with him, then glanced back over his left shoulder and motioned to the opposite corner when the confessionals were located. Douglas turned and walked toward that side of the church.

As he rounded the corner of the outer most rows of benches a debris field came into view. Where once there had stood an ornate confessional booth all that remained was a smoldering remnant of that structure. The portion that was where the priest, Father Darke, had sat was all but intact. The other half, where the confessor had been seated, was completely destroyed having left an arc shaped scattering of remains, both debris—and human.

“A shape charge—” Douglas said to himself but loud enough for one of his nearest forensics investigators to hear.

“I’m sorry sir?” Lieutenant Morris quickly asked, cutting the Captain off in mid sentence.

“A shape charge,” Douglas said once again with a hint of aggravation in his tone this time because he didn’t think he should have had to repeat himself, “and a sophisticated one at that.” he continued finishing his thought this time.

“Yes sir—sorry sir—I thought that’s what you had said.” said Morris. “The debris pattern suggests just that, but looking at the manual it’s so uniformed that—”

Douglas didn’t need a damn manual to know what the hell he was looking at, and he wasn’t in the mood to deal with these greenhorns who did. Throwing up a hand to silence Morris Douglas said, “Continue gathering the evidence Lieutenant, and give me your report later.”

Morris didn’t speak, but just nodded his head and went back to work.

Douglas surveyed the damage, which was minimal, except to the booth and the poor bastard that had been sitting in it. The blast had radiated out with power and precision unlike anything Douglas had ever seen; and yet somehow contained the extent of the destruction to a limited radius around the confessional. What remained of the booth, and the man, was pulverized.

"If Nathan Darke was responsible then there was much more to the good Father than anyone knew."Douglas thought to himself.

Having seen what he needed to Captain Douglas turned and walked back toward Father Grant. His investigator had just finished with the Father and Douglas wanted to hear for himself what had happened.

"Father Grant, I am—"

Grant interrupts and extends a hand, "I know who you are, Captain Douglas. I may have only been in New Eden for a few months now but your reputation precedes you."

Douglas smiles slightly as he reciprocates shaking the priests hand. "Well, Father, reputations are a difficult thing to live up to—unless of course it's a bad reputation you're referring to?"

Father Grant chuckles and says, "No, not at all. Good—tough—but definitely good."

Douglas allows another rye smile before he cuts to the chase, "I know you've spoken with my investigator but I wanted to hear for myself what happened."

"The short version is that Nathan Darke killed that man." Father Grant says, his expression changing dramatically.

"You're certain of this?" asks Douglas obviously puzzled by Grant's directness.

"Without a doubt." the priest said looking down. "Nathan was expecting—him. I watched them enter the booth—then I could hear the man confessing his sins. I couldn't make out exactly what he was saying—not at first. I assume Nathan was unresponsive because the man got much louder—even screaming. He went from confessing, to blaspheming, to pounding on the walls and door. Then Nathan stepped from the booth and walked toward me. Behind him the door was rattling and apparently locked. I started toward the booth but Nathan put his arm on my shoulder and stopped me. He looked me in the eye and said—wait." Grant looks back up at Douglas, then past him to toward the remnants of the booth. "Then the whole thing erupted—in an instant! I dove for cover expecting a rush of air, a shower of debris, a flash of intense heat—but there was nothing. When I got up and the smoke was clearing—Nathan was gone."

"What do you think led to this?" asked Douglas.

"Captain, I am very familiar with New Eden's past distinction, and while New Eden may have been free of crime for all those years—it was not free of sin." Grant disclosed. "One of the first things Nathan Darke confided in me was that throughout his entire tenure here he has taken untold thousands of confessions."

"Confessions of crimes?" Douglas asked looking somewhat taken aback.

"Not of crimes committed," Grant says, "mostly crimes considered, impure thoughts, and urges that the confessors fought against daily." then looking up at the Captain, Grant continues, "That is until three months ago when the thoughts and urges overtook their will. Nathan Darke's confessionals were deluged with parishioners and people he'd never seen who suddenly had lost the power of self-control." Grant turned his back to Douglas , lowered his head, and stepped a few feet away. This was obviously difficult for him to discuss. Looking up Father Grant's gaze fell upon the shattered remains of the booth once more and he continued, "By the time I had arrived here, just days after the craziness began, Nathan had already been at it twenty-four hours a day for over a week—he was spent."

"So, Father Darke's struggles began before Adam's disappearance?" Douglas questioned.

"Nathan Darke's struggles, Captain Douglas, began the day he came to New Eden." Grant said.

Douglas starts, but is interrupted by one of his men, Sergeant Grayson.

"Captain—Captain Douglas—you need to see this right away!", says Grayson.

Sensing the urgency in his voice Douglas turns and heads toward Grayson and asks, "What is it?" Father Grant falls in step with him and the three of them head off toward the priest's rectory.

"We were combing the entire church looking for evidence," Grayson says, talking fast, then pauses to catch a breath, "but weren't having much luck until we got to Father Darke's rectory—" pausing again.

"And?" asks Douglas, somewhat annoyed, and thinking he shouldn't have to.

"And—" Grayson continues, "you just have to see for yourself."

As the three approach the door Grayson's partner recedes from the small space to make room for the men. Grayson steps to one side and lets Douglas and Father Grant walk past him and into Nathan's rectory. Douglas stops just beyond the door and quickly scans the rooms contents with a discerning eye as Father Grant, stopped his tracks, and stares in stunned disbelief.

The walls and ceiling of the rectory are adorned with banners, flags and uniforms representing numerous Special Forces branches of not only the United States military, but of its allies'—and enemies as well. Equipment, weapons, ammo boxes, and trophies lie scattered about the room in a sort of organized clutter. A small wooden coffee table by the bed had doubled as a work bench and still had Nathan's bomb making tools and materials splayed out on it.

"What does all this mean?" Grant finally manages probably not even realizing he was speaking out loud.

Captain Douglas had done several tours of duty himself working alongside, and in conjunction with, numerous Special Forces branches. He knew what he was looking at went well beyond your run of the mill Green Beret, SEAL, or Airborne combat vet. The trophies, equipment, weapons, and the skills necessary to build that bomb screamed Black Ops.

"Can I ask you something, Father?" Douglas asks, ignoring Grant's question completely.

Grant pushes the cobwebs out of his head and turns to Douglas to respond, "Yes—of course." he says.

"I've noticed throughout our entire conversation you never once referred to Nathan Darke as Father—why is that?" Douglas asks while looking Grant in the eye.

"Because—" Grant pauses momentarily.

Whether it's to gather his thoughts, or make certain he's choosing his words properly—Douglas isn't sure.

Grant continues, "because there is no record of a Nathan Darke ever being confirmed as a Catholic priest." Another pause, then Father Grant says, "Nor is there any indication that the First Catholic Church of New Eden was ever sanctioned by the Church."

"Then what brought you here?" Douglas asks, "I mean, if you didn't know of the church, or the man—then what?"

"An email—we—the church that is—received an email." says Grant.

"From who?" asks Douglas, taking a step toward Father Grant.

"It was anonymous. Well—signed with an A." Grant says.

"A—" Douglas repeats—pondering the letter, then it hits him, "Adam." he says.

New Eden Chronicles – The Animal Interlude - Chapter 3

“Looking for a good time—father?”

The question echoes in Nathan’s mind as he glances at the young woman. She is in her late teens, or at least that is what he chooses to believe. Like so many young women, runaways, who ended up in the big city with dreams of becoming an actress, she had probably turned to prostitution to feed herself.

It had been some time since Nathan had entertained the thought of having sex, and even longer since he had actually been with a woman. “I don’t have any money,” he said studying her face. She was pretty, maybe even beautiful, he thought to himself? Under the heavy makeup and dark circles around her eyes, probably from drug use, she was beautiful.

“Are you really a priest?” she asked looking as if the answer really didn’t matter to her.

Nathan thought about that as they stood looking at one another. Yes, he wore the clothes of a priest, had been trained as a priest, and for the past twenty years had lived the life of a priest. So much had been sacrificed throughout those years because of one fleeting moment in time—one gut reaction—one mistake that changed his life forever.

Not so unlike this young woman, he thought to himself, who stood before him propositioning a man dressed as a priest. She had at some point made the decision to leave the life she had behind. And because of that, and for whatever reason, that one decision became her mistake. Now, here they stood. A woman dressed as a prostitute propositioning a man dressed as a priest and all Nathan could manage was, “Are you really a prostitute?”

“Yes,” she said without hesitation, but you could tell she wasn’t proud of it.

“Then I’m a priest,” said Nathan. As he turned to walk away she reaches out to him brushing his arm with her hand and says, “Maybe we can help each other?”

Considering what she was saying Nathan asks, “How?”

Looking up with at him with her eyes and head tilted down she slides her index finger into the V-neck of her top and softly pulls it to one side exposing her self just a little to entice him. “I can do something for you if you will do something for me?”

For the first time Nathan can see the street smart prostitute side of this young woman. She has made her target and will use her assets, her only assets, to reel him in. The shy innocent young woman with hopes and dreams of becoming a famous actress and owning this town had been replaced by the homeless junkie turned to prostitution to support her habit.

Just as he had come to New Eden twenty years ago with the prospect of saving souls and had his hopes dashed when the only souls he was saving didn’t deserve it in his opinion. Now, here he was faced again with yet another soul that needed saving, yet another soul that had made her own bed and should have to lie in it—or be buried with it.

So why shouldn’t he get something out of it for a change? After all, once he took off the clothes that made him a priest wasn’t just the man left? He had given so much without expectation since becoming a priest, and they had all accepted without offering restitution. This time was different, though, this time the restitution was coming in anticipation of his help. No matter what she wanted of him he would accept her offer first. “Ok.” He said, spoken simply and direct without even a hint of regret in his voice. “Where do we go from here?”

“I have a room in this building.” She says looking behind her, as she reaches for Nathan’s hand and leads him through the entrance.

There had been a slight breeze outside making the night air cool and bearable, but there was no breeze inside this building. No air conditioning, no fans—not even an open window. This building, like so many older buildings in the city, had that dank feel and musky smell, like mold, urine and rat feces all mixed in some gruesome concoction and sprayed on the walls and floors. There was no elevator, of course, and the stairs creaked and moaned with every step.

As they made their way toward the fifth floor Nathan began to wonder about his decision. After all, what sort of woman would proposition a priest in the first place? This woman, this whore had a lot of nerve to approach him during this most vulnerable time in his life. He had been struggling with being a priest for some time and this day had been particularly difficult. When he ran out into the street to get away he never imagined it would end up like this. As a matter of fact he could barely remember the confrontation that had caused his hurried exit.

Purging that thought from his mind he again focused on the young lady leading him up the stairs. She had managed to get a few steps ahead of him and for the first time he turned his attention to her body. The short tight red mini she wore hid very little of her shapely figure. Her long legs were very toned like that of a gymnast or runner. A firm tight ass filled out the back of the dress, and with no panty lines he imagined she was wearing a thong or no panties at all. Strong shoulders and toned arms led him to believe she had been an athlete.

In his younger days, before he became a priest, even before he became, became what lead him to the priesthood in the first place, he had liked that kind of woman. He himself had been an athlete. In high school and college he had his pick of women, mostly cheerleaders or high society types, always beautiful, always built.

She fumbled for her keys in the little clutch purse she carried with her. Nathan wondered why she even bothered to lock the door. It was weak, cracked in several places, and wouldn’t take too much effort to break down if someone really wanted to. She opened the door to her apartment, if it was even hers. He presumed it belonged to her pimp or dealer and was used by several girls on any given night.

It was a small corner apartment. The kitchen was a single counter along the side facing the alley. The living area faced the main street and had a fold out couch and a double window that looked down on the street. The opposite wall had a bathroom with a sink, toilet and shower. The hardwood floors were scratched and worn with small colorful, but dirty throw rugs of various shapes and sizes scattered about the floor like giant pieces of confetti leftover from some long forgotten celebration. Other than the fold out couch the compact apartment was completely absent of furniture. No table to eat at, no chairs to sit in, and no television to watch. It was clear this space had a singular purpose.

“Make yourself comfortable—father,” she said in an innocent childlike voice Nathan imagined it turned most of her clients on. That, coupled with her youthful appearance gave the illusion of an under age girl. As he studied her closer he thought this may not be an illusion at all. He would put that thought out of his mind. An agreement had been made. There would be an exchange. She would give herself freely to him and in return he would help her—with—something.

“But what?” Nathan thought to himself. He hadn’t considered what her request might be. At this point it didn’t matter. After what he had been through today not much of anything mattered to him anymore. Nathan made his way over to the pull-out bed and sat at the foot facing the young woman. She had just turned off the light and was moving slowly toward him unbuttoning her top with every step. He would get what he came for, and then honor her request. As her top hit the floor, and her knee rested on the bed, she leaned forward and whispered into Nathan’s ear, “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned…”

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned...” The words repeated themselves in rapid succession over and over again in Nathan’s head. So much so that Nathan loses complete focus on the situation at hand. As she pulls his jacket back over his shoulders the next five words she speaks don’t even register with Nathan at all—that is until he feels the sudden stabbing pain in his right side. “I have killed many men.”she had said.

Her attack had been shrewd, indeed. After binding his arms with his own jacket she had plunged a long needle sharp hairpin deep into his side. He knew she had targeted the kidney, which she would have hit if it wasn’t for the fact Nathan’s right kidney had been removed as a result of a gunshot wound. His misfortune would become her ultimate mistake.

The pain brought him back to reality, and just in time. The second hairpin, this time aimed at Nathan’s left kidney, had just pierced the skin when he reached across and grabbed her wrist to stop the attack. With a powerful snap of his arm Nathan slings the young woman off the bed and she slams to the floor a few feet away from the fold-out bed. Nathan stands and rolls his shoulders forward to pull the coat back up into place. Reaching to his right side he pulls the long needle sharp hairpin slowly out of the wound. Holding it up he eyes it and a trickle of blood—his blood—runs down the length.

The young woman, clutching her shoulder, which is obviously dislocated, slowly gets to her feet in front of him. “You won’t kill me … I know you won’t!” voice cracking as she speaks, “You’re a God damn priest … you—won’t—kill—me!”

Nathan eyes her as he steps closer, “You’re correct” he says looking her dead in the eyes, “I will not be responsible for your death tonight.”

In obvious pain, tears welling up in her eyes, she still manages a slight, but relieved smile.

“The fall will kill you!” Nathan says. Even before the words had finished departing his lips Nathan had lunged forward and clamped his powerful right hand around her throat with such force her feet left the floor. Continuing the same motion Nathan twists his body back toward the fold-out under the window; the woman’s feet whirling around slightly behind her body. Nathan takes one great step toward the window and hurls the prostitute forward like a human shot put. Her body first levels out and then folds over with arms and legs out-stretched as her back smashes through the window.

Whether from pure shock, or utter disbelief, the young woman never manages to scream until just before her body crashes five stories into the pavement below.

New Eden Chronicles – The Animal Interlude - Chapter 2

Yesterday...

“Son-of-a-bitch!” Douglas blurts as he slams the phones handset down hard into its cradle nearly shoving the entire set-up off his desk. “This is all I need right now” he mutters to himself as he plops back into his chair suddenly realizing all eyes in the squad room are fixated on him. Shooting a stern glare back at the assemblage is all it takes to sever their gaze and put everyone back to work.

Police Captain Charles Douglas isn’t someone to be trifled with, and his people know it. A career military man, with time of service in various Special Forces units, the Captain had recently taken down a drugged out perp with a Swingline stapler from across the room. The guy was about to overpower one of his rookie deputies when the red steel stapler shot through the room like a missile striking the assailant square in the back of his head—sending him down for the count. Everyone who witnessed the incident swore the damn thing left a contrail as it streaked across the squad room. Impossible, of course, but it made for a colorful footnote to the story.

You'd think an episode like that would mandate a severe rebuke of all involved, and a refresher course on proper police procedure. Instead, Douglas barked, "someone make sure that damn stapler gets back on my desk—and wipe off the blood!"

Douglas believes in leading by example, and learning from your mistakes. He would later be overheard telling the Police Commissioner, "the kid screwed up, Morgan, but no one died."

"He may as well be dead!” Morgan shot back.

"Who?” Douglas asked.

"The perp!” shouted Morgan, so loud that Douglas pulled the phone away from his ear for a second. "That damn stapler drove a piece of skull deep enough into his brain that he'll be a retard at best for the rest of his life. What the hell were you thinking?" Morgan continued admonishingly.

"He was going for the rookie’s gun", said Douglas, "how in the hell would you of liked me to handle that situation?"

"Truthfully?” asked Morgan—somewhat condescendingly.

"Yes—truthfully", repeated Douglas, echoing the Commissioner's tone.

"Shoot the bastard next time!" Morgan paused—"that's off the record of course."

"Of course" said Douglas, again dittoing the Commissioner's response, and tone. "And that would have been an option if I had been stapling my reports with my sidearm."

That comment pretty much ended the phone call. A week later a similar situation arose during a prisoner transfer to a Royal Canadian Mounted Police unit from neighboring Ontario. Just as the RCMP had taken control of the prisoner he knocked one officer to the ground and managed to relieve the other of his weapon. The Captain quickly drew his Glock 32C and without hesitation delivered a single slug dead center of the thug’s forehead. As the lifeless form crumpled to the floor, Douglas holstered his weapon and barked at the stunned group of his people “Somebody get those Mounties a bucket and a mop!” Then glowering at the two shaken blood splattered Mounties “You clean that shit up and get the hell out of my city!”

Week’s later skull fragments and dried brain matter are still turning up in various parts of the squad room—but there was no phone call—not that time.

In the earliest days of New Eden, Douglas’ four precincts and one hundred police officers under his command mostly stood around twiddling their thumbs. Other than an occasional parking ticket or traffic violation there wasn’t so much as even a hint of an actual crime being committed in this city. It was strange; strange enough that Douglas considered quitting many times over the years. Even once asking the Founder “What the hell do you need me for, Adam? You could put a boy scout troop leader in charge of this city.” As was always the case Adam had a way of convincing him, and everyone else for that matter, to see things his way. Even though Adam had persuaded Douglas to stick around he never really liked Adam’s response.

“We will,” Adam had said, “one day Douglas, we will need you.”

It was two years after that conversation that Adam Graham disappeared without a trace. In the weeks leading up to Adam’s disappearance Douglas had needed to promote some of his officers to investigators because there had been a crime. A transient had wandered into town undetected and mugged a resident. A few days later he promoted a couple more after a robbery was reported; another transient, another crime. Then, the day before it was discovered Adam Graham was missing, an assault and battery was reported, and two more made the jump to investigator.

The next day Adam was nowhere to be found—and the city erupted. All at once, synonymous with its birth, New Eden burst out of the picturesque image of perfection it had enjoyed for so many years; and suddenly New Eden needed Douglas—just like Adam had predicted.

New Eden’s first mysterious death occurred three weeks later, late in Douglas’ nineteenth year on the job. The scene was so grisly that everyone was convinced it was an animal attack. And that’s how it was written off—at first. The victim had been torn to shreds. Blood spatter and tattered flesh surrounded the body like confetti. It was everywhere. There was barely enough left to verify the find as human, let alone make a positive identification.

A medical examiner was brought in from a neighboring city and she attributed the attack to a pack of wolves, wild dogs, or possibly a bear. Only none of those animals were indigenous to New Eden; nor had any been seen or heard in the days prior to, or following the attack.

The victim turned out to be Bob Morgan, Police Commissioner Robert “Bob” Morgan who in Adam Graham’s absence was looked to as the de facto leader of New Eden.

Like Douglas, Bob Morgan had been a career military man before joining the New Eden Police Department; they had even served together. Morgan was once a national champion collegiate wrestler, and highly capable combat veteran. At 59 years of age he could still best ninety percent of the department in hand-to-hand combat, and half of those two and three men at a time. A fact he boasted about quite often. It was a hard to pill for Douglas to swallow that whatever got Bob Morgan got away without a fight. But when all the blood, flesh, hair, and DNA evidence had been analyzed it all belonged to Morgan.

No evidence of what had gotten to him. No eye witnesses. No one had even heard a sound. A 6’-3” man weighing 225 pounds was savaged by something in the middle of the night, on a populated street, and no one heard or saw anything. It was strange.

Strange was a word Douglas often used throughout his tenure in New Eden. How New Eden itself came into being was strange enough. It was strange that absolutely no crimes of any significance were committed here during Douglas’ first nineteen and three-quarter years of command. It wasstrange that things started to unravel in the weeks preceding Adam’s disappearance. It was strangethe first person to die mysteriously in New Eden was the Police Commissioner and acting Founder. And it was strange when the second body found, and the three after that, were all New Eden officials who were in succession to Bob Morgan as interim leader. Douglas’ realization was that not only was there a murderer in New Eden, but that Adam Graham may have been the first victim.

It was a brief conversation with New Eden’s Sanitation Director, the last remaining city official, which convinced him to bypass his office in the city hierarchy and give the reigns of power over to Captain Douglas—thereby making himself the target.

A very public press conference was called so the announcement was certain to reach the animal responsible for these murders. Although not publically acknowledged by the police department that during the preceding eight weeks each and every acting Founder or city leader had been savagely murdered, the New Eden press had overtly speculated that was the case. During which time the press had transitioned from using “animal” as a description of the person responsible for these ferocious murders to Animal as the moniker for a serial killer.

The day after Douglas’ announcement a package arrived at his desk. He eyed it cautiously as a sickening feeling grew in the pit of his stomach. Even before the bomb squad had determined it wasn’t an explosive, or biological weapon Douglas knew the contents. The hand scrawled note that accompanied the package was barely legible even though it only contained three words— “Now your turn”.

Douglas surmised the box contained what was left of the Sanitation Director. Although it would take days for the DNA to confirm that for certain one thing was evident; the Animal knew the city hierarchy also.

Now, still staring at the phone, Douglas was trying hard to grasp what he'd just heard at the other end of that conversation. "This city has gone absolutely bat shit crazy!” he thought to himself. It had been ninety-three days since the Founder disappeared without a trace. In that time numerous crimes, both violent, and non violent were escalating exponentially with no apparent end in site. It was as if Adam was the glue that held New Eden together. And once that “glue” had vanished—New Eden quickly fell apart.

And to top things off, Douglas just learned Adam’s own spiritual leader, Father Nathan Darke, had apparently himself—just committed a murder.