Radu-Chapter XXX (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)

Previous Installments-
Part One
Prologue and Chapters I-X
Part Two
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
PartThree
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXX
Radu-Chapter XXX (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
10 pages approximate
Phelps had no idea what he was getting himself into when he agreed to drive Khoska out into, it turned out, a remote area of West Virginia just across the Maryland border. His desire to turn back, however, seemed to grow with every passing mile. He was an urban creature by nature. Trips to the county never seemed to work out well for him. Still, he wanted to help Grace Rodescu because he considered her a friend and colleague, and realized that whatever she was involved in may well be big.

Phelps struggled for years to make a name for himself as a news photographer, but certain unfortunate aspects of his personality seemed to stand in the way. This might be his one last chance to make his mark in the world of real journalism. The fact that Grace may have indeed been tied up with some international sex slavery ring, may even have been victimized her own self, as a child no less, hinted at the prospects of something that was more than just big. It might possibly be explosive.

“So you say these people are big name businessmen and politicians,” Phelps noted as they moved past the Maryland state line into what promised to be a trip to the wilds of civilization.

“Not all of them are, I am sure,” Khoska replied. “Certainly, most of their clients are men of wealth and power. They are the kind of people that due to the natures of their positions in society are obliged to silence. From what I understand about these things, they are vetted and cleared by way of an arduous process that might entail months, if not years. They are wiling to pay dearly for the opportunity to indulge their perversions. Then, of course, once they are in so deep, there is no turning back, even if they wanted. They are open to extortion by the nature of their crimes.”

“And you say this deceased son-in-law of yours was one of the ringleaders,” Phelps continued.

“He was not at the very top of the leadership,” Khoska affirmed. “However, he was highly placed. This of course was before I discovered his involvement and turned him in to the church hierarchy. Afterwards, he and a small group of others were defrocked. Sometimes I am at wonder that I have remained alive over the more than ten years since this occurred.

“On the other hand, there is a saying, perhaps you have heard of it. Revenge is like fine liquor. The longer it ages, the more it is to be savored. Of course, there is also the prospect that in the case of revenge, it is more difficult to trace its point of origin.”

“So what does all this have to do with this place we’re going?” Phelps demanded. “You say this is the place you first met Grace.”

“It is a cabin,” Khoska replied. “It used to belong to a man named Karl Groznyy. Technically, it still does, though under an assumed name. I have made it a point to continue paying the utilities and taxes on the property-in his name, of course-for the last thirteen years. Still, it has been all of that time since I have set foot on the place and as such, I have made no repairs to it. It goes without saying then that you should not expect it to be anything other than ramshackle and run-down at this point.

“I hope that my memory will suffice to ensure we take the right roads. As I told you before, it is very remote.”

They remained silent most of the remainder of the way outside of what times Khoska informed Phelps as to the proper turns to make. The old priest realized that, for all these years, his memory seemed all but engraved with the mental map seared into his mind from all those years ago. The closer they got the more certain he was as to the correctness of their route.

“I still don’t understand why it is you wanted to involve me in all this,” Phelps stated. “What is it you think I can do to help?”

“You want to help your friend, for whatever reason,” Khoska replied. “I know enough to realize that you might be one of the few people she trusts. I am almost one hundred percent positive she will turn to you at one point or another. When she does, I am of the hopes that you will help her, though not in the exact way she will unfortunately seek your help.”

“You want me to turn her in, assuming she’s doing something illegal to begin with,” Phelps observed.

“Not turn her in to the authorities, so much as keep me abreast of her movements,” Khoska assured him. “I know enough to realize it is almost a certainty you will agree to help her. In a sense, I wish you would not, for I fear your life might be in danger. Grace will discard you like worn out underwear once she uses you for all she can get. I know you do not want to believe this, but I have a feeling you shall more than believe it, within the hour. We are almost to our destination.

“In about twenty minutes, there will be a narrow, paved road that leads up a steep hillside. Hopefully, it will not have been overrun by the shrubbery that used to merely hide it from view. Groznyy paved it his own self shortly after he purchased the property, but he did not do so until the road is quite out of view from the one on which we are on now. He feared otherwise the entire road would be washed out.”

Khoska pointed out the turn off and Phelps cautiously angled his vehicle into what appeared to be merely a small clearing, and then began what was actually a torturous ascent up a muddy embankment.

“Are you sure about this?” he demanded. “I could blow my damn engine trying to get up here.”

“It’s not much further, I promise,” Khoska replied.

Phelps cursed under his breath as he continued, fearing the thickness of the foliage would be as much of an impediment as the steepness of the hillside due to the slow speed he was obliged to drive. Finally, he made it through to where there was indeed a paved road, yet his back tires now seemed mired in the muddy dirt at his back. He continued, shifting the gears of his van, at times slipping backwards, as the dense foliage surrounded them at the front and on all sides. Finally, with one final thrust on the accelerator, he positioned all four wheels of the van onto the narrow blacktopped road. It was easier at this point to drive trough the dense brush, which he yet was obliged to struggle through all the way to the top of the more than one hundred foot hill.

Finally, they were there. Khoska could barely see the house through the grown up grass and trees, as he hoped the roof was yet intact, though from what he could see of it, it seemed undamaged.

“Holy shit, Grace used to live here?” Phelps demanded.

“For no more than a couple of weeks,” Khoska replied. “She was in the process of recovering from severe injuries she received while in the course of being raped by four men, who as it happened intended to murder her. Groznyy took pity on her and saved her, or she would have surely died that night from her injuries and from exposure, after they abandoned what they thought was her dead body. Groznyy discovered her wandering the countryside, in a daze.

“Then, after he transported her to this place, he had the misfortune to allow his sentimentality to get the better of him, and he imagined himself to be in love with her. Things did not turn out so well for him. But, enough of this monologue. It is time for you to see this for yourself. Come, let us go inside.”

Phelps followed him warily into the cabin. Khoska had kept the keys to the cabin in a secure place after all this time, and though the lock was rusty, it took him no more than three minutes to unlock the door, which opened with some difficulty, as the wood was quite warped. It swung open with a creak, as one of the hinges was especially loose. All of them needed oiling.

Khoska was pleasantly surprised that the lights yet worked, though they served mainly to reveal the severe need for cleaning from the dust and mold that accumulated over the many years since he last had been here. He made his way toward the master bedroom, urging Phelps to follow behind him. He did, though warily, having brought along his camera.

Khoska unlocked the bedroom door and entered. The first thing he noticed was the window, which after all this time yet remained unbroken, though tree limbs brushed against and covered it. He had silently prepared himself for the worse sight, toward which he soon heard Phelps let out a gasp.

“Who in the hell was that?” he demanded, indicating the partially mummified and skeletal remains of the man who remained in the same position in which Khoska last left him.

“Karl Emil Groznyy,” Khoska replied, then indicating the aluminum baseball bat that set on the floor beside the bed. “That is the weapon with which Grace murdered him in his bed.”

Phelps stared at the old priest in disbelief, but recovered his composure long enough to quickly take a series of photos.

“All right, even if that is true, she was a kid,” he stated after he finished shooting. “She had just gone through hell, and this guy, regardless of his later intentions, you say yourself was a part of the group that victimized her, and she knew that. Is this what you were trying to warn me about? This is what you think makes her some kind of cold blooded killer?”

“No,” he replied as he moved toward the mold covered oak dresser that set off to the side of the king sized bed. “What makes her a cold-blooded killer are the things she did in the years following this night. This you see before you now was only the initiatory stage of what was to become a spiritual malignancy that would in time claim many victims, most of whom were, unlike Groznyy, innocent of any wrongdoing.”

He opened the drawer, and found the dead man’s gun. Alongside it, he found a leather-bound address book.

“You left this guy here all this time, and you never reported it,” Phelps observed. “Why?”

He looked at the skeleton, his skull caved in and his brains long decomposed. His tattered nightclothes all but gone, he could discern the extent of mummification that occurred over the years. Though Grozny’s face was long gone, a good portion of his torso remained, dried and leathery, due to the intense cold of those first few weeks in which his body lay, with no heat circulating throughout the remote cabin.

“I could never bring myself to return here,” Khoska replied. “I don’t know for sure why I continued paying the bills on the place. I had this crazy idea I might eventually make some kind of sense out of what happened here this night so long ago. I wanted to come up here and give him some kind of decent burial, but never did. I wanted to come up here and look for some kind of clues, but I never did. Now, I’m afraid I might be far too late.”

Khoska now thumbed through the pages of the address book, but saw few with any names, his being one of the few exceptions. He never realized this. What if someone had discovered this crime scene, and this address book? The authorities would have certainly contacted him. What would he have told them? How would it have looked had they discovered he made regular payments on the property?

“So what was it Grace was supposed to have done after this?” Phelps repeated.

“I secured her adoption into a good family,” Khoska replied. “They were Americans of Romanian descent. They raised her as their own child, loved her and cared for her, and saw to all her needs. Both they and I helped her through years of therapy, and secured her passage into college.

“Then, one day, she recovered her memory, at the age of sixteen-in fact, it happened on the night of her sixteenth birthday party. It came flooding back to her in a torrent. Fortunately, she seemed to recover, following more hospitalization and intensive therapy, but she was never the same after that.

“Within five years time, the entire family was dead. It started with the oldest girl, who developed a severe case of a particularly virulent strain of flu. Grace moved in with her, and cared for her. In the meantime, Grace went through all her money. By the time she went through every last penny, the poor woman was dead, at a very young age, from an illness that, though certainly serious, by any account should not have been fatal.

“Grace used all her money on drugs-on heroin. She later started an affair with the husband of yet another sister. That sister was killed as the result of a bizarre accident. She tripped and fell down the stairs, after she as well came down with a mysterious illness. The husband of course inherited quite a bit of money in an insurance settlement that amounted to more than a hundred thousand dollars.

“He later died an apparent suicide, and a large portion of his money disappeared. Curiously, a similarly large amount of money ended up deposited in Grace’s account. She went through it quickly, of course, presumably as well spent on drugs. It goes without saying, I should add, that Grace was a frequent companion of the husband following the wife’s demise, and was a frequent houseguest of the couple before her death as well.”

Phelps looked at him in disbelief, not sure whether to believe him or not.

“That’s all you got?” he demanded. “You got any proof to go with all this, or is it all just supposition?”

Khoska was more than slightly amused, despite the gravity of the events described.

“You work for a paper that reports the most bizarre gossip and rumors imaginable as though it were all fact, yet you question the veracity of stories I have worked diligently to confirm over the course of years,” he observed. “Every word I tell you is true. I will tell you something else. Grace Rodescu by all rights should have been imprisoned years ago, but was not. Someone has been looking out for her. Who this might have been I do not know, though I have my suspicions.

“If she were not imprisoned for the things I told you, then it perhaps would have been appropriate were she charged with the murder of an older foster brother, one who in fact told her some months before his death that he wanted nothing more to do with her. Shortly afterwards, he was the victim of a house invasion that ended with him brutally beaten to death by unknown assailants, rumored to be members of the Seventeenth Pulse. It so happens that Grace was said to have a connection with this group at the time-a drug connection, of course.”

“Rumors, suppositions, and innuendo,” Phelps declared. “I know about that brother. I’ll have you know Grace wanted the paper to look into it. She was sure he was involved with the mafia and owed them money.”

“And of course nothing ever came of this, did it?” Khoska inquired. “Doubtless this was due to the fact that that the only criminal connection the young man had was in fact incidental, and through Grace. I somehow doubt she told you of that, however, or of that brother’s true feelings towards her, and why he had those feelings. Well, I will tell you. It had to do with yet another foster brother, one whom she in fact engaged in an affair with. It was not technically incest. Of course, I seriously doubt it would trouble Grace if it were. It was more a practical necessity. See, this young man himself was a drug addict, but he had the misfortune as well to suffer an injury on the job. He was incapacitated, and drew a great amount of workman’s comp. Grace, being a drug addict herself, helped him spend his money over the course of four months, until he died of an overdose.

“Grace, being Grace, continued to cash his checks in order to pursue her addiction, until this was eventually discovered. She was charged, of course, but the charges were dropped, for whatever reason. There is actually no longer a record of any of this, so you need not bother to look for it. I assure, you, however, it is all true.

“Just like it is true how she constantly borrowed money from yet another of the sisters, until that sister had enough and told her no more. A few days later, the house burned down around her, leaving her dead. I think Grace got all of two thousand dollars out of that escapade, which went quickly. Still, this was all the unfortunate woman had laying around the house. Had it been no more than two hundred dollars instead of two thousand, I am sure it would have been all the same.”

Phelps was now silent, and grim. He did not want to believe any of this, but something about it all rang painfully true.

“Grace was always bad for borrowing money,” he said. “I know I’ve loaned her more than six hundred dollars myself here and there, and I’ve never gotten a dime of it back. Well, not in money anyway.”

“In other words, she let you fuck her, to use the vulgar expression,” Khoska observed as he continually flipped through the address book. “With Grace, of course, that is certainly a more appropriate terminology than something such as making love, which is something I seriously doubt she has ever experienced.

“Her foster parents are dead, of course,” he continued. “Yes, she saved them for the last. The mother died of a heart attack. Grace was at this time the sole survivor, and she moved in with the bereaved widower, and took care of him. She took care of him, all right. He died two weeks after the woman was buried, a supposed suicide. Grace of course inherited everything. She also quickly went through every penny of this inheritance, including the money from the proceeds of the sell of the house.

“All of these things, by the way, occurred within a span of time that amounts to roughly two years and ten months. Although she has nothing left to show for it, Grace within this amount of time managed to destroy the hopes and dreams of an entire family of people that loved and protected her, took her in with open arms, and did everything they could possibly do to help and support her.

“I never told you of course about the three children, her foster nieces and nephew. That is just as well, of course, as there is nothing to tell. They seem to have disappeared. I often wonder if they are yet alive, holed up in some hellhole, forced into prostitution and child pornography, as Grace herself had been. I sometimes think that would appeal to her sense of irony.”

“All right,” Phelps said, more sadly than defiantly. “I get it. You don’t have to go any further. I just don’t understand why you think I can help you, or how. I hope you paid the water bill on this place. I need to go to the john.”

“There’s no sewer, just a septic tank. The water is from a well Groznyy dug himself. I would not advise drinking any of it.”

Phelps nodded and walked out. As he left, Khoska looked toward the phone. Luckily, it was a standard phone, not dependent on batteries, which would surely have died after so many years. He only hoped the phone wires, which lead through the dense foliage, were intact. He picked up the phone and, though there was a dial tone, he immediately noted the static.

He recognized one of the numbers Groznyy had written down years before, and it made his heart ache. He quickly dialed the number, and sure enough, his own son, Philip Khoska, answered.

“Hello, who is this?” the easily recognizable voice of his youngest son inquired. “Is anybody there?”

Khoska considered the prospect of addressing his son, but was not quite sure what to say. How deeply involved in this was he, he wondered? He also recognized the number of his late son-in-law Voroslav, both numbers, like his own, circled. Is this the reason Groznyy had turned to him in desperation after all, so many years ago?

“Karl, is that you?” his son finally asked. Khoska gasped when he heard this.

“Come on Groznyy, talk to me,” he insisted. “Where have you been all this time? We need to talk. You know that, why else would you have called?”

Khoska was now too stunned to speak, even if he wished to. What would Phillip say if he knew it was he calling from Groznyy’s number?

“It’s not too late, Groznyy. We can work it out. You know the time is short. We all know, Karl, how you saved Grace Rodescu. Yeah, you betrayed us all, but that has been years ago. We can work something out. It is not too late. You can pull through this, my friend. You can be one of the survivors, or you can die like all the rest of the”-

After this, the line filled with static, so Khoska heard nothing. He cursed under his breath, even though he dreaded the prospect of the words spoken this night by his son and their meaning. It occurred to him then that his son would now know the general area from which the call originated. Could he possibly trace it somehow to this exact location? Suddenly, the line cleared, if just briefly, and Khoska could hear now the increasingly agitated voice of his son.

“You need to get to a better line, Grozhny,” he said. “Better yet, you should come to the compound, before it’s too late. You know about Morrison, I take it? It won’t be much longer. He’s going to bring everything crashing down. I’ll be ready. Will you?”

Suddenly, Phillip hung up at his end, terminating the call. He turned uneasily, unsure of what it all meant, and looked toward the long dead remains of Karl Emil Groznyy.

“Groznyy, what were you involved in, my friend?”

He looked toward the door, to see Phelps standing there looking at him, looking very disturbed, even curiously frightened.

“I guess we can go on now,” Khoska said as he deposited the address book within the pockets of his robe.

“Did you forget to tell me about something?” Phelps asked, obviously more anxious now than previously.

“Who’s the Girl Scout?”

“The Girl Scout-what Girl Scout?” the now bewildered Khoska asked.

“The one laying in the other bedroom, dead, that’s what Girl Scout.” Phelps answered.

Quickly, Khoska pushed past him and out the door, down the hallway to the bedroom that sat across the hall from the bathroom. He entered the room, only to see the form of the young girl, obviously dead for some time. Cautiously, he approached her.

“She has not been here that long,” Khoska said, trying to control the anguish at the sight of such a young girl. “She must have gotten lost and found her way here before she died. Who knows how long she has been sought?”

Phelps was now taking pictures of the dead girl’s body to Khoska’s consternation. Then, he noticed something.

“Wait just a minute,” he said. “If she died here, what the hell has been eating her? Look at this!”

Phelps pointed out the gashes on the girl’s naked abdomen. Khoska made a superhuman attempt to control his horrified revulsion as he looked upon the marks left by what appeared to be talons in close proximity to the gash from an apparent scavenger.

“If I didn’t know better I would swear it is the work of a vulture,” he noted. “Still, as you said, why would she be here?”

“That does it!” Phelps declared. “I’m getting the hell out of here. When we get back to Baltimore, I’m calling the authorities and leaving an anonymous tip. I hope there is nothing here that can tie you to this place. That guy in there I don’t care about. Whoever she is-that is a different story. By the way, did that creep have any food in here?”

“He had it well stocked, yes, what difference does that make?”

Phelps moved swiftly into the small kitchen that Groznyy had years before built and equipped with a year-and-a-half worth of provisions. He moved to the refrigerator, only to discover upon opening it that it was nearly bare, save for one very interesting exception. Phelps retuned with an unopened bottle of Samuel Adams Beer.

“I might be wrong, but I don’t think this beer was brewed thirteen years ago, or at least it wasn’t readily available around here-if at all.”

“I think you’re right,” Khoska said, growing more visibly alarmed. “We had better leave, and quickly.”

Before Phelps could respond, the door quickly flew open, and a group of men entered, looking alternately amused, concerned, alarmed, curious, enraged, to outright hysterical.

“Well who the hell are you boys?” one of the dirty, grubby looking men asked.

“Oh-shit!” Phelps muttered under his breath, as another of the men walked up to Khoska.

‘That’s a right purty dress you’s wearing there, hon,” he said with a lecherous sneer.

“Better step away from him Luther,” the first man advised him. “Something tells me they ain’t here to play.”

“Well I’m a-gonna play with him anyway god damn you!” the wild-eyed man shouted, his eyes suddenly transformed in the space of an instant from glazed over lust to savage hatred and defiance.

“Fine, fine,” the other man replied as he held up his hands in an entreaty of peace, as a third man, seemingly the youngest of the group of five, produced a long, thick handled knife with which he pared his nails while gazing with a sadistic smile at Phelps.

“I get the nigger,” he said. “I always did love to play with niggers. They are fun to play with.”

“Try to stay calm,” Khoska told Phelps, who seemed now on the verge of tears.

“Don’t you talk to me, you fucking old fart,” he replied with a hiss.

“Why don’t you take that perty robe off,” Khoska’s admirer suggested, as a fourth man entered, one who seemed only vaguely aware of his surroundings, as he lurched forward and backward while he mumbled incoherently, seeming to concentrate on his right arms and hand as he shook it in unison with his steps.

“No, I will not take this robe off,” Khoska replied firmly, yet as calmly as he could manage. He then addressed the one man who seemed to be the most relatively stable of the group, as yet a fifth man entered, one who had black eyes that blazed with a fury, yet seeming not to be directed towards him or Phelps, but toward the knife of the youngest man of the group.

“My son sent me here to check on you,” Khoska announced. “He wants to make sure you have all the provisions you need, enough to do you for a few more weeks if necessary.”

To his consternation, the man produced a cell phone.

“Why didn’t he call us and let us know you were coming?” he demanded. “Why did you bring that nigger with you?”

“Don’t mind him, he’s just a servant, one of the good ones,” Khoska replied with a desperate glance toward Phelps, who merely shook his head in silent anguish. “He wanted me to come but did not want you to know. He wanted to be sure as to how things were really going.”

“Oh, so he don’t trust us?” the man asked. “Well, that makes sense. Kind of like a surprise inspection, huh?”

“That’s exactly what it is, exactly-a surprise inspection. I am afraid he is going to be displeased at the young lady you have brought up here. People will be looking for her, you know.”

They looked around at each other and smiled. The young man giggled like a silly schoolboy.

“They already have been,” he said. “They split up in groups of three.”

“Hey, Charlie, bring ‘em in here,” the older man shouted, whereupon two more men entered, in the company of three obviously terrified young girls dressed in scout uniforms. They looked to all be no more than about twelve years old. One of the girls cried inconsolably as one of the men gripped her around the waste from behind and held her back tightly up against his groin, as he swayed in a rhythmic motion.

“I hope you brought us some more beer,” the apparent leader of the group said. “We sure can use some.”

Khoska was now frantic, and knew that nothing short of a miracle would deliver him from the predicament in which he now found himself.

“No, I’m afraid not,” he said. “He wants you to be ready to leave here within a couple of days. He will be sending someone else here soon to take you some place else, a place much better than this. In the meantime, you must let these girls go.”

“No,” the young man replied. “Not until we have our fun. After we get us some we’ll send them on their way-provided they shut the fuck up, that is.”

He said this with a threatening glare toward the one girl who cried loudly, but this only made matters worse. Her crying enraged the young man, who shouted for her to shut up, and then struck the young girl across the face so harshly her glasses went flying off and almost halfway across the room. Khoska automatically lunged toward the young man, but a sudden sharp pain sent him sprawling toward the floor, as everything went black.

He found himself at the kitchen table, sitting upright, as Groznyy poured what seemed to be red wine into a glass.

“It’s been a long time, my friend,” he said. “Come, let us have a drink. Let us drink some wine, and talk of Romania.”

Khoska knew he was dreaming, or hallucinating, or possibly as dead now as Groznyy, who now poured the wine in his own glass, as he looked at Khoska with a genial smile on his face.

“You were intending to warn me about them all the time, weren’t you, Groznyy. You wanted to warn me about Voroslav, and about Phillip-about my own family. That is why you came to me to begin with, isn’t it?”

“Khoska, there is plenty of time for such serious matters,” Groznyy replied. “This wine, it is really much better than the shit they used to make in Romania, even better than what they make there now. It is better even than good Bulgarian wine. This in fact is a very old vintage. Some might consider it an ancient one. Please, drink”-

Khoska, reluctant and yet curious, took the glass and sipped the wine, as Groznyy looked on approvingly, and yet expectantly.

“Groznyy, my God, man-this is not wine, this is blood.”

The face of Karl Emil Groznyy now took on a deadly serious aspect as his eyes and his voice burned into Khoska’s consciousness.

“That is always the way of it, though, is it not? The blood is the life.”

He awoke with a pounding ache from the back of his head, only to see Phelps in the course of wiping his head with a damp cloth. He lay stretched out on the old dust-covered sofa. His vision was blurred, but gradually coming more into focus.

“It’s about time your old ass came to,” Phelps said. “Come on, we’ve got to get out of here.”

“Those men,” he said. “What about the girls! Where are they?”

He strained to rise, feeling dizzy and nauseous, as Phelps helped him up.

“They found some wine in a locked closet in the cellar. Evidently, your friend expected unwanted company at some point. They picked the perfect time to have a party with it. They just run out of the booze left them by whoever brought them up here. They have been here ever since the hospital bombing. They were all Johns Hopkins mental patients. I thought I recognized a couple of them from their pictures in the paper. We’ve been doing a series of exposés about their release. It was explained as some kind of bureaucratic snafu.”

Khoska rose and saw all the men sprawled out. Some of them were obviously dead. Only two of them, the young man with the knife and the fierce looking man with dark eyes, seemed yet alive, though obviously very deathly sick. The dark eyed man groaned loudly.

“My God!” Khoska muttered.

“I don’t think it’s a coincidence they ended up here, and judging by all that horseshit you were talking about somebody sending you here to check on them, I don’t think you do either. I will tell you one thing, though, whatever brought them here, God had nothing to do with it.”

Khoska looked down toward the coffee table, and saw a Bible. He saw something else-a book of instruction for the Catholic faith.

“Only in a very obscene, hellish way,” Khoska replied. He then turned toward Phelps, who looked exhausted.

“What happened to the girls?”

Phelps looked back toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms.

“They’re gone,” he said. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

They exited the cabin to the break of day, and Phelps noticed the vulture, perched on a protruding trunk. Khoska saw it as well. It looked as though it laughed at them silently, curiously amused by their presence here this morning, as the sun just now rose. Khoska looked down the hillside, now overgrown with weeds, the same place where he first saw Grace Rodescu on that day when she seemed recovered from the trauma of her previous assault.

“Are you coming?” Phelps asked. Khoska looked over toward him. Phelps was seemingly numb, almost in a state of shock. Khoska noted how his wrists looked bloody from the effort of freeing himself from the ropes that bound him throughout most of the night. He must have known deep down how lucky he was to be alive. Khoska had not yet been conscious enough for it to sink in, though it gradually did. As Phelps started up the van, he gasped, and then cried loudly. Then he stopped, and cursing loudly, he put the van into gear, and drove away slowly.

As they left, Khoska looked once more down the ravine, and from this vantage point saw a glimpse of the old creek. A part of him hoped he would see some sign of life, but in this place of death, he knew it was just as well he did not. Suddenly, Phelps stopped.

“Our being up here didn’t change a damn thing,” he observed. “Everything that happened up here tonight that didn’t involve us would have happened without us, just the way it did, maybe just a little quicker, that’s all. I did not need to see that. I did not need to see any of it.

“They intended to hunt down the whole troop, all fifteen of them, plus the camp leader and the other two adult women with them. They were going to get them all while they hunted for the missing girl. Do you know what they said? They said they were saving them from the world, and that it was going to be hell on earth soon. They kept talking about something called Radu. I don’t guess you know anything about that?”

Khoska stiffened when he heard this, but was not quite sure how to respond

“They were insane,” Khoska said. “What would you expect them to say? Certainly, nothing sensible I should hope. Did they mention who it was who brought them here?”

“They didn’t mention your son, if that’s what you mean. They did not say anything about that. They had other things on their minds. They made the girls pray, before they made them strip, and sing, and dance, while they watched and”-

He could not go on. He stopped and took a deep breath.

“Before they could get to the point of killing them, which I’m sure is what they intended, they were unconscious from the effects of the wine. The girls grabbed their clothes and ran away. They did not stick around to help us, not that I blame them. I had to free myself.”

Khoska once more noted the swollen, bloodied wrists of the photographer, and wondered that he had the strength and nerve to drive away from here.

“So what is it about this son of yours?” Phelps now asked. “You mentioned him for a reason.”

“I was desperate,” Khoska explained. “I found my son’s number in Groznyy’s address book. They were involved in some way, but Phillip had nothing to do with this. When I called, after all these years he remembered Groznyy’s phone number. He assumed I was Groznyy calling him. He thought Groznyy was still alive. No, someone else was responsible for this abomination. I have no idea yet who.”

“Do you have a son named Berry?” Phelps asked. “One of them mentioned something about-you know something, fuck this.”

Suddenly, Phelps got out of his van and walked back toward the cabin, almost before Khoska could raise an objection. When he did so, Phelps waved him off, leaving Khoska to fear his intentions. While Phelps was away, he breathed deeply and said a prayer of thanks for his evident salvation from what could have been a night of unmitigated horror ending in destruction. As he sat there, the one thought reverberated throughout his brain.

Berry. It had to be the Lieutenant. He was up to his neck somehow in this business, from beginning to end. How could he ever hope to prove it now? Should he confide his suspicions with Phelps? Soon, the muckraking newspaper photographer returned to the van, opened the back door, and deposited something inside. He then returned to the driver’s seat, and began once more the long, torturous ride downhill.

“They’re all dead. I got pictures of them, as well as the dead Girl Scout and your friend. By God after what I went through tonight, I deserve to get something out of this. It was all I could do to keep from setting the whole damn place on fire. It would not take much for me to go back and do it now. At least your friend would get somewhat of a send-off. Seeing as how he saved our asses from beyond the grave and all, it seems appropriate. On the other hand, I figure if I do burn the place down, that would destroy whatever evidence there might be to catch these people, whoever or whatever they are.”

Soon, they were back down at the bottom of the hill, the descent not near as torturously difficult as the trip up the hill had been. Soon, they were winding their way back to Baltimore. Khoska had the overpowering urge to sleep, but feared doing so. He knew that soon, pictures of the remains of the long dead Karl Groznyy would stare out from newsstands and grocery counters across Maryland and beyond.

“So, do you have any idea who this Berry might be?” he asked.

“He is a Lieutenant with the Baltimore Police Department,” Khoska replied. “I would advise you to keep this to yourself until we can be certain of finding something in the way of proof. I will tell you one thing about him though.”

Phelps said nothing, as they soon found their way to more familiar terrain, Phelps now barreling toward the Maryland border as though yet in fear of his life.

“I’m waiting,” he said, as though fearing the worse.

“When Grace was apprehended for cashing her dead foster brothers workman’s comp checks, and it was discovered she used the money for drugs, it was Berry who was assigned to her case. It was Berry who went on to investigate her role in the suspicious deaths of her other family members.”

He waited, allowing this a few moments to sink in, as Phelps slowed considerably, his eyes focused firmly on the narrow, winding road, yet intent on the words Khoska spoke.

“It was Lieutenant James Berry,” Khoska finally concluded, “who in fact I am sure now destroyed any evidence he might have discovered concerning her role in those events.”

Khoska felt a wave of relief concurrent with dread. What if he were wrong, he wondered. There was always that possibility and he had been down so many dark and misleading paths, he could not be completely sure this was not yet another one. At the same time, as the lights of the beckoning and yet threatening metropolis glistened in the distance, he felt a sense of near certainty, and breathed deeply, yet sadly.

“Why would he be doing all this?” Phelps asked. “What possible reason could he have?”

“I wish I knew, Mr. Phelps,” Khoska replied sadly. “I only wish I knew.”

What Have We Got To Lose?

It just occurred to me, after my post about the death of Ike Turner, that some might be curious as to why, even though I call myself a pagan blogger, I post as often as I do about seemingly non-pagan topics such as this. Well, there is a very easy answer to that. Culture is a kind of magic in its own right. When you stop to think about it, the first play, the first musical composition, the first dance, the first drawing, sculpture, etc., is almost inarguably traceable back to those prehistoric times when the earliest magical shamans gathered their tribes around and performed some ritual geared toward appeasement or entreaty of what was perhaps more often than not some malignant deity.

Tribal elders would look on as the villagers and tribesman took part in dances to the rhythmic beat of ancient percussion instruments, and would sing and recite poetry, all in the hopes of insuring fertility, protection of the tribe, blessings on marriages, funerals, rites of passage, and ascensions of new chiefs and tribal elders.

To some extent, these traditions remained more or less intact, and are with us to this day. In other cases, they became more and more extravagant. In many of these cases, they went on to lose their original spiritual significance, at least outwardly.

Nevertheless, regardless of whether we view them as ceremonial, religious, high culture, or mass “pop culture” entertainment, still they speak to us on some inner level. To some extent, they enrich us all. Even mind-numbing nonsense serves a purpose. No, it is not a lofty purpose in all cases, but it nevertheless has its place, and its importance. We are better for its presence in our lives, generally speaking of course.

Not long before Ike Turner died, he had committed to producing and playing on an album by a new rock group called The Black Keys, which is a power-duo along the lines of the White Stripes. For whatever reason-perhaps Turner’s growing illness, or perhaps another reason-the project fell through. Now, of course, it is too late, as I do not believe any tracks were ever recorded.

That is really too bad. Who knows what we lost? Take that question to another level. What would it be like if we could have a recording, a modern state of the art CD, containing the actual recorded work of Mozart or Lizst? How about an actual violin concerto by Vivaldi? What if we could actually have a recorded film of an original Shakespeare play, performed live at the Globe Theatre, with the Bard himself in the cast? For that matter, can you picture an original, first time performance of The Oresteia, or The Frogs? For that matter, an old Roman farce? You can almost imagine the cameras panning over the crowd, and see Augustus laughing heartily at some off-color pun.

Even something as simple as an old Wild West barroom singer during the Gold Rush, while prospectors and ranch hands gather around for an afternoon of much-needed leisure daydreaming about the girls they left behind to “strike it rich”.

How much richer would we be? Just a thought. Cultural expressions, even the presumably basest sort, are a part of human nature, and provide both an outlet, and inspiration. It was almost inevitable that some day mankind would develop a means to record and preserve both the best and the worst, and everything in between. You might even consider it a gift of the gods, in a manner of speaking, one to compliment yet another, as a way of saying “bravo”.

Bringing Best Wishes And Joy This Holiday Season

Some of you who have been reading the first draft of my novel, tentatively titled Radu-which I am now trying to publish every five days-may have long ago come to the conclusion “he’s just making this shit up as he goes.” Well, you would almost be right, especially at first. As the book progresses, however, I have noticed that it seems to have taken on a life of its own and gone in directions I never foresaw when I initially started writing it.

One conspiracy, involving an international sex-slave ring, has turned out to have, hidden unbeknownst within its ranks, an even more pernicious cabal-a conspiracy within a conspiracy. Of course, I won’t say here what that is, so this is just to inform you that it will be revealed in the up-coming Chapter 32, which will be published on Christmas Day, and will be at the top of the main page for the following three days. There will be two more chapters between now and then, but this one will be the one that finally reveals the nature of this hidden, inner conspiracy.

With that said I will say no more, except be here for Chapter 32, when Marlowe’s granddaddy Martin explains the true meaning of the season, as he tells “The Christmas Story” to a somewhat captive audience.

Barak And Hillary

Why in the hell does he put up with this shit? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not an Obama supporter, but shit, right is right and wrong is wrong. He should give as good as he gets, in my opinion. He should pull the same shit. Some of his supporters should just casually mention the fact that there are a good many unanswered questions concerning the suicide of former Clinton White House attorney Vince Foster. For that matter, official findings to the contrary, there is still some legitimate questions as to Whitewater, and Hillary Clinton’s work at the Rose Law Firm, where it is alleged by some that she served basically as a bag lady to deliver bribes, disguised as billing records, to then Arkansas governor Bill Clinton. Oh, and Hillary Clinton-isn’t she the one that fought tooth-and-nail to give children the right to sue their parents? Isn’t that a troublesome proposition at best? What was her connection with foreign campaign contributions to Bill’s 1996 re-election campaign, especially from China? Are there not legitimate suspicions that she has remained involved with these same shadowy figures?

What about Travelgate? Wasn’t it a bit heavy-handed on her part to just fire all those travel office workers and put in her own people, for no apparent legitimate reason? Of course, what would you expect from the woman who sponsored a nationalized health care initiative that amounted to a monstrously expensive bureaucracy, and did so in such a heavy-handed and secretive manner that it makes Dick Cheney’s energy policy meetings look like-well, bush league stuff?

Obama should do more than whine about this shit. He should hit back, and he should hit back hard, and fierce. He won’t though, because he is under the Democratic Party curse that insists a viable candidate should always run a “positive” campaign, and steer clear of negative politics. Never mind the fact that the people that adhere to this policy almost always lose.

In the meantime, the Democratic Party politicians in general are seen as wusses, while Bill Clinton, their first elected two-term President since Franklin Roosevelt-that same Bill Clinton who rewrote the book on gutterball politics-is one of the most admired men in the nation, possibly the world.

By the way, did you get a load of how Hillary, before the last debate, walked up to Obama and “apologized” for her campaign workers throwing aspersions about his past (and his present for that matter), that it was supposedly not any of her doing? Jeez, how condescending can you be? I almost expected her to reach out and rub his head. She definitely needs some luck from somewhere. She is not Bill. When he engaged in hardball politics, after all, he merely gave as good as he got, so people accepted that, due to the fact that he is likeable. She is not, and those tactics from her look petulant, arrogant, and shrewish. She is actually the last Democrat who should engage in these kinds of tactics, because of the simple fact that most people do not trust her to begin with, and even more people do not like her. If she wins, in her case it will be despite her personality and her campaign tactics, not because of them.

On top of all this, she is not engaging in this kind of behind the scenes hateful rhetoric against the people that might arguably deserve it. No, she is unfairly maligning a man who, politics aside, is arguably one of the nicest, most well meaning and genuine, major political candidates of our time. I disagree profoundly with much of his politics, but that is just a fact that should be recognized in all fairness. In my opinion, he is sincere, maybe even a true patriot, in the sense that he is a man who honestly wants to do what he feels would be good for the country.

Hillary wants to do good for Hillary. If she wins, may the gods help her enemies, both real and perceived. If she loses, you can gauge her intentions to run again by the number of appearances she makes on the Cable News Channels from that point on. It won’t be pretty. In the meantime, in my opinion, Bill Clinton is living on borrowed time-nothing like a sympathy vote when nothing else seems to work.

One thing is for sure, if Hillary does go on to win the nomination, and then the presidency, Oprah Winfrey had damn sure better go through her finances with a fine tooth comb and make sure every penny is in order and accounted for, because she will in short order be the recipient of the mother of all tax audits. I almost guarantee it.

True, Hillary’s tactics might backfire and Obama could claim the prize of the Democratic nomination. Unfortunately for him, if he continues with his current campaign style, that prize will end up being, in the end, the same as it usually is to a Democratic presidential candidate-a consolation prize.

Oh, And By The Way-India Has Nukes

Two Hindu gods, Ram and Hanuman (the monkey god) have been summonsed to appear in court by Judge Sunil Kumar Singh in order to help resolve a property dispute. They own the land, according to locals, that a priest claims was granted his grandfather by a former local king.

Now that the two gods seem to have so contemptuously flaunted the Indian justice system by failure to appear, the judge has issued a newspaper advert encouraging them to do so at once.

The judge's court is a "fast track" meant to solve disputes quickly. I think here is the crux of the problem. You see, the gods are immortal entities, and can't be rushed, as time has no meaning to them. The judge should try to exercise a little understanding, to say nothing of judicial restraint.

Lunar Tunes

If you re into astrology, this is actually a good astrology blog. I'd forgotten about it until I just started going over my bookmarks. After all these months, it's still regularly updated at least once every two weeks on average. Worth the time to check out.

Kid Nation

For those of you who are always upset and whining about the lack of family programming on television, you hopefully checked out the recent CBS reality series Kid Nation. I put off commenting about the show during it’s run mainly because I had this suspicion that it would turn out to have a phony, manufactured ending-like, for example, series bad girl Taylor winning the last “gold star” and turning out to be a “good kid” at the end. This, of course, would have been lame, and an obvious set-up.

Well, it did not turn out that way, so my concerns were unjustified. Nevertheless, from all indications, the show will return. When and if it does, I recommend it as good “family fare”. Yeah, it is kind of silly. The concept is something along the lines of “Lord Of The Flies” meets “Our Gang”, in a reality series format. A group of kids-in the first season there were forty of them, ranging in ages from eight to fifteen-inhabit an abandoned western mining town known as Bonanza City, somewhere in the desert of New Mexico, and run it with minimal adult supervision.

A gold star is awarded at the end of each episode, by the town council (four kids elected by all the kids to represent four competing divisions) according to who made the most valuable contribution to the community. Each gold star was worth twenty thousand dollars and went toward the child’s college fund. There were four color-coded districts, representing leaders, merchants, cooks, and workers, and a contest in each episode determined what color group was awarded which district.

It was a kind of race, and if all four groups completed the task, they got the choice of a special prize for the entire community, usually a choice of some practical, utilitarian item or some more fun, kid type prize. Usually, but not always, the town council picked the more practical item. To me, though, the so-called practical choices were in some cases not so practical. Books, for example, don’t seem too practical in a situation where everyone is expected to work so many hours a day in a community that is basically a temporary setting. The town council chose the books, and I would be willing to wager that a grand total of one chapter per child on average was read, if that.

In the series finale, three extra gold stars, worth fifty thousand each, were awarded to three different kids who the council decided were the overall best in certain categories throughout the series run.

This series came under a good deal of criticism, for the most part before it even aired, from the screaming meemies of society shouting out accusations of child abuse. That pretty much went by the wayside after the show actually aired.

A word of caution, however-these are by no means “regular kids”. You can make book on the fact that when kids are recommended and approved for appearances in this type of project, they usually come from the upper strata of society, at the very least from the so-called “upper middle class”. One of the kids, on the show’s web site, lists the person she admires most in the world as King Mohammed of Morocco-where she and her family vacations every year.

You get the idea. These are not kids, for the most part at least, whose families are in danger of being thrown out on the streets at the slightest downturn of the economy. Still, in a general sense, this prime time network program is worth watching with the kids and its even fun at times. Some scenes are even funny, if somewhat contrived. In one of the episodes I watched, one little boy who missed his mother and his girlfriend went into the saloon to “have a root beer and get it off my mind.”

Yeah, like I said, some things seem kind of lame and made up. But, as long as there are shows like this, people can’t really complain about the lack of family programming. What it all boils down to is the people that usually make these kinds of complaints generally don’t want anything BUT this kind of programming-which would be really fucking annoying.

One thing to bear in mind is, these were generally pretty smart kids. Yes, they performed well and most of the time made the most appropriate choices, so adults can point to these kids as “good role models” (with some exceptions). Nevertheless, these kids were also intelligent enough to understand that their parents, and a good deal of the country, would be watching them at some vague future date on prime time network television. I wouldn’t be too quick to be handing out any gold stars.

Death Of An Accidental Daddy

In 1952, Ike Turner entered a studio and, with his band, recorded the song "Rocket 88". The guitar amplifier tipped over, resulting in the first feedback sound distortion in recorded history. Rocket 88 is now considered by many the first rock and roll song, and Ike Turner is credited by many as being it's inventor (an honor also bestowed on Johnny Ace).

Ike Turner's private life was tumultuous, and probably had an effect on his creative output. He served time in prison for weapons and drug possession, but nevertheless will always be remembered for his musical career, especially for his discovery of future wife (though he later alleged they never actually married) Tina Turner.

The biggest hit for The Ike And Tina Turner Revue, as they and their band were called, was "Proud Mary", previously a Creedence Clearwater Revival hit, and which Ike and Tina took to number three on the American pop charts.

After a stint in prison, during which both he and Tina were inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (she accepting his award on his behalf), Ike returned to music, and released several recordings, in the meantime winning an award for Best Comeback Artist and Best Blues Recording.

If any would like to leave a message of condolences for his passing to the family and friends of Ike Turner you can do so here

Some have apparently used the site as an excuse to vent their anger over Ike's alleged rough treatment of Tina, and such comments have been and will be deleted, understandably so. Come on, people, grow up.

Not to excuse any kind of abuse, but no one really knows the whole story. And, to paraphrase here Ike's own words-

"I may have slapped Tina, and I knocked her down here and there, but I never beat her."

No, I am not trying to be funny. Shit happens.

Ike Turner died at the age of 76. Though a cause of death is yet to be released, he is said to have suffered from emphysema. His web-site suggests that in lieu of flowers, to send a donation to your local school's music department.

Radu-Chapter XXIX (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)

Previous Installments-
Part One
Prologue and Chapters I-X
Part Two
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
PartThree
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Radu-Chapter XXIX (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
9 pages approximate
Radu-Chapter XXIX

Father Alexandrieu Khoska should have been aware of the dangers of keeping his niece confined within the small room of the Church Of The Blessed Sacrament. Still, what other choice did he have? He could have certainly had her hospitalized, or committed, but the long-term result would doubtless be the same. After another long period of recovery, she would then relapse into yet another assault by whatever spiritual force yet again laid claim to her soul.

The marks on her neck had been unmistakable. The most unholy of all forces to walk among the living sought her for its very own. He alone had the power to prevent this from occurring, but his faith was not what it was once.

Only one time in his life had he been witness to something remotely similar as what recently befell his niece Lynette. A man had lost his wife, who claimed on her deathbed to be a victim of her husband’s malicious intent. When she died, however, no autopsy provided evidence of the poisoning of which she accused him.

Following her burial, a remarkable series of heinous events occurred involving the couple’s three children. One by one, the three of them, two girls and a boy, died. They each died slowly, and separately, and the man gradually drank himself into a continual stupor.

One night following the death of the last and youngest child, the man presented himself to Khoska, and confessed to the crime of poisoning his wife. Khoska listened as the man related how the woman came to him in his dreams, but he resisted her claims upon him.

He gave the man absolution, as he felt he surely had suffered more than enough from the deaths of all his children. He took pity on the man, as Khoska in his younger days was sentimental and tender hearted. The man obviously suffered greatly of spirit and conscience, besides which his wife had become the neighborhood strumpet, openly carousing with any man of the slightest authority within the environs of Ploesti.

That night Khoska found himself tormented by the demonic ravings of innumerable hellish voices. One time, he imagined he saw the faces of the children themselves at his window, howling and clawing at the windows, and then the doors, like savage beasts. Khoska fell to his knees and prayed for forgiveness for his ill-advised leniency to the man. He learned that night that forgiveness, while guaranteed to all who seek it, does not come without a price-nor does it grant freedom from retribution.

The next day, Khoska learned the man was later the same night ripped to shreds in his own home. Not one of his neighbors heard his screams, nor did they report any signs of intruders or visitors. The local Ploesti authorities investigated the crime briefly, but nothing ever came of it.

Khoska applied later for permission to have the man buried in a plot far from his victimized wife and her children, and conducted a ritual of exorcism on behalf of all of them. He was amazed the officials of Ploesti acceded to his request. He understood of course that it had nothing to do with their capacity for belief so much as a willingness to account for the superstitions of the family’s neighbors and surviving relatives.

At the same time, Khoska knew he had brought unwelcome attention to himself, and realized his activities could easily fall under suspicion. Various low-level officials, tentatively for spiritual advice sought him out, though he was careful not to put his foot in his mouth.

Before long, the authorities, who quite naturally never took it seriously to begin with, forgot the allegedly supernatural occurrence. They never forgot Khoska, however, and soon they turned more to him not so much for spiritual advice, but for reasons that were more mundane.

Khoska’s father was retired by now from the church, and found work that was more acceptable, in the teaching profession. His mother as well found employment in that capacity. Aleksandre never wavered in his devotion to the church. His grandfather also remained steadfastly devoted to Christ, and to the Orthodox religion, and proved a steady rock onto which Khoska anchored his faith.

His grandfather, however, was not a realist. Khoska was, and determined that he would do the most good he could do, even if that meant, from time to time, a compromise of certain principles. He felt compelled to remind his grandfather once that not all Christians in the early days refused to waver from the dictates of their consciences, in fact most of them did from time to time. If they had not, the lions would have fed on all of them, and Christianity would have forever vanished.

He was in a bind. He told himself that a traitor deserved no leniency, any more than a wife killer did. If someone expressed disloyalty to the regime, why should such a person deserve his protection? He prayed greatly over his dilemma, until he received the answer he needed.

The communists wanted him to travel to America, where he could become a citizen, and start his own branch of the church. He would attract a devoted following of Romanian exiles, who would supply him with information on the activities of their relatives in the mother country. Khoska would have a contact at the embassy in Washington, who would forward all the information he delivered. He would receive a respectable stipend for his work, of course, in addition to whatever he made of his own volition.

They expected him to do more than wait for information, of course. It was incumbent on him to seek out information. In the meantime, he need not fear for the welfare of his family who remained in Romania. The state would provide for them. They also assured him that they would never know the extent of his activities. In fact, they could possibly serve as a useful conduit were they to not be aware.

Khoska discovered it was an easy process indeed. Never did he know the results of his work, until the death of Nicolai Moloku, who celebrated the death of Romanian dictator Gheorghiu Dej too heartily. Three days after his block party, unknown persons shot him down in front of his home while leaving for work. He only recently discovered that he was not to blame for this, but Moloku’s own step-son was complicit. At the same time, he had to wonder, if in fact he had played somewhat of a role in events leading up to the man’s murder.

He fell into despair at the initial time of Moloku’s murder, the likes of which he never had known, and determined to end it. He found himself sick of the whole sorry business, and began to ponder the earlier consequences of his actions. Many people in the old country Khoska informed on seemed to have vanished without a trace, while yet others the state arrested on what seemed mainly trumped up charges.

Many others shared his suspicions, unfortunately. A great many of his parishioners began drifting away from him, and the money started to dry up. He still received his regular stipend from the Romanian government, which he began to put away.

His grandfather died sometime later, and sent him a long letter, detailing his involvement with Cornelius Codreanu, the former messianic leader of the Iron Guard in those days prior to the Second World War. Khoska was amazed. Codreanu was considered insane, a man who believed himself-or so he told his many followers-an incarnation of the Archangel Michael. Yet, the Iron Guard was a ruthlessly violent fascist organization. They were virulently anti-Semitic. When subordinates of General Antonescu, a rival fascist leader, assassinated Codreanu and thirteen of his followers in prison, the Nazi government of Hitler’s Germany was the most aggressive at protesting this action undertaken ostensibly on behalf of the government of King Carol II.

What possibly could his grandfather have to do with the likes of this man? As Khoska continued to read the long, rambling letter, he discovered this in fact was the reason for his father and grandfathers falling out years before. His grandfather reminded him in the letter of how his mother, at the time near death, delivered him and yet survived, and also recovered from her long illness, the same night of Codreanu’s death. His grandfather claimed this was at the intercession of Archangel Michael. Indeed, according to him, that celestial being inhabited the form of Cornelius Codreanu, who seemed to blame the Jews for all the ills of Romania, and the world.

Had his grandfather been as insane as Codreanu, he wondered? He had to wonder at the ancient parchment written centuries before, and the vials of grayish white powder that were, according to his grandfather, the bones of Codreanu. Together with the blood of the Crucified Lord and the tears of the Virgin, they could destroy any evil-even Radu, described in the parchment as the “Dragon of Desolation”.

He knew even then, of course, who Radu was-the most vile of all spirits, chief among those who may inhabit not only the bodies of the living, but reanimate the corpses of those who have passed on, taking control of their innermost thoughts, emotions, and memories as they do so. Their curse is to securely walk in neither life nor death, and bring destruction to all they despoil, as they feed upon the flesh and blood of those who are unrighteous. Only the cross can repel them, or the light of the sun, or the presence of garlic. Their deaths may only be in practical terms accomplished by a wooden stake through the heart. This was the only manner by which to prevent their accursed blood from regenerating. Even then, the stake must remain in place long enough for their evil hearts to become sufficiently decayed. It was considered most appropriate to destroy their bodies after death, preferably by burning them, following decapitation, lest the stake be removed too quickly.

Khoska never believed those old myths. That was until the incident with the accursed family in Ploesti. Even then, he put it out of his mind. His faith tested severely, he considered himself delusional for a brief period. He began to feel his grandfather had perhaps suffered the same monstrous delusion, all the while keeping it secret.

He now this night told all this in the form of a confession to his son Michael, who listened intently, betraying very little emotion, though at various intervals his eyes would narrow. One time Khoska thought he heard him gasp. Nevertheless, he remained quiet until Aleksandre finished his story.

“So what ever became of the woman?” he asked. “And the children-what ever became of them?”

“What do you mean what became of them?” Khoska answered. “Following the exorcism I conducted over their graves, they returned to the hell from which they came, I would assume.”

“So the children, like their mother, are in hell to this day, and will be forever?” Michael asked, obviously aghast. “Father, forgive me but that is a horrible thought. They were mere children. How old do you say they were again?”

“Well, the oldest was fourteen,” Khoska replied. “I believe the youngest, the boy, was nine, to the best of my recollection. There are millions of people in hell, Michael, more like billons in fact, and I have no doubt there will be billions more eventually. Why would you, a priest, be in such consternation over these three in particular?”

“I find it hard to believe God would send the souls of children to hell-especially at the age of nine,” Michael said.

“Well, that is not for you or I either one to judge,” Khoska replied. “Whatever dark path the woman set her children upon is responsible for their ultimate fate, not God.”

Michael shook his head with a smile that betrayed a beleaguered incredulity.

“I am sorry, poppa,” he said, “but this sounds to me to be on the order of some old wives tale peasants used to tell around the hearth at night to keep their children well-behaved, not something that a priest of today would tell as a true story.”

“Well, it is a true story,” Khoska said, struggling to keep his patience. “Believe me, it is not one that I tell for the fun of it, or for dramatic effect. In fact, you are the first person I have told it to, after more than fifty years, I will have you know. I would not have told it now was it not for the fact that it is indeed very relevant to things that are happening now. What happened to Lynette”-

“Does Phillip know about this?” he asked.

“No, and if I have my way about it he never shall,” Aleksandre answered.

“If he did,” Michael said with a shrug, “perhaps he would be more understanding, not so quick to cast aspersions upon you. He all but holds you responsible, which is grossly unfair. Still yet, Lynette was his daughter, and he deserves to know, I would think.”

Khoska seemed to consider Michaels argument, which to Khoska’s oldest son seemed of great merit. Michael knew his father well enough, however, to know he was not taking the time to consider the point. He was more than likely putting extraordinary time and effort towards demonstrating how his argument was irrelevant.

“Phillip, understand?” he finally said. “No, Phillip will never understand. He would be forced to admit that there is something in this world that is greater than himself in order to do that. No, I am afraid I would only infuriate him even more. He would put such an explanation down to the ravings of a senile, superstitious old fool, and that would be that. The day Phillip finally believes, I am very much afraid will be the day he feels the flames of hell licking away him. Then of course, it will be too late. Nevertheless, he will believe it then. We used to have a saying at the seminary. ‘Those who do not believe in God have a big surprise coming their way.’”

“That hardly seems a valid argument in the way of convincing an unbeliever,” Michael said. “Nevertheless, you have convinced me of one thing. I should definitely stay here a bit longer.”

“There is really no need of that,” Khoska said. “You still have your own duties to attend to, and you really can’t expect Jonathon to continue this ridiculous subterfuge you and he have cooked up.”

“There is no need in that,” Michael replied. “Jonathon will be returning home after the week. I have put in for a transfer here. The Archbishop has all but approved it. I am sure his approval is a mere formality. When he finally grants it, he will appoint my replacement in New Jersey. It is all settled.”

Khoska looked at him in amazement as a sudden crack of thunder heralded an approaching storm, the steady rain of the last hour a mere portent of a larger one coming. Even now, as they sat in the church in front of the icon of Michael the Archangel, they could hear the rain falling faster and harder, as the darkening skies outside seemed to infiltrate the small church in which they took only a fleeting refuge.

“Father, when did you last check the attic in this place?” Michael asked. “I could have sworn I felt a drop of rain hit my head.”

“So you put in for a transfer, and obviously intend to stay here, and you just now are letting me in on this,” Khoska observed.

Michael took a deep breath and removed his glasses. He looked at his father sternly.

“I don’t know how much of this you have told me is true,” he explained. “All I know is, if it is true, you obviously need my help. If it is not true, you obviously need my help even more. Whatever the case, I am staying.”

“Oh, well now, the Archbishop, that old windbag-how much of this does he know?” Khoska asked. “You do know he wants me gone from here, do you not? He says the Church here in Baltimore is a needless expenditure, that it serves no useful purpose, and that I serve no useful purpose. I think he is rather outraged the prior Archbishop and the one before him guaranteed its maintenance throughout the duration of my life. He is constantly urging me to move along, even suggesting there are retirement homes that would be to my liking. So, is that what all this is about?”

“No, Father, no one wants to be rid of you,” Michael replied sadly. “What problems you have had with our current Archbishop I have no part in. I certainly am not on his side. In fact, I admit, I used to think you wasted yourself in this place. Baltimore has a Catholic history and culture, and this church is so out of place here I could never fathom why you come here to begin with. One would be hard-pressed to find a city where a Romanian Orthodox Church would be more out of place than this one. I suppose it might be a little more appropriate than the Vatican-or Mecca, perhaps. Otherwise, I have long wondered why you remain here, with no useful work to perform, no parishioners whose needs you might see to. More lonely and bereft of meaning an existence, for a man of your obvious faith and devotion, I could never envision.

“Well, now I see what it has all been about. It is all over a Romania folk tale-a legend. So, even if it is true, why here-why Baltimore?”

“This is where they came to one hundred twenty years ago,” Khoska answered. “This is where they have remained. I do not know why they came here, to tell you the truth. All I know is, they came here, and this is where he is to manifest. When he does, I have to be ready for him. If I do not destroy him, his evil will spread outward from here. When it does, the seat of world power is within short driving distance of here. So, Michael, you tell me-what is there I have to fear? My only fear now is one of failure. That is all. If I fail to stop this evil, the result will be unthinkable.”

Michael looked at him in amazement. He honestly wondered now if perhaps his father was losing his mind.

“So then, what would he do, turn all the Congress and Washington bureaucrats into vampires? Some might say he is a little late for that. Really, poppa, this is so ludicrous. It saddens me that you have wasted so many years on this delusional supposition.”

“It is not about vampires, Michael,” Khoska said impatiently and dismissively. “There are no vampires. There are only demons-and, yes, delusions.”

“Then what are we talking about?” Michael asked as he found his own patience nearly exhausted.

“We are talking about walking death,” Khoska replied angrily with a hiss. “We are talking about hell on earth.”

“Oh, well that certainly explains it,” Michael said as he slapped his right thigh. Khoska sighed and looked at his son with profound sadness.

“Very well, then, I will explain it,” he said. “When I do so, will you please leave? I mean it, Michael. Please go back to New Jersey. It is not safe here.”

“I’ll think about it,” Michael said firmly. “One thing I definitely promise you is I am going nowhere if you do not tell me.”

Suddenly, the phone rung, at which a frustrated Michael rose.

“I’ll answer it,” he said. “If it takes you as long to get to the office as it does to tell me the truth, whoever that is will hang up before you get halfway there.”

As he left, Khoska wondered if he should tell him anything. Why should he? He would doubtless not believe him, which would be understandable. Half of what he had to say Khoska himself did not believe. Stories of vampires, of reanimated corpses, of bargains made in the dead of night with soul-devouring demons, may have at one time served some greater good, but now they served merely to provide a gorgon’s mask type of prophylactic over what was a greater and even more unnerving truth. There were true demons, ruled by the Prince of the Power of The Air, demons who stood waiting to lay waste to all humanity, and who had no concept of mercy or goodness. They simply existed to destroy, and stood ready and waiting for their opportunity to do so. Once they were unleashed, nothing could stop them or prevent them from doing what was, after all, in their nature to perform.

“Father,” Michael suddenly said from the doorway. Khoska looked toward him to see that he looked very unnerved.

“That is my wife, calling from New Jersey,” he said. “I might be a few minutes.”

“Is there a problem?” Khiska asked.

“Just a family matter,” he said. “I’ll try not to be long.”

He let this hang in the air shortly, and when Khoska made no response, he disappeared back from the doorway. Good, Khoska thought, she wants him to drop this foolishness and return home, as a husband should do. As he waited, Khoska walked the length of the church from the altar to the door, and checked the lock. The door secured, he went about the task of putting out the candles. One by one, he extinguished them, until there was soon no more than seven left lit.

He kneeled and said a quick prayer to the Blessed Virgin, and then to the Crucified Christ, and then to the Risen Lord. He glanced briefly at the statue of the Archangel Michael, that entity he had named the oldest of his twin sons after. The icon seemed to look at him now judgmentally.

“Yes, that was a mistake, was it not?” Aleksandre said, when suddenly there was a knock at the door. He looked out the peephole and saw it was Agnes, finally arrived from Romania, though more than two weeks late at that. She looked to be struggling to secure her suitcase and purse from the ravages of the cold night rain that now poured down around her as she barely managed to shelter herself under the overhead portico of the doorway. Overcoming his shock, he hurriedly opened the door.

“Agnes, why did you not call me?” Aleksandre asked. “What if I had not been here or asleep in my bed?”

“For God’s sake, poppa, just let me in, all right?” she answered. “I’m drowning out here, and freezing.”

Agnes hurriedly entered the church as Khoska reached for her heaviest bag, and yet his youngest child resisted this gallant impulse on his part.

“That one might be a little much,” she protested. “Here, take this smaller one. I guess it’s a good thing the others are yet at the airport.”

“What others?” Khoska asked.

“The children’s belongings, of course,” she said, and immediately caught the dumbfounded look on Khoska’s face.

“Michael didn’t tell you, I take it,” she observed.

“You have children?” he asked, obviously puzzled at the abruptness of this revelation.

“No, poppa, I have not abandoned my vows yet,” she said. “I brought over some of the children from the orphanage-seven of them, in fact. They are mainly girls, though two of them are boys.”

Khoska was beside himself. Of all the possible times, this was the absolute worse to be bringing children.

“Surely you do not mean to keep them here,” he said as he tried to restrain his immediate consternation at such a development.

“Of course not,” she said. “They are to be housed temporarily at a home in the suburbs, run by a qualified caregiver provided by the Church. They are children slated for adoption into American homes, and where they now are will be a kind of halfway house. That was the reason I could not come right away. The church has been making these arrangements. There was quite a bit of red tape to wade through. The children are very fortunate. Most orphans in Romania never leave the state facilities until they are grown. The state is very reluctant to adopt them out to other nation’s citizens. It is almost a point of national embarrassment.”

“Yes, the usual foolishness,” Khiska said. “Some things never change, unfortunately. Well, I guess it is all right as long as they are not to stay here, as I have not the means to house them, to say nothing of the fact that there may be a great degree of danger here yet. That in fact makes it even more surprising that your superiors would accede to this. I am assuming the Romanian government knows nothing of the matter.”

Agnes looked at him curiously.

“You know, it has been a while since I have seen you,” she said. “I am surprised to see you looking as well as you do, considering just what you have been through recently.”

“Daughter, you don’t know the beginning portion of what has transpired in this city, and in this very church,” he affirmed. “If I took the time to explain it concisely, you would”-

“Poppa, the point is-can I have a hug please?”

She fell into her father’s embrace, never considering that the tears he now shed were not only those of happiness for her presence, but fear for her well-being. Khoska of course understood this, as Agnes, the most beloved of all his children, was the most selfless of them all, perhaps the complete opposite of Phillip, who had been the favorite of Marta. How could he impress on a woman of such strong and devout faith the very real danger she may have walked unknowingly into. She never saw danger, for she saw danger as an illusion meant to test faith. She was that spiritual, to the point where she in fact tested Khoska’s faith more than any evil ever could. Now, as she hugged him tightly, Khoska found himself resisting the inclination to conclude that faith itself was an illusion, one that induced unreasonable expectations and blinded one to the realities of life in the mundane, everyday world.

“Perhaps we will talk of these things tomorrow,” he said. “I know you have had a long journey and you are obviously tired. You should however call and check on the children, to make sure they have made it to where they are going.”

“They will be fine,” she replied. “Still, you are right. I should call, as they would like to hear from me before they retire for the night. For now, I would like to say my prayers, if you do not mind.”

“Your prayers?” Khoska repeated, as he suddenly remembered her as a young girl, never failing to say her prayers even on those occasions when she had been sick, which was numerous times during her adolescence.

“But of course, you may say them here, and I shall leave you in private to do so. I will go and tell Michael you are here, as I am sure he will be very pleased to see you.”

“It has been years since I have seen Michael or Jonathon,” she said. “I wonder if I would have known which one was which if I had not known. I used to be able to tell them apart better than you or momma, I think.”

Amazing, Khoska thought. As she talked, she made her way to the statue of the Blessed Virgin, and crossed herself as she bowed. She seemed to be praying even as she spoke in what seemed almost a chant-like state. Perhaps this is an example of this so-called multi-tasking he is always hearing about, he mused as he made his way back to the office.

He was unprepared for the sight of Michael in tears, and seemingly in a state of shock, as he seemed to engage in a monumental struggle to restrain for crying aloud.

“Michael, for God’s sake what is wrong?” he asked, knowing as he did that his son was not given to sentimentality. Something was sorely amiss.

Michael was gasping, and obviously at this point inconsolable.

“They killed Jonathon,” he said in a state of stunned amazement. “An old man, and an old woman, shot and killed Jonathon.”

He struggled to regain his composure as Khoska almost fell into his chair.

“Did they-did they think they were killing yourself?” he mused, not quite able to fathom what his son was saying.

“No, that is just the thing,” he said. “They come to the church asking for Jonathon, saying they heard he was there temporarily. The church secretary showed them to my office, which is where he was at the time. She left him alone with them. Then, when they left, she went not ten minutes later into the office, and there he was, slumped over in his chair-my chair-with a bullet in his heart. No one else was there. This happened not two hours ago.”

Khoska now started to shake, as the reality of what he heard now finally began to sink in. He too now began to weep. He too now struggled to control his anguish.

“Agnes is here,” he said. “Do not tell her-not yet.”

“I-I can’t believe it happened,” Michael replied. “Why would someone do such a thing? Michael has never harmed anyone, would never harm anyone. He refused to eat lobster, ever since he saw one dropped in boiling water. I teased him about that, not two months ago.”

A part of Khoska hoped this would turn out to be another one of the two brother’s practical jokes, but he automatically knew better. They would never take such antics to this extent, especially during such already trying times, to say nothing of the fact that Michael was obviously distraught.

“The church secretary,” Michael said with a sob, “she said the two old people seemed so gracious, and so charming, she would never have entertained the possibility they could do something so evil.”

“This church secretary,” Khoska asked, his mind now starting to turn in countless circles, “has she a name? How well do you know her?”

“Connie?” he asked. “I have known her for seven years. She has worked for me for four. Father, you cannot be serious. If she did something like that, why would she make up such a ridiculous story? According to her, these two old people looked to be in their seventies. No, poppa, I have known her far too long. Besides, what could Jonathon of all people have done to her in this brief time he has been there to illicit such an action?”

“I don’t know, but her story does not make a lot of sense,” Khoska said, now feeling very sick, wanting to throw up and feeling as though he might faint. “You say you know her, but still”-

Suddenly, Khoska cried, loudly, and motioned toward the door. Michael hurriedly shut it, and locked it. Khoska cried uncontrollably, as Michael now hugged his father, trying desperately to comfort him, until the old man finally pulled himself together as well as he could.

“Have you called his wife?” he asked. Michael affirmed that he had, and that she was devastated, as were their children, all of which of course was to be expected.

“This is going to be so difficult,” he said. “Really, I should tell Agnes tonight, it would not be fair to put it off. I really should be the one to tell her, painful though it is.”

He rose and left the office, and Michael stayed behind, fearful of adding to his sister’s grief, remembering as he did the many nights of her illness as a young child, including the one time she almost died of childhood spinal meningitis. She was always sickly and weak up into her mid-teen years, when she gradually and finally blossomed into a lovely, healthy, beautiful woman. Michael, and indeed all the other children, was protective of her, at times to a fault, as their mother pointed out often. This however was something for which he had no protective words at the ready.

He sat down in despair as his father walked back out into the church, where Agnes, having finished her prayers, had finally risen, cell phone in hand.

“I called,” she said. “The children are there, and are fine. Satisfied now, you old worry wart?”

“If you are,” he said as he mustered a smile. “I am sure you would leave them in capable hands.”

“Well, thankfully Phillip has enough money to hire the best caretakers,” Agnes replied with a smile. “Now, where is Michael? I really cannot wait to see him after all these years.”

“Wait just a minute,” Khoska replied. “You said-Phillip hired the caretakers? You don’t mean your brother, of course.”

“That is exactly who I mean,” she replied with what seemed a gleam of pride showing in her eyes. “That is another thing I want to talk to you about. It is high time for this feud between the two of you to end. I have talked to him about this Grace Rodescu business, and now, sometime soon, I mean to have a talk with you as well. Your favorite daughter is going to give you a lecture, in other words. Oh, and speaking of daughter, how is Dorothy holding up?”

“Dorothy is fine, Agnes,” he said, anxious not to change the subject. “What is this about Phillip and the children? I find this more than surprising, I find it almost disturbing. What exactly do you mean?”

“There is a reason the red tape was cut so quickly,” she replied. “Phillip has a lot of influence in Romania, in case you haven’t heard. This is not the first time he has helped either. He just is not one of these types of people who like to brag about his good works. I think he is far too modest. He has worked extensively at charitable undertakings in Romania, not just for orphans. His organization has helped place a good many Romanian orphans in loving, caring homes.”

“I see,” Aleksandre mused, almost forgetting the recent tragedy of his oldest twin sons loss. “Tell me something, Agnes-was Voroslav Moloku ever involved in this charitable activity with Phillip, that you are aware of?”

Dorothy gave her father a stern look.

“I should certainly think not,” she replied. “From what I understand, Voroslav has not been allowed in Romania for some time, due to some criminal activity on his part. According to Phillip, it has something to do with money laundering and drug smuggling-heroin, I believe. When I think of a father of the Church involved in such abominable acts, it makes it somewhat understandable how Phillip could have grown so cold towards religion.

“Nevertheless, he is a good man, poppa. He has changed very much, especially since the death of poor Lynette. I think that really changed him in ways you would never have imagined. I guess it is true what they say. God can turn the darkest tragedy into a force for good.”

Khoska looked away from Agnes as she talked, and though he heard her, it was as if from a distance. He could not tell her about Jonathon-not tonight.

“I think Michael has gone to bed already,” he said. “You remember where your old room is, I take it?”

“Yes, and I think I shall be on my way there now,” she said with a smile. “I am very tired-exhausted, actually. I want you to promise me, though, tonight, that you will talk to Phillip, and do so with an open mind.”

”I shall pray on it,” Khoska replied. “I shall do that right now, in fact.”

“Good night, poppa,” Agnes said as she made her way with her suitcases to the hallway that led past Khoska’s office, down to the corridor that led to the living quarters and to her old room, which Khoska previously had taken great pains to prepare for her imminent arrival. Khoska hoped she would not discern Michael’s presence in the office, as he bowed before the statue of the Crucified Lord.

“Lord God, if you ever heard my prayers before,” he said, “I hope you certainly hear them tonight, for I am in dire need of your guidance and protection. I pray first that I ask this not too late.”

Khoska struggled within himself to find the right words, as he looked back toward the hallway, to insure that Agnes had made her way on past the office and toward her room. Satisfied that she had done so, he turned once more to the icon that now seemed to look down upon him balefully.

“Please, Lord,” he said. “Protect the children.”

Coming Soon-Mormons And Their Blogs

Until such time as I can delve more into it, you might want to check out this page of links to Mormon blogs.

After all, it's one thing to get other people's opinions. You owe it to the subjects of those opinions to get their side of the story. There are plenty of links here that will enable you to get a balanced perspective-quite a few of them, actually.

In the meantime, some food for thought: Does anybody else think Joseph Smith, the founder of the LDS, might have been somewhat of a prankster?

After all, the Book of Mormon was supposedly given him by the angel "Moroni". Isn't that Latin for "morons"?

Maybe It's The Slow Tourist Season

Hans Mos, the prosecutor in Aruba, reversed course and released the Kalpoe Brothers, and then Joran VanderSloot, within a matter of days after rearresting them in connection with the disappearance of Natalie Holloway, claiming new and compelling evidence.

After releasing them, he now says he will close the case. What is particularly disturbing is the fact that Holloway's father had made plans to engage in a large scale search of the ocean off the coast of the island, based on the prosecutor's earlier announcements of a break in the case.

Jossy Mansur, the newspaper editor who has investigated the case, is outraged, and can offer no explanation.

I think he was either threatened, or bribed. Of course, as I implied in the title, it could well be that the tourist season in Aruba has gone to hell, which it well should. There are too many places to spend money on a vacation. The people that have such money to spend should seriously consider other options, in addition to how likely they would be to receive justice in they event they themselves were victimized.

Like I said in an earlier post, if you want to visit a place where you can be raped and murdered and your body hidden in a remote area, come to Kentucky-we need the money too.

STEEEE-RIKE!

You may not know who Marvin Miller is. If you do, you might not know whether or not he deserves to be inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame.

One thing is for sure, though, if you read this article, you will get a pretty good idea as to why he probably never will be, even though he, as a baseball player union's organizer, has been called one of the three most important men in the history of baseball, alongside Babe Ruth and Jackie Robinson.

Of course, most of the people that decide what names will be nominated are-well, baseball's corporate executives.

Green Daze

I don't know why the Greens should take heart at Final Energy Bill. After all, Bush is going to veto the damn thing, after which they'll bitch and moan, even though they should have known he would do just that after they dropped the guaranteed loans that had been included for new nuclear power plants, and especially after they ended the tax breaks for the oil companies contained in the last energy bill.

Bush would come closer to taking seriously a bill that called for mandating Sheryl Crow's suggestion to use one square of toilet paper per bathroom shit than he would this one, and just as close to signing it into law.

Of course, the Greens would never let the opportunity to pass real and meaningful legislation stand in the way of the opportunity to ratchet up the rhetoric and rake in more donated dollars-which is the "green" they really care most about anyway.