Radu-Chapter XXXIX (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)

Links to previous Chapters are listed at end of this Chapter.
Radu-Chapter XXXIX (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
9 pages approximate
Khoska was highly disturbed by the last communication he received from Phelps, who seemed to have disappeared, a fact that did not bode well. No one seemed to have heard from him or otherwise had any clue as to his whereabouts. His old boss at the Baltimore Enquirer, Mr. Dietrich, had no idea where he could be, but seemed inordinately concerned for his safety, pleading with Khoska to keep him informed.

Khoska had no idea how to proceed with the news he received in a large manila envelope, which contained many disturbing photos. One revealed four individuals standing outside what Khoska was almost certain was the old Krovell mortuary. One of them was almost certainly the Baltimore detective, James Berry, in the company of a young girl Khoska was almost equally certain was the young girl who recently disappeared from the care of his youngest daughter. Yet, that girl returned after an absence of weeks, seemingly unharmed. His daughter’s current welfare was an all together different matter. At any rate, the picture did not reveal sufficient detail as to insure a proper identification of the girl. There was not even a slight view of her face or profile.

As for the other two, they looked to be of frightful countenance, particularly the man. Khoska prevailed upon Dietrich to assist him, and the tabloid editor did so by enlarging the photos. Khoska was horrified at what he saw. The woman looked to be a walking corpse in at least an intermediate though seemingly stalled stage of decomposition. As for the man, he seemed, to all intents and purposes, a mummified and yet obviously reanimated entity, who, though alive and so seemingly immortal, could not obscure his true age, which would seem more accurately measured not in decades, but in centuries.

“I know who that man is,” Dietrich observed. “That’s James Berry, a decorated veteran of the force. He’s been relieved from duty, according to what I’ve heard, pending some kind of internal police investigation, though I have no idea what it’s about. I do know he’s in the hospital right now. Unfortunately, he’s in quarantine, so he can’t be of any help. Even if he wanted to, from what I hear, he’s near death. As for these other people-well, your guess is as good as mine as to who they are. It’s just too bad Phelps wasn’t able to get a good shot of the girl’s face.”

The old man seemed not so much agitated as worried, probably over Phelps and the potential danger he might be in, assuming he was even yet alive.

“So, anyway, what’s all this other stuff?”

“It’s a list of mostly major cities, here and around the world. There are more than three hundred of them all together, yet there is no discernible connection to them other than their inclusion on this list. There is no indication as to the reason for the list at all. I was curious as to whether this might have something to do with the current epidemics that plaque so many areas of the country.”

Dietrich looked at Khoska with a growing sense of dread.

“Surely you don’t think this is some kind of conspiracy,” he said. “Who would be behind such a thing? What would be the purpose behind it?”

“I think there is more to it than that,” Khoska said. “I honestly believe that is merely the beginning. In fact, I have a strong feeling that this is merely a diversion. Of course, at our advanced ages, the diversion could be a merciful one, compared to what I feel is coming.”

“Well, I just got my check-up, and I have a medical plan for all the employees here. So far, no one has suffered anything out of the ordinary. Still, it looks bad, and it can always get worse. ‘Behold, a pale horse, and the name of he who rode upon him was Death, and Hell followed with him.’ I used to be an altar boy, back in another, happier time. I’ve been thinking about that passage a lot these days.”

“I’ve been thinking about it for the last forty years,” Khoska replied. “I always thought I would be prepared. Believe me, you can never be prepared when it really finally happens.”

“You don’t think-this is it, do you?”

“I don’t know,” Khoska replied grimly, but his inner concern was palpable. He avoided mention of his son, though aware that Dietrich had to have been aware of the relationship. The other pictures had Dietrich’s attention focused to great extent on the man who Phelps seemed to have photographed at various angles, and in other settings. Outside of what looked to be the Romanian Embassy in Washington. Outside of what looked to be a Goth nightclub, judging from the looks of a number of exiting patrons, though in an undetermined locale. There was another outside of a large office skyscraper, conversing with what looked to be a passing prostitute, who smiled eagerly while engaging him in conversation.

“This is incredible, but you know something? I do not think this is the way he looks-not in real life. Judging from the casual nature of the conversations in these pictures, the relaxed nature of his companions, even the general reactions of passers-by in the photos, it is as though there is nothing whatsoever out of the ordinary about him. Even these Goth kids should have some kind of reaction out of somebody that seems to look actually this horrible. Yet, there is nothing. The prostitute, if that’s what she is, seems to regard him as though he were just another potential client. I think this might be Washington as well, and”-

Cruiser suddenly stopped in mid-sentence, as he peered closely at the photograph.

“My God, this picture was just taken two weeks ago,” he said. “Phelps has been missing for twice that long. He’s alive. Why in the hell doesn’t he contact me-or somebody? You would think he would at least have written some kind of explanatory note when he sent you these pictures.”

“Maybe he didn’t have time,” Khoska volunteered, though relieved at the realization that Phelps was possibly yet alive and enjoying relative freedom of movement. “Possibly, he had to move fast and”-

“But he had time to take pictures, and a camera to take them with? That makes even less sense. Unless-he’s working on a big story and is afraid I might blow his cover. That’s it-he’s afraid I’ll come looking for him. That can only mean he is in real danger, even if he’s convinced whoever he’s with that he’s one of them, for now.”

“Or maybe he really is with them, and these pictures are meant to point away from the truth, not towards it?”

Dietrich paused to consider Khoska’s observation as-to the old Priests annoyance-he lit up a cigar.

“Aren’t those things likely to lower you resistance to disease?” he inquired. “Also, are they not illegal in public buildings such as this?”

“Phelps would never do that,” he said, ignoring Khoska’s complaint as he lowered himself to his chair, still pondering the photos. “These pictures were probably taken with a small hand held camera. He might have even purchased it while out on some errand, and then disposed of it.

“You know, I think this prostitute is the same one that was murdered a couple of weeks ago. A DC cop found her in an alley with her throat slashed open, almost completely drained of all her blood. A similar murder occurred in Washington outside the Romanian embassy, and a Gothic nightclub on the outskirts of Georgetown. I bet this is the same club. It almost looks like Phelps is following this guy, keeping tabs on him, whoever he is.”

“His name is Marlowe Krovell,” Khoska said. “The picture of him with Berry is outside the family’s old mortuary. I am almost positive it’s him. I think I know who the woman is as well, but I do not even want to think about that right now. That other picture I showed you, of Grace Rodescu-do you know anything about that, or where it was taken?”

“Yes, it was a house in Georgetown. It belongs to a lobbyist and minor diplomat by the name of Edward Akito. He’s a real scary individual, but shadowy. What his role in all this is I can’t even begin to guess at. His wife died a few years back from an advanced case of what amounts to a form of Mad Cow disease. There were rumors in some circles that it was the result of cannibalism-in particular, that she contracted the disease by eating the brains of infants.

“I ran a story on it, and was going to do a series, but then I was almost forced to print a retraction. Akito was intent on bringing a lawsuit, and in the meantime informed me that his wife spent a considerable amount of time in England during a period of outbreaks of the illness. She in fact traveled the world on a consistent basis. I dropped the story and never heard form him again.”

“Where exactly did you hear this?” Khoska asked, growing more alarmed by the minute.

“Grace,” he said. “She gave me no explanations, only that she had a very reliable source, but that she was unable to share it with me. To tell you the truth, I had the distinct impression that she herself was the source. Still, I could get nothing out of her, and when the story was dropped, she seemed-well, almost relieved. It was all very strange, even unsettling. Now, here she is, visiting his home. I don’t know what to make of it.”

When Khoska left the Examiner’s office building, he first intended to stop at Johns Hopkins to see Phillip. Yet, his son was still in a coma, so he saw no need to do so. He was not likely to learn anything of value, nor was it possible for him to see Detective Berry-which would not be advisable at any rate, in Berry’s condition. Nevertheless, he did stop at Doctor McCann’s office to pick up some penicillin and some other immune boosters, though McCann advised him to use them sparingly.

“Overuse can induce tolerance, which would make them worthless,” he explained. Take them every three or four days, and rotate them, and you should be fine. Take them in different mixtures and quantities when you do take them.”

Khoska promised him he would do so, and then questioned him about Doctor Chou.

“How well do you really know him?”

“Not well, to tell you the truth. He is a better than average physician, but I never refer anyone to him, because I always suspected he was a bit of a boozer. He has changed a lot since the murder of his daughter a few months ago. He seems to have grown far more intense since he managed to get this crazy appointment to direct this new experimental program. No one seems to know anything about it, but many people are outraged that a mere general practitioner should take precedence over what should reportedly be the domain of specialists. It’s all so very mysterious, it’s really hard to fathom. Yet, he seems dedicated enough-one might even call him driven.

“I’ve also heard rumors to the effect that his wife has either left him, or something else mysterious has happened involving her, but no one knows anything. She used to be a real estate agent, but suddenly she seems to have disappeared.”

“Well, he is mysterious enough, all right,” Khoska replied. “He was one of my son’s attending physicians at one point, yet he would never return my calls. I attempted to contact him several times, all to no avail. I have spoken to no one but nurses, who seem limited in the information they can provide me. Chou’s involvement was, however, temporary. Phillip is now apparently under the care of a different physician, but damned if I know who it is. It’s almost as though no one seems to know, or is willing to tell me if they do.”

McCann seemed very disturbed at this revelation, and promised he would look into it.

“I wanted you to be his physician,” Khoska stated.

“That is very kind of you, but I’m afraid it’s as much out of my league as it would be for Chou. Your son’s injuries are of a profound nature. I would imagine he is under the care of a neurosurgeon. I’ll tell you what, hold on for a minute, and I’ll see what I can find out.”

McCann placed a call that the hospital switchboard forwarded to the Hospital Administration, and from there to a person with whom McCann seemed on cordial terms. He found himself in the position now to have to accept an invitation to some event headed by the Baltimore Philharmonic. He affirmed his calendar was clear on the date in question and, rolling his eyes, answered that he would be delighted to attend.

After what seemed an interminably prolonged period of casual conversation, McCann inquired about the status of Phillip Khoska. He seemed mystified by the time he hung up the phone.

“Frederick Sherman,” he said. “That’s odd. Sherman is a heart specialist. That makes no sense whatsoever. Did your son have any cardiovascular problems prior to his present admission?”

“Not that I am aware of, but you have to understand, me and Phillip have not been on speaking terms for several years now.”

“That is extraordinary,” McCann continued. “Someone would have had to request him, I would think, and it would have to be approved by the hospital administration. Of course, he is the head physician over your son’s case, but surely not the only one. I am certain a neurosurgeon is involved somewhere down the line, but it is still most peculiar.”

“That name sounds familiar, but I certainly never requested him. Perhaps his current wife did, but I would not know why she would do that. As far as I know, her chief concern is getting as much money as she can before the government gets it all. I am of the opinion that Phillip could be put in the care of a veterinarian for all she cares.”

By the time Aleksandre returned to The Church of The Blessed Sacrament, he found Michael on his way out of the basement.

“What are you doing down there?”

“I think we have rats,” he replied. “I almost never got to sleep last night. Every time I would doze off, I heard the sounds of scurrying through the vents from the basement. I saw no sign of anything, but just the same, I set some traps, and some poison.”

“You should be with Agnes,” Khoska said with an admonishing tone. “How is she doing?”

“There is no difference,” he replied. “She babbles, when she says anything at all. She insists the children are possessed and intend to kill her. When I tell her they have been taken to another orphanage, in another state, it seems to not make the slightest difference. She just looks herself in the mirror, and insists she is dying. Other than that, she does nothing but cry. I wonder when I shall have to start force-feeding her. She barely eats as it is. I think we should have her committed, speaking honestly.”

“Two days ago you were dead set against such an idea,” Khoska reminded him.

“I didn’t want to face the reality of her condition,” Michael replied. “I hoped with prayer and our attention she would pull out of it. I can see now that there is little hope of that.”

“Little hope of what?”

They turned at the sound of Agnes, looking weak and pale, dressed in her nightclothes, standing now in the doorway that led from the church to the attached apartments and offices.

“Agnes, you should not be out of bed,” Khoska warned her. “You are too weak.”

“Tell me the truth father,” she said. “How do I really look? I know I am marked for death, and it shall come soon. I can see it in my face, and in my eyes. Can you not see it?”

“The devil is attacking you, Agnes,” Khoska replied. “He is trying to make you believe that. You are confused and afraid, and your despair shows in your features. Believe me, there is no look of death on your face. That is something that is entirely in your mind.”

“Why are you lying to me?” she demanded. Michael stood there, his anxiety palpable, as he and Khoska watched as she withdrew a mirror from the pocket of her robe. She held it to her face. She cried profusely.

“My skin is rotting away from my face, right before my eyes,” she said. “Please stop trying to humor me, father. I can plainly see what is happening. I have failed God, and I have failed the children. I have allowed them to be infected with a Satanic evil, because I was lacking in faith. Now, God has deserted me. I never cease praying, and yet my prayers fall on deaf ears.”

She suddenly stopped, and began looking around her as though reacting to sounds that she alone could hear.

“Do you hear that? It is the children. They are laughing, waiting for their chance to tear into my like before, only it is not truly them, but the demons that have taken possession of them due to my failure.”

“Agnes, the children are not here!” Khoska almost shouted as he struggled to control his patience and temper. “You are right to recognize the influence of Satan, but you are very wrong when you say God has deserted you. When you start to believe that, you are truly defeated. You must get hold of yourself.”

“Excellent advice, dear brother-for us all, I might add,” came the voice from the front of the church. Khoska turned as though a strong wind had forced upon the doors of the church, while Michael just stared in confusion at the new arrival.

“Who are you?” he asked. Agnes remained standing, though slumped over, seemingly unaware of the entrance of the elder man and equally aged woman who stood by his side. Both of them smiled toward their wary guests.

“He is your uncle,” Khoska replied. “His name is Martin Krovell, and I assume the woman with him is his wife Louise. What exactly are you doing here?”

“Are you serious?” Michael asked as the man approached, while Nancy remained near the door.

“Well, so this is Michael,” the man said. “What a pleasant surprise. Why, I should know you anywhere.”

“Michael, please take Agnes back to her room, and no matter what you hear or no matter what happens, remain there with her until I join you there.”

Michael took Agnes by the arm and gently led her toward the doorway to the back of the church that led to the living quarters. She uttered no word in protest as Michael removed the mirror from her hand and led away.

“It is very nice meeting you, young man,” the old woman called out from the front. “I do hope your sister will be well. There is too much sadness and despair in the world as it is.”

“Thank you,” Michael replied, obviously still stunned by the unexpected visit, while Khoska stood there and fumed at the audacity of such brazen arrogance.

“I have been so looking forward to meeting you, brother-in-law,” the old woman chimed. “It is too bad we can not for now have more time to be acquainted, but perhaps we shall one day make amends, under far more pleasant circumstances.”

“I find that unlikely,” Khoska said. “Rest assured that I am not in the least bit impressed or deceived by you and your husband’s pleasantries. I am all too aware of your true natures as well as the reason for your presence here. Speak your piece and then leave here, as quickly as possible.”

“We are merely here to do the Lord’s work, my brother,” Martin replied. “It is he who led us here, you know.”

“I think your Lord has left the stench of sulfur on you. I have no time for this foolishness. I warn you, say what you have to say at once, or else I will”-

‘Oh, very well, Aleksandre. Louise, if you would be so kind as to leave my brother and myself alone for a few minutes? You may wait out in the car if you wish. I should not be too long. Perhaps while you wait you can work one of those new crossword puzzle books you insisted I buy on the way over here.”

“It’s too dark, Martin, but that’s all right. I will listen to some music. Better yet, I will just entertain myself by humming some tunes in my head, something pleasant like Camp Town Races. That way I will not run the car battery while I wait. I am sure you two brothers have much to discuss.”

“It won’t take long, believe me,” Khoska hissed as the old woman left the church.

“Really, Aleksandre, if anyone should be upset at the other, it is I who should be so at you. After all, it was almost fifty yeas ago today when I first approached you with a request to assist me in learning the whereabouts of my mother, whom I never suspected at the time was also your own. You either knew this or you soon discovered it, and yet you never saw fit to tell me the truth. You deprived me of the chance to spend even a small amount of time with her before she finally died. I never knew her.”

“Yes, perhaps that was wrong of me,” Khoska replied, “but it was my mother’s wishes that none of your family, including you, should know of her whereabouts. I had no choice in the matter. Judging from what I since learned about the Krovell branch of the family, I do not find it at all hard to understand why she felt that way. Your father brutalized her during her brief time with her, before she married my own father and now”-

“Aleksandre, you don’t understand. I do, and perfectly. I forgive you-not that there is truly anything to forgive. It is not my intention to dredge up past indiscretions and misunderstandings. Whether you like me or not, that is irrelevant. The fact is, whether you care to admit it or not, we are brothers-half brothers only, true enough, but brothers nevertheless. As such, I would feel derelict in my duties were I not to give you the opportunity to return to the one true faith of our ancestors, and to turn away from this blasphemous heresy which you now practice.”

Aleksandre trembled in rage and in shock when he heard this. For a brief moment, he was speechless, but managed quickly to regain his composure.

“Are you insane?” he demanded. “I know what you believe. You are the one who practices the heresy that is of the most abominable nature-that which involves devouring innocent flesh and blood. Your forebears took the truth of the gospel of our Lord and perverted it into a sacrament for demons. The Gospels even warned of practices such as you engage in, and denounced them clearly as of the Wicked One. The first ones who followed your vile practices were the ones Nero and other Roman emperors used to excuse the persecutions of all Christians, on the grounds of sexual perversions and cannibalism.

“When they were denounced by the true Christians, they were forced to leave, and took their vile, unholy practices with them to Dacia, where they spread them amongst the backwards pagans of that region. Even there, they were eventually denounced, and had to go underground, where they continued in small, secret enclaves throughout the centuries.

“I have known of your existence for years, though I never truly understood, until recently, that you were involved. It never occurred to me that this was the reason our mother wanted nothing to do with you. She was too ashamed to tell me the truth.”

Khoska stopped briefly, and could see the twinkle had gone out of his brothers eyes, leaving behind a barely hidden and yet smoldering rage. Yet, there was a hint of sadness there that could not help but move Khoska.

“Martin, it is not too late. I know you are not entirely responsible. Your father gave you over, as he was before you, to a reprobate mind. You were born and bred to this evil. Perhaps it is to a point understandable that you would think it is normal-perhaps even sacred. Nevertheless, although I cannot prove it, I think you are responsible for the deaths of my daughter-in-law and my grandchildren and their families. I think that”-

He stopped as it occurred to him that suddenly, Martin Krovell could no longer look him in the eyes.

“You killed Jonathon, didn’t you?” he asked. “You and that gypsy whore that you call your wife, waiting for you out there. Of course, how could I not have figured it out?”

Khoska was now beside himself with grief and rage, as Martin finally met his accusatory eyes.

“You don’t understand, Aleksandre,” he said. “All things happen for a reason. The end of the age is upon us. Did you truly believe that everything was all love and light, and that heaven waits only for those who do what the world in its wicked imagination supposes is good and holy? I know that you do not see it, nor do you want to see it, but it is your gospel that is the perverted one.

“The true Gospel of Christ follows his instructions to remember the sacrifice of his body and blood. In this world, the shedding of innocent blood is always required in order for the angel of death to pass over. No longer is it sufficient to kill a dumb animal and spread its blood over your door. That ended with the murder of our Lord.

“Nothing less than the powerful blood of the innocent is sufficient to turn back God’s wrath. What you think of as a sin you do so in carnal human terms. The heaven of God is eternal. Those innocent babes are now out of harms way of this evil world. They sit beside the throne of God, and wait our arrival, in blissful happiness.

“God’s will be done, dear brother,” Martin concluded. “Not man’s will, but God’s will be done.”

Khoska trembled now in rage. He was right. The man standing before him preaching this vile blasphemy inside his own church was responsible for the murder of his daughter-in-law and his grandchildren, along with their wives and a girlfriend, and even his young great grandchildren, going so far as to devour the flesh and blood of one of them-a mere infant. Suddenly, he glanced down at the Eucharistic table, and saw the black handled blade-the athame that once belonged to the repentant Joseph Karinsky. What was it doing here? Joseph’s knapsack also lay on the floor, its contents scattered. He did not stop to wonder why. He picked up the large ceremonial sword and glared menacingly at his brother as he fought back tears.

‘I should kill you now,” he declared. He raised the sword above his head as he advanced but, to his surprise, Martin sunk down to the floor on his knees and bowed his head-and prayed in hushed, whispered tones. This enraged Khoska even more, and he raised the sword to strike, but he hesitated.

“Do it,” Martin Krovell said. “I have seen too many years of this world’s wickedness. I am ready to leave it. I only ask that you have mercy towards my wife. Tell her that I love her, and allow her to leave here in peace. You may give any excuse you wish for my death. Tell the police that you killed me in the midst of a struggle, in which I physically assaulted you. I am sure they will find it relatively easy to believe you, brother. It so happens I am being sought by them even now for questioning in the murder of Grant. Do what you feel you must.”

Khoska lowered the blade as his stomach churned. He turned and gagged, finding it an effort to keep from throwing up.

“Get the hell out of here, Martin,” he said. “Take your gypsy wife and never return here. The next time I see you, I promise you I will kill you and her as well. You had best leave at once before I change my mind and do it now. What I have learned this night would make me more than justified.”

Martin rose, but slowly, as he kept his eyes peeled towards his half-brother. Then, he saw the athame. He smiled.

“Goodbye, Aleksandre. We will never see each other again-until the Day of Judgment.”

Every fiber of his being urged Khoska to plunge the athame into the back of his evil half-brother, but he could not bring himself to follow through with these impulses. Even though he told himself it would serve not only the cause of justice but might well prevent other atrocities, he watched, almost paralyzed with inner conflict, as Martin Krovell walked slowly out the door, not so much as turning his back as he spoke not one more word.

Khoska collapsed to the floor and broke down in uncontrollable sobs. He wished he had the courage to plunge the athame into his abdomen. What was he to do now? He had never taken a human life though he had been responsible for an attempt years earlier on the life of Grace Rodescu. He could invent justifications for such actions, although the fault there was as much with him as with her. Now, when he had the perfect opportunity to end the life of someone whose very existence was an abomination to all that was holy, he had not the strength to do it. Never had he felt such despair. He pulled himself off the floor. He now even avoided looking at the icons that adorned his small, simple church. He could feel their eyes looking down on him in judgment, and even mockery.

Then, he remembered the knapsack. Why was it here? It should be down in the basement. He reasoned that Michael must have brought them up here when he was down there earlier. Yet, why would he do that? Why did he scatter them about in this manner? He peered inside the knapsack, noting that few of Joseph’s late possessions, consisting mostly of items of clothing, remained within, being mostly scattered about on the floor at the sacristy table.

There were CDs, including two by what he learned was a Goth Metal band by the name of The Mocktones. Included in the picture on the cover was Sierra Lawson. There were other items as well, such as a used black candle, the prior use of which Khoska tried to avoid thinking about. There were also pictures, both group and individual ones, of Joseph and Sierra and all their friends, including Spiral Lamont, with whom Khoska had been very briefly acquainted. A girl with a shaved head and a tattoo on her face meant to resemble the supposed moustache and goatee many imagine sported by Satan. Joseph told him her name was Sherry Adams, called “Larceny”. A young girl named Debbie Leighton, nicknamed “Spanky”, whom Joseph confessed aided and abetted them all in the brutal murder of her own parents. A young man named Milo Richmond, who was a drug dealer as well as a heavy drug user himself. A heavy-set and muscular young man named George Dodd, called “Rhino”, whom Joseph described as mildly retarded, and extremely temperamental, yet at the same time “good hearted.”

Khoska shook his head in wonder at the irony of that assessment when he remembered how Joseph in almost the same breath related to him how Dodd joined in the live cannibalism of what turned out to be his own infant son. This was at the instigation of the one who was supposed to be his girlfriend within the group-the strikingly beautiful and yet malignantly evil girl named Raven Randall. Khoska looked upon her picture within the group, and another one taken with Joseph, and then he realized-one of the pictures was gone, the one picture taken of Raven alone, standing in front of a fountain in nothing but a tank top and a thong, an arrogantly seductive smile upon her face.

He found himself wondering if Michael took the picture for his own purposes, so abruptly as to leave the other items of the knapsack abandoned and scattered upon the floor. He remembered how Michael had a teenage habit at one time of engaging in masturbation, and now he wondered if he had ever actually stopped this disgusting habit. Surely he would not involve himself with such unseemly practices now of all times. He found himself forgetting whether this was actually Michael or his late twin Jonathon. No, it was Michael, he decided. He realized, however, that there certainly must be another explanation. He almost felt foolish.

Then, he heard a groan from above him, and the sound of footsteps, lumbering on the floor as they drew closer to him, from the direction of the basement. He looked up quickly to see the horrible looking woman who looked literally like walking death, and yet who seemed so familiar.

“Those-Arrrrre-Miiiiiiine,” she told him as he hurriedly pulled himself to his knees while looking at the photo, then back at the figure. He was right. It was she. She held the picture of herself in her right hand, but now loosed her hold on it. He watched as it dropped with a slant to the floor as she glared at him in pure malice.

“Joooo-Seph,” she continued as Khoska stared at her in open-mouthed terror. “Wheeeer-Is-He?”

She spat out each drawn out syllable as though not in complete control of her physical or mental faculties, and Khoska realized what he was dealing with.

“What-are you-doing here?” he asked as he found himself losing control of his own faculties. He was choking in terror, but found it impossible to move as the dead woman advanced a few inches closer.

“Jaaaaamesssss-Beeerrrry-seennt-meee!” she spoke louder.

Khoiska could tell the woman seemed angry and frustrated. Yet, she did not breathe as she spoke. She seemed to have to suction air into her throat in order to form her words. Though her eyes were void of any sign of life or intelligence, they seemed to focus on him with a deadly intensity, while her nostrils flared in vivid reaction to his scent. Khoska knew that the person who now stood before him was more than just a simple reanimated corpse. She was in fact little more than a wild animal with the memories of a former human life. This was a walking corpse that once contained a tortured human soul but now held no soul at all-at least not one that any could accurately describe as human.

She suctioned more air into her dead, rigid lungs and held it there as she stepped closer at a deceptively quick pace for one with such a stiff and awkward gait. Her nostrils flared wildly as her eyes focused on the shadowy figure before her. He backed up slightly whereupon she moved closer and opened her mouth, her protruding tongue lashing at the air as her yellowed teeth flashed in angry hunger. Then, she pounced. Khoska, without thinking, plunged the athame deep inside her abdomen, twisting as he withdrew it, and then aimed at her heart. She roared not so much in pain as in surprise, as Khoska, looking upon the blade and saw dried gore but no blood. Raven’s eyes now came into greater focus, but Khoska backed up quickly, toward the baptismal font which set off to the side of the wall. He scooped up a handful and threw it at her as he admonished her in the name of The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit. Raven screamed in terror when she felt the water touch her, but it merely enraged her more. She was soon at Khoska’s throat, lifting him up as he flailed wildly and impotently with the athame. Raven growled, and then threw him halfway across the room. Khoska landed on his lack on top of one of the middle pews and screamed in agony. Before Raven could reach him, he dropped down onto the floor and slid down under the pews.

As he scampered with unusual speed under them and toward the door, he could hear Raven growling now like an angry bear as she with seemingly little effort ripped each pew from the floor and flung it to the side. Khoska’s heart was pounding in his chest as the crazed dead woman finally ripped off the pew from above where he now lay collapsed and exhausted. She stood over him-laughing a demonically evil and shrill laugh as she bent down over him. She bared her fangs and seemed ready to sink them seep into Khoska’s thigh, when suddenly she reared up with a roar. Khoska then caught sight of the athame that protruded from her chest. She backed up in pain and terror as she looked around at the sight of Michael. It was then that Khoska saw the flames.

“Father, you have to get away now,” Michael said. Raven now stumbled around from the mortal wound of the athame, which Michael had plunged through her heart. He now grabbed up a burning altar cloth and flung it at the creature, which roared at him in horror. She tried vainly to throw off the burning cloth as the flames engulfed her clothing. Khoska made his way toward the door, while Michael ran back toward the office. Khoska turned and watched as Michael returned with a fire extinguished, and as Raven now seemed a flaming mass, screaming pitifully.

After he extinguished the flames in the church, Michael spread the foam in a circle around where the reanimated corpse yet burned, now silently, her screams of despair finally silenced. Khoska pulled himself painfully toward where Michael stood grimly surveying the horribly stinking and yet burning corpse.

“Put it out, Michael,” he said. “She is finished. If she keeps burning, it is likely to burn through to the basement ceiling.”

Michael just stood there, grimly surveying the body as the flames now seemed to die down on their own. Soon, there was nothing left but a smoldering mass that barely looked human.

“Would you like to explain to me exactly who she was?” Michael demanded. “What’s next, father? What else will we have to contend with before this is all over with?”

Khoska’s eyes now burnt from the smoke that now inundated the fire-damaged church, and was now as thick as the sickening odor of long-dead human remains, and he stumbled in exhaustion toward the front door. The smoke billowed out as he stood at the doorway. Looking around, he saw the black vulture, which perched on a lower branch of the old elm tree to the right of the front yard. It glared at him with its black eyes focused as through him, but then flew away as Michael joined him on the front porch.

“Father, we cannot deal with this on our own,” Michael Khoska said. “We need help. This is too much for either or both of us. We were very lucky this time.”

“Agnes,” Khoska suddenly whispered in hoarse realization.

“What about her?” Michael asked in dread.

At that exact instant, they both heard the blood-curdling scream emanating from inside the church from the back. Khoska dropped down suddenly to his knees in defeat. At that moment, he knew his worse fears were realized.

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 XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII

Obama's Kennedy Speech

Although it was never billed as such, Barak Obama's latest speech addressing the Reverend Wright controversy followed in the footsteps of Mitt Romney in giving his version of the reassuring Kennedy speech. Kennedy, of course, gave the original speech during the 1960 election season in order to reassure voters that, though he considered himself a devout Catholic, he would run the presidency according to the laws and the Constitution of the United States-not according to the dictates of the Pope or the Vatican. The speech was hailed as a success.

When Mitt Romney repeated his own particular version, it too was hailed as a good speech, though it was, as we now know, not nearly as successful. At the very least, though it might have reassured potential voters as to his determined independence as a Mormon regarding governmental affairs, it certainly did not win him enough support to make a difference.

Barak Obama has got a serious problem. White Americans concerns are understandable, if not entirely fair. He tried to address those concerns, and only time will tell if he was ultimately successful. Make no mistake about it. This speech and this controversy is as much about religious dogma, faith, and fervor, as the Kennedy and Romney concerns before it.

There is a very real thread running through American black churches of which the Reverend Wright is just one strand, albeit now a more noticeable one than most. He is by no means out of the ordinary. Actually, you might compare him to a run in a woman's pantyhose. It just sticks out more noticeably than the rest of the garment, but in actuality it is a part of the whole that would ordinarily be indistinguishable.

Obama's job now is to convince Americans that he can run the presidency fairly and even handedly, without favoritism toward one group over another, despite the fact that he is a seemingly devout adherent to a faith that would give most white Americans cause for concern. That is the task he set out to perform in this speech, but I'm not so sure he accomplished what he obviously set out to do.

For one thing, the bit about the white grandmother was a bit over the top. Any old person would feel intimidated passing a group of black men on the street. Hell, I'm not an old person, and I feel intimidated under certain circumstances. If they are a group of black teenagers I find myself wishing for a grenade on the grounds that if it's necessary I'll take them all out with me. This is not racial prejudice or bigotry. This is familiarity with the national news. Also, sad to say, personal experience has a bit to do with it.

It is also disingenuous at best for him to insist that he does not believe at least somewhat the same as the Reverend White believes. How could he not? Unfortunately, whether white Americans want to face this reality or not, Obama, like myself, has news and history to back him up, to at least some degree.

But, just as I might well be advised to get over my angst at passing multiple blacks on the street, Obama and his fellow worshipers would be equally well-advised to get over the past. It's time for us all to move on. You don't do that by engaging in subterfuge and denial.

Of course, he is in a bit of a jam. He can't come across as an angry black man running for the presidency of the United States determined to make right the injustices of the past. He has to put himself across as a man who is, in fact, bi-racial, and who wants to heal the divisions caused by those injustices of the past. At the same time, he has to show he can walk and chew gum at the same time by proving that he can look at the myriads of problems that face the US and approach them evenly and fairly when race is involved, and avoid injecting race into them when race is not involved.

I want to be clear about something. I am not an Obama supporter. I can think of many reasons to vote against him. In fact, I can think of quite a few damn good reasons to vote against him. I'm just not so sure this is one of the reasons. Unfortunately, I seriously doubt he has given much of a reason to dissuade the concerns of those who have them.

As for the "Not God Bless America, No No, God Damn America" bit, I think the religious rhetoric is over the top on both sides. I've heard this same kind of stuff from Falwell, from Robertson, and a few others who insist that God either has or will damn America because of first one thing or another. The exact same white Christians who are most concerned about Reverend Wright and Obama's affiliation with him are, as we speak, doing their damndest to encourage all out war between Israel and its Middle Eastern neighbors in order to hurry Armageddon and the Second Coming of Christ. Most of these folks, by the way, tend to vote Republican, if they vote at all.

Many of them seem to forget that John McCain publicly sought reconciliation and support from the Reverend Jerry Falwell, not too long before Falwell died, despite the fact that Falwell blamed the attacks of 9/11 on secular humanists, gays, feminists, pagans, etc., who, according to Falwell, "helped make this happen". The litany of sins and sinners responsible was mind-numbing, and the Reverend Pat Robertson, who stood beside him at the lectern, offered no disagreement. Robertson, in fact, applauded the incapacitation of Israeli Prime Minister Ariel Sharon, saying God punished him with a stroke for trying to give a part of the "Holy Land" to the Palestinians-land that Robertson insists God intends Israel to have.

We have listened with baited breath at how God sent Hurricane Katrina to destroy the wicked city of New Orleans and how, evidently to make sure he got the point across, he made a little side trip to the Gulf Coast of Mississippi. He seems to have been somewhat pissed at the gambling and other apparent debaucheries going on there at the time.

You can write a book on this stuff. Yeah, a good many Republicans have decried such rhetoric, to their credit. By the same token, a good many others have not, and have even voiced agreement with it. In any event, they should not pretend that Wright is anything out of the ordinary. The only real difference would amount to a disagreement, not as to whether God Damns America, but why God Damns America.

Unfortunately for Obama, the people he has to convince are not the ones in the other camp, who are unlikely to vote for him at any rate (though he might have convinced some of them that have been loathe at the idea of voting for McCain to hold their nose and do so). The main people he has to convince are those who would just as soon religion was kept in the background and our political leaders concentrate on the very real issues the country faces. As it is now, though, they must wonder if Obama shares to at least some degree his former Reverend's beliefs.

At the same time, he has to walk a thin line. He can't run his campaign on the defensive about this issue, nor can he afford to take time away from concentrating on those issues of most concern to the voters who can make or break a candidacy. Yet, he can't by any means imagine that, with this one speech, he can ignore the problem from here on out.

If he doesn't face this problem squarely and convincingly-and fast-then if he does manage to win the Democratic nomination (which now is by no means a sure thing) then by the time Election Day arrives, independent voters will run to McCane in droves.

Guest Blogger On The Obama-Reverend Wright Controversy

From time to time, I like to feature guest bloggers here in order to give what you might call a “fair and balanced” perspective to the issues of the day. It was not too many months ago, in fact, that one my favorite guest bloggers, the great Riley Flubs, opined as to The Minneapolis Bridge Disaster.

It took a few days for my keyboard to be sufficiently disinfected, and I almost decided to forgo any further such experiments.

However, from time to time, certain issues arise that cry out for input from other sources than just my self. With this is mind, it is now my pleasure to introduce a man who is a local pastor of one of my neighborhood Baptist Churches. This man lives, breathes, eats, and sleeps the word of God.

We have all heard the news of the Reverend Jeremiah Wright and his firebrand rhetoric, which some would insist is anti-American. According to Reverend Wright, 9/11 and other such terrorist incidents are God’s punishments on America for the many wrongdoings we have perpetrated against our own people-particularly black people-and around the world. Obama has since disavowed the reverend’s statements and removed him from his advisory committee.

This is not enough, however, to many observers. They insist that Obama knew of the Reverend Wright’s attitudes years in advance. According to them, Obama must agree to at least some degree, and they wonder what, if such a person becomes President, this would portend for the nation.

With this in mind, and to offer his perspective on the controversial matter, I now therefore proudly present to you-the great Reverend Billy Joe Belcher.

Disclaimer-As usual, this guest editorial blog post does not necessarily reflect the views of The Pagan Temple. That being said, I now introduce that great man of God-Reverend Belcher.

REVEREND BILLY JOE BILLY:

Good evening, Brothers And Sisters and fellow Americans. When I was invited to guest blog on The Pagan Temple, I prayed long and hard before deciding to accept the invitation. I decided that this might be an avenue whereby which I might save not only the soul of the wretched sinner who owns this decrepit and hedonistic blog, but I might as well reach out to the poor lost souls who, in their spiritual blindness, are drawn here like hogs to slop. I prayed to God for guidance and protection then as I made my way over here.

Believe me when I tell you that God has a dark sense of humor. Although The Pagan Temple assures me that the woman at the top of this blog is not my daughter, I am not wholly convinced, despite his reassurances that, as he puts it, he does not even see a similarity, except for maybe the hair. Yeah, we will see how much Patrick laughs at the Last Judgment. It is coming, my friend, and I doubt that you will be amused.

Nor will such sinful scum as Barak Obama, nor that False Prophet, the so-called Reverend Jeremiah Wright, who falsely claims that, as he puts, we should not say “God Bless America”, but instead, “God Damn America”.

According to this bankrupt perversion of the Holy Gospel of Our Lord Jesus Christ, God has cursed America by way of Islamic terrorism because of the death, destruction, starvation, greed, and suffering that the United States has, according to Wright, spread throughout the world. It is only fair to assume that Obama, by extension, believes this evil Satanic inspired philosophy. Such a person has no business running for the Presidency of The United States. Moreover, no right thinking person, especially no right thinking Christian, should give him the time of day, let alone vote for him or support him.

What Obama and Wright are doing is partaking of a devil-instigated campaign of deceit meant to destroy the souls of the faithful in order to deliver them from the path and the faith of All-Mighty God, and to the depths of hell.

I repeat-God does not hate nor does he damn America for what we have done around the world.

*America has turned from God, and has taken his Holy Word out of the public square, and out of the classroom.

THAT IS WHY GOD HATES AMERICA AND THAT IS WHY GOD DAMNS AMERICA!

*America has encouraged the gay lifestyle and the homosexual agenda, upholding their so-called “civil rights”, and in some cases have even gone so far as to encourage or promote the concept of gay marriage and “civil unions”, while encouraging so-called “tolerance” in our public schools towards the sin of homosexuality.

THAT IS WHY GOD HATES AMERICA AND THAT IS WHY GOD DAMNS AMERICA!

*America has become a nation obsessed with leisure, gambling, sex, and other hedonistic pursuits. God has given us fair warning by sending Hurricane Katrina to destroy the wretchedly sinful city of New Orleans, and the Gulf Coast region of Mississippi, which has lately turned into a haven for gamblers. Yet, America refuses to see the truth and to turn from their sins.

THAT IS WHY GOD HATES AMERICA AND THAT IS WHY GOD DAMNS AMERICA!

*Perhaps worse of all, American has brazenly and defiantly attacked the sanctity of life itself by allowing the legalization of abortion, a process by which millions of innocent babies are slaughtered in the wombs of their mothers, with their mother’s permission and even encouragement, in a manner that makes the Jewish Holocaust look minor by comparison.

THAT IS WHY GOD HATES AMERICA AND THAT IS WHY GOD DAMNS AMERICA!

I could give many other examples, such as the teaching of evolution and the overall attitude of secular humanism upheld by our out-of-control liberal dominated courts. I could also point to our culture of decadence, such as is predominant in our movies, music, television, books, the internet, and video games. However, I am sure you get the point by now.

Not people like The Pagan Temple though. Ooooohh, nooooo-when he proofread my post a few minutes ago, he sarcastically suggested it was a good thing irony could not be transformed into piles of rocks.

Well, even if that were possible, it would do you no good, Patrick. I will have you know that my family and I loves and fears God, and, thanks to our faith in the precious Blood of Christ, our house is shatterproof!

Praise the Lord!

In Politics, Truth Is Heresy.

Why are the statements of Geraldine Ferraro considered controversial? The reactions to them are in fact far more questionable and worrisome. They are in fact proof positive that, insofar as most politicians and pundits are concerned, the American people are dunces whom they should shield from what is the obvious truth. I expect Jack Nicholson to pop up on the screen any minute now wagging a finger in a new Hillary campaign ad admonishing us that we can’t handle the truth. The fact is this is exactly how people such as Keith Olbermann think.

Is there any question that if Obama were white, he would not have won the Mississippi primary with close to ninety percent of the black vote, against Hillary Clinton, the wife of who is (or was) arguably the most popular white politician among the black voting populace in at least recent memory ? The way I see it, the truth of Ferraro’s statement is not even open for debate.

Where she made her mistake, perhaps, was in not expanding on her remarks and putting them in some context. The dirty secret not being discussed involves percentages. Black Democrats are voting for Obama in far greater percentages than are white Democrats, while far more blacks cite race as the reason for their support than do whites as the reason for their opposition. This does not look good to some, and to many is even an embarrassment. Many of the old school liberal Democrats like to cite racism as a phenomenon mostly expressed by whites. Therefore, Ferraro was trudging on dangerous ground perhaps bordering on political heresy, and had to be reined in before she went that extra mile.

Of course, Obama being black is not the only reason he is doing so well among black voters. Were he to expound the philosophy of Walter Williams, or Clarence Thomas, or perhaps even Bill Cosby, he certainly wouldn’t do nearly as good as he has done up until now amongst those same black voters.

Nevertheless, they would damn sure notice him, wouldn’t they now? That is the key. Obama being black has been the draw, but it has not clinched the deal. His being black has attracted noticed, and gained him attention, but his words and ideals are what have induced his listeners to cast the votes. This holds true not only amongst his black supporters, but also with the considerable number of whites who support him as well. A white politician would not have gained the notice. Ask Joe Biden. Ask Chris Dodd. Ask Elliot Richardson. Neither of these gentlemen is secret Klan members I am sure.

Hell, ask Hillary Clinton, wife of “the first black president.”

The second factor has been the accusations, fairly or not, that the Clinton campaign has itself been playing the race card. The backlash has been very real, if somewhat stage-managed.

Ferraro, unlike perhaps the Clintons, is right to be incensed at the accusations of racism in her words. She was right to complain about the heavy-handed tactics of some of Obama’s followers and supporters in leveling these absurd charges at her. She was also right to leave the Clinton campaign, when Hillary offered no more than the most tepid of responses, one that did not even contain a defense of her. As she left, she did so with a parting shot.

Yes, Obama is qualified to be President of The United States, she said.

Incidentally, Ferraro should know what she is talking about. She knows full well she would never have been chosen as Walter Mondale’s running mate in 1984 were it not for two factors-

*Mondale and his advisors considered her admirably suited, qualified for the job, and capable of taking over the presidency in the event of the death of Mondale.

*She was a female politician.

In fact, this was practically a selling point. Does anyone imagine for one second that if Hillary, under ordinary circumstances, were to pick a black running mate-Obama or anybody else-that it would not also be touted as an example of the inclusiveness of the Democratic Party and it’s representative Presidential ticket? Did it totally escape Al Gore’s notice in 2000 that Joe Liebermann was an observant Jew, or was that just an irrelevant yet happy coincidence?

The Democratic Party has been engaged in positive racism and feel-good sexist politics for the last third of a century at least. Why should they be so outraged whenever anybody points out the obvious?

"Kristen" Speaks-"What Destroys Me, Strengthens Me."

OsisSpeaks has the scoop on the real identity of Kristen, the call girl who brought down Elliot Spitzer. Her real name is Ashley Alexandra Dupre. The picture above is of her, taken from her MySpace Profile.

It's good to remember, when something like this happens, there is actually another human being involved, besides Spitzer and his family, friends, and colleagues. Lest we forget, they usually tend to be nameless personages that often never see the light of day. In fact, they are people with dreams and desires. I will let her profile description speak for itself-and for her.

Beginning of MySpace Profile Description:

About Ashley Alexandra Dupré
I am all about my music, and my music is all about me… It flows from what I’ve been through, what I’ve seen and how I feel. I live in New York and am on top of the world. Been here since 2004 and I love this city, I love my life here. But, my path has not been easy. When I was 17, I left home. It was my decision and I’ve never looked back. Left my hometown. Left a broken family. Left abuse. Left an older brother who had already split. Left and learned what it was like to have everything, and lose it, again and again. Learned what it was like to wake up one day and have the people you care about most gone. I have been alone. I have abused drugs. I have been broke and homeless. But, I survived, on my own. I am here, in NY because of my music. It started when I moved in with a musician during my odyssey to New York. One day, I was in the shower singing “respect.” He and his lead guitarist burst in, had me repeat it and it started. We wrote, rehearsed and toured. After recording a bit with them, I decided to move to Manhattan to pursue my music career. I spent the first two years getting to know the music scene, networking in clubs and connecting with the industry. Now, it’s all about my music. It’s all about expressing me. I can sit here now, and knowingly tell you that life’s hard sometimes. But, I made it. I’m still here and I love who I am. If I never went through the hard times, I would not be able to appreciate the good ones. Cliché, yes, but I know it’s true. I have experienced just how hard it can be. I can honestly tell you to never dwell on the past, but build from it and keep moving forward. Don’t let anyone hold you back or tell you that you can’t…because you can. I didn’t and here I am, just listen to it…. What we Want is my latest track. It’s really about trust, something my past has made very difficult for me to feel. This one was inspired by a guy, who taught me not to confuse my dreams with the sounds of the city…I hope you like it.

End of MySpace Profile Description

So then, she is a would-be musician. She also made a blog entry, a part of which I also copied here. It, too, is very interesting, and somewhat prophetic, as follows:

Surround yourself around people that are making moves, and doing what "they want and love" with their lives, positive energy...thats what life is all about...living. Because if you dont, misery loves company, they will only try to bring you down with them...but the question is, are you strong enough, to not let that happen?

Its hard to see if you let it get to that point...

...and then from all those answers you have to decide if that person is worthy of being a part of "your" life....because it is your life, your show...you decide who you want the characters to be...not the other way around. Every person is different, every person has their voice...can you recognize your voice, listen to it, and stick up for it??

Quid Pro Ho-The Heartwarming Story Of Elliot Spitzer

It's so much fun to gloat when an asshole like Spitzer gets his just desserts. Here's a guy who made a name for himself as a fighter of corruption, but like so many of these bastards, he seems to have been projecting the whole time. That's no big surprise to me. There is something wrong with a guy that wastes time and taxpayers money going after people for what is considered ordinary, everyday business practices as though he were prosecuting Nazi war criminals. This happened to be the case with many if not most of the Wall Street people he targeted. And then there was Don Imus, whom Spitzer targeted for allegedly using his ranch, registered as a charity, as a vacation home. Never mind that in the meantime he helped numerous children dying from cancer, and their families. Hell, he actually stayed a week or two at the place when there were no kids there, so he's guilty of some crime?

In the meantime, this sanctimonious piece of shit happens to have violated the Mann Act by crossing state lines for purpose of engaging the services of a prostitute. If he is charged and tried as zealously as he went after people whose violations were not nearly as brazen, and in fact were even sometimes rather vague, he could be sentenced, if convicted, to up to twenty years in a FEDERAL penitentiary.

Unfortunately, The Emperor's Club web-site has been taken down, but The Smoking Gun has a reproduction of some pages, which rated the girls with diamonds, ranging from three to seven. Spitzer paid a little over four thousand dollars for roughly four hours, so he evidently seems to have availed the services of a "three diamond" girl (one thousand dollars an hour)-the cheapskate.

The girl, given the code name "Kristen" in documents, evidently had no complaints about her time with "Number 9", as he was referred to, though he evidently liked to engage in unusual practices a good many girls might not consider safe.

So, how did he get caught? You can read all about it here. It seems like a bank recorded some "suspicious transaction" in which Spitzer transferred sums of money to what turned out to be shell or dummy corporations. At first, it was assumed to be a mere financial or perhaps political skullduggery, and so the Feds got permission to track where the money went to, which led them to The Emperor[s Club. They proceeded to get permission to wire tap the owners and operators of the club, and the truth was revealed. So, it's not like Spitzer has been set up for political purposes. He did it to himself.

Here's the original story from the New York Times. He is done. It is worth noting that Spitzer is a Super Delegate to this year's Democratic Convention, and is a supporter of Hillary Clinton.

Hmmmmmm-I just wonder what other powerful, wealthy clients have enjoyed the discreet services of the Emperor's Club.

Love Her If You Dare

Hollywood is shocked-shocked, I say-over the news that Oscar winner Marion Cotillard, who won for her portrayal of singer Edith Piaf in the film LaVie En Rose, is evidently a 9/11 conspiracy theory nut. Had hey known, they might not have given her the award, according to Hollywood insiders.

True, Ms. Cotillard has probably been brainwashed, having derived most of her information from the French-Euro leftist press. She deserves some understanding, perhaps, and besides, she is doubtless deserving of the award on the artistic merits of her performance.

Still, it is easy to see why the Hollywood elites might well be disturbed at these revelations. After all, your typical Oscar winner tends to be true-blue, red-blooded, patriotic Americans. If of foreign extraction, they tend to be unabashed lovers and supporters of the land of the free and the home of the brave. Just look at past Award winner Michael Moore, pictured here proudly waving the American flag.

Radu-Chapter XXXVIII (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 XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Radu-Chapter XXXVIII (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
9 pages approximate
Raven watched the long haired bearded man, talking on the phone and laughing. She could hear what he said, but though his words and the sound of his voice seemed familiar, she struggled to comprehend the meaning of his words. He had a name. It was Gary. She knew him, and wondered if he remembered her. She only remembered one thing for sure. She never liked him. He was mean to her, back in some long ago distant past, a past she struggled to remember, when she was but a small girl. He would come into her room and do things to her. She did not like the things he did, but he did them anyway, and when he was finished, he would threaten her. She remembered telling the older woman one day, but the woman became angry with her, and even hit her.

The man was older now, but Raven knew it was he. The more she watched him, through his partially open curtains, the more she started to remember, and the angrier she became. She wondered how she would get to him in time. If she busted through the window, he would probably be able to get away, or perhaps someone would come to help him. Yet, she could not get through the door in time either.

She walked up to the door. She raised her hand, but she hesitated. She finally knocked on the door, and then she turned her back to the door. It opened, somewhat quicker than she thought it would.

“Yeah, what can I do for you?” he asked. She knew he would answer the door once he saw it was a female. She turned to face him, and he became suddenly rigid, his eyes wide with fear.

“What the hell? Who are you?” Either he did not recognize her, or it had not yet dawned on him exactly who she was. She always got that reaction when she went to the homes of people she knew. People acted as if she should not be there, for some reason. They would act shocked, and then afraid. Most of the time, they acted as if they did not know exactly what to say. A few times, they actually ran away from her. Most of the time, however, they were unable to do so. This made her happy, because she was hungry and needed food, like now. Raven was always hungry. Now, Gary suddenly, through his squinting eyes, seemed to recognize her.

“Raven? What in the hell? I thought you were dead. This can’t be for real.”

She shot out her arm in the space of a heartbeat, giving no thought to the sudden vise-like grip she exerted on the man’s throat, until she flung him back. She advanced towards him, laughing hatefully.

“What-do you want?” he asked fearfully from the spot on the floor onto which she flung him. She did so as though he were weightless, yet he weighed more than two-hundred pounds.

“I-need-you”, she said with a hideous, sadistic snarl. She smiled as she advanced toward the crumpled, trembling figure.

“Your mother-she’s upstairs. She’s sick. She’s probably calling the cops right now. Your brother will be-coming home-in just a few minutes. Please, Raven, you don’t want to do this.”

She cocked her head and gazed at him suspiciously. Most of the time, they merely screamed and begged. This one, however, was tricky. He was not to be trusted. She lowered her face down on top of the terrified man’s crotch, and bit deeply, as he screamed in tormented agony. Then, she rose. That would keep him in place for a while, she reasoned, as she crept up the stairs. When she made it to the big bedroom at the end of the hall, she could hear the weak yet frantic voice of the woman she recognized as the one who was supposed to be her mother, married for years to the abusive step-father who lay helpless on the floor downstairs. She looked inside and saw that she talked frantically on the phone. She had to move fast. The woman screamed as Raven pounced. She ripped open the woman’s nightgown and tore off her dirty, sweaty bra. She looked at her and laughed with a snarl as the blood and gore from her earlier conquest dripped from her mouth.

“Ra-Raven,” her mother said in trembling terror.

“Mommy,” raven said with delighted savagery, and bit fiercely into first one breast, flinging her head from side to side as she bit deeply, then moving to the other breast. She could barely hear the frantic footsteps bounding up the stairs. She recognized the sound of his stride. She could smell him.

“Raven, for God’s sake we have to get out of here.” Raven turned and growled as James Berry stood there, at the door, urging her to follow him.

“I just heard over police dispatch, your mother called the cops before you got to her. Come on, we have to leave.”

Raven looked toward the form of the now dead woman that lay upon the bed. She growled, but she followed. She knew she had to trust this man. He angered her, yet he watched out for her, and protected her. She had to do what he told her. They hurried down the steps. Gary lay there, groaning and begging for help.

“Oh now shit!” Berry said, annoyed Raven had so far left this one victim alive. He knew a bullet wound under the circumstances would look suspicious, but before he could think of what to do, Raven pounced once more on the man and finished him off as she bit deeply into his throat.

“Good, now let’s get the hell out of here,” he said commandingly.

They managed to leave well before the police finally arrived, and soon they were home. The sun would rise in just a couple of hours, and James knew he had to make preparations. He only had so little time in which to work. Therefore, he ran a hot bath. Raven watched him in terror. She knew what was coming. He would insist that she get inside the hot, sickening water, with the awful smelling soap. He would bathe her, as he always did, as if she was a little child, a helpless infant. She hated it, but knew it was for some reason required of her.

She shivered in terror when he motioned for her, and as she entered the bath, she whimpered. Then, she moaned loudly, and cried.

“You’ll never get used to this, I know Raven,” he said consolingly. “We have to do this though. You do know that, don’t you?”

She cried and growled as he washed her thoroughly. He lathered her hair and washed her from head to toe. She growled a warning when he washed her vagina, but he continued. Finally, he stood her under the shower and rinsed her off as she screamed loudly, as though she were dying.

He finally dried her off, and she continued to whimper and cry, but then she started to smile.

“There, that’s better. You feel better now, don’t you? You almost look human again. You almost look like a real, living, breathing human being.”

After he dressed her, she followed him down into the basement lounge. He opened a Samuel Adams and drunk, while she watched him from a nearby lounge chair. She almost even looked pretty, he thought, as he sat on the recliner listening to an old Pink Floyd tape to which she herself seemed oblivious. She walked up to him and, kneeling by the side of his lounge chair, she laid her head on his arm.

When the phone rang, he answered quickly. He did not want to disturb her, but she seemed almost unaware of anything and everything.

“What the hell is going on over there?” Toby asked him. “Where the shit is you?”

“I thought I told you to never call me on this phone,” Berry reminded him. “What do you want?”

“Are you serious?” Toby demanded. “Do you know what is going on? People are dying all over the place, dropping like flies. How long do you think The Man is going to be able to keep a lid on this shit? I been watching the news, and there’s been outbreaks of all kinds of different diseases, all over the place-in Bethesda, Annapolis, Wheeling, Louisville, Cincinnati, Cleveland, Indianapolis, all the way to New Orleans, and God only knows where else. You want to take a good guess where they’re saying the shit originated from?”

“Oh, I don’t know, would it be Baltimore?”

“Seventeenth Street, to be exact,” he replied. “They’ve got the whole hood shut down and quarantined, and a bunch of other places in different cities too. It’s starting to make waves. So what in the hell do you have to say, man? I made it out of there just in time. Now here I am with the guys holed up in this fucked up little cabin out in the middle of nowhere.”

“Toby-listen close and good”, Berry said. “Count your blessings. It should not be that much longer, maybe a year, two at the most. Just make sure you keep the place straightened up. I don’t want it to look like Seventeenth Street when I go up there, so tell Merc and the guys to lay off the graffiti, and make sure those bodies are taken care of.”

“What the fuck?”

“Look, I got to go. Like I said, whenever you call me, call me on my other phone. You got that?”

“Now look, motherfucker,” Toby shouted, but before he could continue, Berry terminated the call and turned off the ringer.

He no sooner did so than Raven raised her head and growled in a low, guttural tone that Berry came to associate with sudden, unexpected danger.

“It’s all right, Raven, it was just”-

Raven rose, however, and back away from Berry as she stared past him, growling more loudly as she snarled and barred her teeth. He looked over in the direction in which she stared while standing riveted to one spot, her body tensed even more than was usually the case. At first, he saw nothing but a vaguely human shadow that gradually took on the substantive form of Marlowe Krovell, his green eyes shining like two hellish emeralds.

“What are you doing here?”

“Now this is a very touching scene,” Marlowe said sarcastically. “Has she said her prayers yet?”

“You should have waited,” Berry said. “You know you upset her.”

“Ahhhhh,” Marlowe replied. “How thoughtless of me.”

He approached the reanimated corpse of the tortured female, who growled a desperate warning for Marlowe to keep his distance. He kept his eyes peeled on her, however, and Raven slowly began whining, and then cringed as she backed away, though daring not to turn her back.

“Better not run, Raven,” Marlowe said. “It will be daylight soon, and you know what the sun rays do to your complexion. Me, I came prepared. My, but how I could have used sunscreen back in the day.”

Berry rose and approached Raven, who whimpered and made a futile attempt to hide while crouching beside him.

“Come on, Raven, I’ll see you to bed,” Berry said.

He led her to an adjoining room in the basement, where he opened a hidden trap door, which led to a long unused root cellar, the one where years ago he hid the body of his murdered wife before transplanting her carcass to the yard outside. He blessed Raven and uttered a quick prayer. He told her to have faith.

“Everything will be all right,” he said, as he handed her a dark cloth. “When you awaken tomorrow night, if I am not here, then this will lead you to me.”

He looked at her sadly then, as her eyes began to glaze.

“It will lead you to where you need to go,” he said, and she opened her eyes and smiled.

She took the cloth and fumbled with it as she held it up against her face. The exhaustion was now beginning to overtake her, taking precedence in fact over her fears. He prayed his regular nightly prayers, asking the Lord for protection over her.

“Watch over her this night, Lord God, and guide her and strengthen her, forgiving her for her sins in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ-amen.”

By the time he finished she was already asleep. He closed back the door and covered it with the throw rug.

“You are unbelievable,” Marlowe said. “Do you really imagine that is going to do her any good? Knock, knock, James-there really is nobody there, you know.”

“As long as she does what you want her to do, why should you care?” Berry asked. Marlowe looked at him in amazement.

“You have become too attached to her,” he said. “Do I have to remind you of who she was, of the things she did when she was alive-I mean really alive?”

“Anybody can change, with the Lord’s help,” Berry said, but he spoke weakly, and Marlowe noted he was himself pale and shaky.

“Just make sure she does what she is supposed to do,” he said. “You know, James, you really don’t look good.”

He stepped closer to the beleaguered and tortured detective, and gazed at him with a sarcastic smirk.

“You really don’t look good at all.”

Marlowe suddenly vanished, and it was as though he was never there save for the lingering scent of death, much different from the one exuded by Raven to which he had by now grown accustomed.

The sun would soon arise, and he had much to do this day. He almost stumbled out the door as he made his way to the car. Marlowe war right, after all. He did not feel well. Perhaps it was nerves, coupled with exhaustion. He had not really had a good nights sleep in many a night. He took way too many catnaps though the day, and they only made him feel worse when he awoke from them. The past two years seemed finally to be catching up to him.

He then remembered-the phone. He had to make another call, and he could not make it over his listed one, or his known cell phone. He made his way back up to the lockbox in his bedroom closet, cursing Toby as he went for being so stupid as to call him on the cell number he should have known by now not to call. He then cursed himself for allowing Toby even to have that number to begin with, as he looked at himself in the bedroom mirror. He looked like hell, he decided.

He made his way into the bathroom and rinsed his face. His eyes were so bloodshot he looked as though he had been on a weeklong drunk. He made it back to his car, got in, started it up, and left the driveway. As he did so, he made note of the van parked just four doors down the street from him, and across. Yes, indeed, he realized, today would be the day. He considered waving as he went by, but decided against it. He drove on, and wondered absently if they bugged his car. He decided that was wholly unlikely, and dialed the number. She answered quickly-a little too quickly.

“How are the kids, Geraldine?” he asked.

“They’re pissed!” she answered. “How in the hell do you think they are? I’m not thrilled either. Sitka? Really, James”-

“Well, it can’t be helped. When you get there, there is a house waiting for you, and there will be somebody there to take you to it. You will find everything there you need, including medicines-especially penicillin and other things that will protect you against these outbreaks that are going to only get worse as time goes by. They won’t be that bad up there, but you need to take every precaution.”

“So how in the hell do you know all this, James?” the woman asked. “What exactly is going on?”

As he drove closer to his destination, he found himself suddenly too weak to be agitated at her. Still, he had to make sure she understood exactly what was at stake.

‘Look, have I ever let you down? If not for me, you would be either in prison or on lifetime parole for killing your husband. Well, things are going to be shaken up here in a few days, a couple of weeks at most. Somebody could very likely be heading to Colorado as we speak. My former partner is suspicious of me. Quite frankly, I think he’s suspicious of you as well.”

“We’re leaving tonight, James. I just hope the new identities you got us will do the trick, and I hope the kids can learn to cope with this change. This is a lot to put on your kids, James.”

“Just tell them I love them and I’ll see them soon,” he said. “If I don’t call you later on tonight, just-well, you know what to do.”

“Now you’ve really got me worried’, she said. “I’ve never heard you sounding like this before.”

They talked for a few minutes more as Berry tried to tell the former Geraldine Malone, whom he long ago saved from imprisonment by setting her up in Colorado under the identity of his supposedly separated wife, that everything was going to be fine as long as she followed the plan and made sure the kids did their part.

“By the time a couple of years have gone by, it will all be over. Everybody will be home free, and can start a new life. No more hiding, no more looking over our shoulders-no more constant worry and guilt. You just have to hold on for that long. Then, everything will be different. I can’t tell you any more than that right now, but you’ll see.”

He finally ended the call as he made his way to a deep ravine over the border into West Virginia. He opened the trunk of his car and extracted the skeletal remains of his wife, dead now more than eight years. He crossed himself and then he lifted them out of the trunk, and walked with them over to the ravine.

“Like you always used to tell me, Frieda,” he said. “This is the end.”

It was so incredible how it all worked out. Doris was also dead, and Marnie too. Voroslav, with whom he became involved after fucking both his wife and his daughter, fed himself a bullet. Phillip Khoska did likewise and clung to life by a thread. He had ridden along with them all, feeding them information while acting as a liaison between them, the mob, and the Seventeenth Pulse, who thanks to Grace he had embedded himself within while ostensibly investigating them. He liked to think that his services had been invaluable, and the death of his wife, while regrettable, was nevertheless an acceptable casualty. If only she had not come at him with that butcher knife, how different things might have been. The throwing of the vases he could overlook. Nevertheless, that final assault changed his life forever. He did not like where she seemed to be going with that butcher knife. He grabbed her wrists, flung her around, and suddenly the knife was in her abdomen.

Luckily, she only had four living relatives, only one of whom-her mother-gave a damn. He used her blood pressure against her, and she died a relatively quick and merciful death before she or anyone else ever knew his wife was no longer with him.

Eight long years passed, many of them spent explaining to his oldest son that his mother just had problems she needed to work out. After four years, his mother would of course come back into his and the other children’s lives, looking remarkably similar, albeit different in some ways, notably the extra fifty or so pounds. Now, it was nearing the end of a road that took many unexpected twists and turns. That was to say the least. He took one final look at the mummified remains, said ten Hail Mary’s, and tossed them into the overgrowth. He stood beside the road and prayed. He had one more thing he had to do, and so he made his way to Saint Anne’s Cathedral. He had an appointment with Father Chuck, and needed to see him before he began his morning mass.

The Priest was yet distraught over the deaths that had visited so many of his parishioners. There were the Dooley’s who had lost a precious son, newly baptized and consecrated, to the ravages of a wild vulture. Then, of course, there were the Chou’s, who lost a beautiful if troubled sixteen year old daughter in a way that was equally terrible, perhaps even more so. Father Chuck always wanted to keep a line in at the department, and James was his man, more so than the Baltimore chaplaincy. James kept him informed on many vital areas of interest, and the Priest appreciated his endeavors. James had always wanted to make a difference, to be more than just a faithfully attending parishioner. He wanted to contribute to the laity of the church, perhaps along the lines of a third order, one devoted to reaching out to the criminals, even the criminally insane. He visited prisons in his spare time, and psychiatric wards, distributing as he did the word of God, even lecturing at schools and offering assistance to families of defendants, perhaps the most pitiable victims of all. Yes, James made many worthwhile contacts as well, but this was to be expected, and no one was the wiser.

He even spent some time at the psychiatric unit of Johns Hopkins University, and when those patients were inadvertently released due to a bureaucratic snafu, James offered them his aid, and they willingly accepted. Now, they were all dead, and the Girl Scouts they unfortunately stalked-without his approval, of course-lay either dying or already dead from contact with the same contamination that now threatened the environs of Baltimore and beyond. Theirs, in fact, was the first case cited outside of Baltimore, and outside of Maryland. Fortunately, the two girls who knew of the cabin were among the first casualties, and were dead, having never revealed the whereabouts of the place.

As he pulled up to the Cathedral, however, James realized that not only was the secret safe, but that a good portion of it rested inside his trunk. He opened it and extracted the gallon jug of homemade wine. It was a special gift from him, courtesy of a man long dead, to the good Father and to other participants of a soon-to-be-held interfaith religious conference, soon to transpire within the backdrop of St. Anne’s Cathedral.

He made his way to the back of the Cathedral, but saw no sign of the Father. He would have to wait, and hoped it would not be a long one.

He was hot, weak, nervous, and sweaty. He had been through so much. After he sat in the back of the sacristy, he realized it would be exceedingly difficult to stand back up. He began to wonder if he could even go through this without passing out. He was dry and parched, and needed a drink. He heard movement, the sounds of the first attendees of the morning mass. There should not be that many, not on this morning-maybe ten at the most, maybe a little more. He found himself drinking the holy water, but though ravished by heat and thirst, it seemed to do him little good. Then, he saw the wine in the decanter, the wine that the Good Father would soon use for the mass. He lifted it up and took a large drink out of it. He wanted more, but he did not want to drink too much. He found another decanter, and drank some more. He repeated this several times, until he could no longer stand it. He picked one up and drunk the entire contents. He was burning with fever, and yet he felt so bitterly cold, and sick.

“Oh, God,” he moaned as he replaced the decanter.

“James, is that you?” he heard the familiar voice ask. “My God, man, are you ill?”

“I think I’m coming down with something,” he said. “It must be flu. I really shouldn’t be here, but I wanted to give you a gallon of that wine, the homemade kind you liked so much.”

“For God’s sake, son, that was not necessary. It could have waited. You need to see a doctor.”

“It’s not just for you. I wanted to make sure you shared it with the attendees at the inter-faith conference. I hear even a representative of the Pope will be here.”

“Well, the Cardinal will be here, yes, that’s true,” Father Chuck replied. “So will a good many others, representatives of various branches of the Jewish faith, for example, as well as the various Islamic, Hindu, and Buddhist communities. Some protestant denominations will also be represented. Even Patriarch Daniel of the Romanian Orthodox Church is slated to attend.”

“Will you please share this with them, and ask them all for their blessings on my endeavors for those poor lost and tortured criminal souls?”

Father Chuck seemed obviously impressed, and even touched, by this grandiloquent gesture.

“I will be most glad to, my son,” he replied. “Many of them of course will not drink wine, but I am certain that those who will shall be greatly pleased with this remarkable vintage. Now, please, I beg of you, go home and get some rest, and call a doctor.”

Berry promised him he would do that, but just needed to sit back there for a minute. He wanted to listen to him perform the mass, though in his present state he felt he should not partake in it, and risk infecting the other parishioners. After the mass was over, he left, taking care to leave a note explaining he did not wish to also risk infecting the Holy Father with his presence, even though he was certain what now assaulted him was nothing more than an ordinary flu virus.

By the time he made it home, it was as he expected. He had company. Frank stood at the door. He steadied his nerves and hoped he could hide the extent of the illness that now ravaged him.

“Frank, what are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry to have to spring this on you, James, but I have a warrant here to search your property.”

“Search my property for what?”

“For your wife Frieda’s body, to be blunt,” Frank replied. “Don’t bother to act surprised. I thought I recognized that woman that left with your children the other day. It was not her. It was really Frieda Malone, wasn’t it? Now, you can make this easy, James. You can tell me where she is, though I think I already have a damn good idea. You can also come clean and get this shit off your conscience. Maybe it was some kind of tragic accident, and you panicked. Maybe the woman you gave your wife’s identity to, is actually a good woman who just happened to take what she thought was the only way out of an abusive marriage at the time. I would like to think you would not just knowingly hand your children over to her care otherwise.

“You know we’re going to find her, James, eventually. She cannot hide forever, especially with three kids-your three kids. Please, Berry, do not put them through any more of this. Just give it up, and we can”-

Before he could continue, however, Berry was on the ground. When he awoke, he felt even worse than before. Frank was standing over him.

“I know I should have sent you to the hospital, but I had to talk to you first, and since I’ve already been exposed, I figure the hell with it. You are probably going to be in quarantine in a few hours, and I will be as well, I am very much afraid. I guess you know what we found?”

Frank was looking down toward an old trunk. Berry focused his eyes as Frank opened the lid, to reveal the contents of what amounted to a memorial time capsule, including pictures of his wife, from the days of their earliest courtship to their marriage and honeymoon pictures from Niagara Falls. There were clothes, some of their favorite recordings, other various souvenirs that told the tale of a marriage that could only have been happy on the surface.

“All of this is a hell of a thing to bury under a rose bush, James. You never really got over her, did you?”

“No, I never did. Will you please put it back?”

Frank promised that he would, but naturally, they would have to examine the contents closely. He was still under suspicion, after all.

“I’ll make sure it’s safe, and then when you’re able, you can put it back, if you would prefer, just to make sure everything is still there. If you want to talk about, we can do that too. If not, I guess I can understand.”

Berry thanked him as he focused his vision. There were others there, moving around, looking all over the house. They still suspected him. Frank more than suspected. In his own mind, Frank knew, almost everything. He had to get rid of them. He had been unconscious almost all day. Night was beginning to fall.

“Frank, you and the guys, you have to get out of here. You will not find what you are looking for. You are wasting your time and taxpayer’s money. If I wasn’t such a nice guy I’d sue the city.”

“We’re about done here. I’m curious about why you seem to use acetone in your bathroom, but other than that, and some unknown female’s hairs, not a lot here. Well, not apart from the evidence of blood we found on your kitchen floor. I guess somebody had a nasty accident with a butcher’s knife, huh?”

Suddenly, for the first time, Berry threw up while aiming for the garbage can Frank had strategically placed beside him on the sofa. This went on for over two minutes, and then, at last, Berry saw the evidence in front of his eyes. He opened his shirt to see the boils on his chest and arms, and felt them on his face.

“Like I said, we’ll talk later,” Frank said. Soon the ambulance personnel, all wearing protective gas masks and clothing, entered into the home of Lieutenant James Berry. Frank and the other members of the homicide and cold case units followed outside as they carried the helpless Berry to a waiting ambulance. Frank was careful to lock the door on the way out, but as he took one last look inside, as night began to fall, he could have swore he heard something. He felt as though someone somewhere was watching him.

He shrugged it off. As thoroughly as he and the other guys had gone over this house in the last several hours, there was no way they could have missed anything. Maybe he needed to see a doctor already, he thought, as he closed and locked the door. After he left, Raven stepped out of the shadows and looked for James. She did not like this. James was always waiting for her when she woke up at night. He always waited with kind words and a tender caress as he led her to her bath, which he made tolerable for her by adding acetone to the bath water. The scent of it calmed her down and it warmed her skin. By the time that it was over it made her feel good for just a while, until her hunger started to get the better of her. Then, James would take her for a ride and let her pick the spot she wanted to get out and hunt for food. He would wait, and if necessary, he would come to her aid. He would be there to take her back home. They would sit and wait until the hated sun rose, and he would make sure she was comfortable and secure for the remainder of the day. When he was around, she no longer lived and even slept in terror.

Now, he was gone. She had to find him. Something was very badly wrong. There were strange men here, going all through the house, looking through things, walking around, several times walking directly over her. What did it mean? She had to find James. She took the black cloth he earlier gave her, and inhaled its scent. Yes, James was there, but other things were there as well. She would find him. She had to find him.

Before she started, however, her nostrils flared at an unexpected scent. Someone was here with her. He was hiding from her, but she quickly sniffed his location, and saw his green, baleful eyes staring into her. She growled a low, guttural warning tone, and then hissed as she approached. Nevertheless, the figure did not move, did not seem to as much as flinch. She saw his green eyes changing as he stepped forth out of the shadows. As he did, he spoke her name lowly, almost in a whisper. That voice-it sounded so familiar.

“It’s me, Raven-Joseph. You remember me, don’t you? You and I were best buds, you know.”

The man had long brown hair that hung to his shoulders, with the sides dyed a crimson red. Yes, she knew him, but he seemed different somehow. His voice seemed somehow different, as though it was his, but not really his. It seemed to approach from a faraway place, and trailed off into a static tone. Still, it was he. It had to be him. She tried to smile.

“Jo-seph,” she stammered as she tried to form the sound of his name. “Ka-rin-ski.”

“Yes, Raven, it’s me,” the figure said with a slight smile. “We are all waiting for you to join us. You remember how close we all were, and how much fun we used to have.”

Raven lurched at this, however, and turned away in fright.

“No, Raven, it’s all right,” the familiar face said. “We are all happy. All of us are waiting for you to join us. Rhino is waiting, and so is Sierra, and Milo, and Spiral. You remember Larceny don’t you? She joined the group after you left. She is there too, and another girl, Spanky. So come on. Don’t you want to see all your old friends again? Just follow me.”

He was now at the door to the basement, beckoning her to follow him. She did so, cautiously at first. Something about his scent did not seem right. She knew though that she was supposed to trust him. Once upstairs, she followed him to the door that led to the back of the house. Once she stepped outside, however, he was gone. All that remained was a large bird, glaring at her with those same baleful green eyes she knew from somewhere and which she both feared and detested. She approached the vulture, but as she did, the creature spread her wings and lifted up into the air. She alit on a branch on the tree far above her head, and then called out to her. She kept walking toward the open field to the back of the house, until she heard once more the voice of the man who claimed to be her friend, the man named Joseph.

“Keep walking, Raven,” he said. “Just follow Cynthia. She will show you where to go. She will lead the way. Soon, we will all be together again.”

She looked up toward the sky as she walked, and saw the great bird, which would circle around her and above her, and would turn and call out to her. She would see its shining green eyes, and soon that is all she could see as she walked into the mists of the night. Soon, she saw the figures of a group of people, standing off in the distance. She saw Sierra. She saw Milo. She saw Spiral. She saw Rhino. She saw all of them, standing together in the distance until she once more saw Joseph Karinsky step up beside them beckoning her to come to them. She smiled as she continued walking.

As she finally made it to where they all seemed to stand in wait for her, they seemed to fade away as though they were never there. The bird, however, still hovered in the air above her, flying in circles as it continued to call out for her. There was a strange scent in the air, and she could hear the voices of Joseph, Milo, Sierra, Spiral, and Rhino, calling out to her in whispers, but their voices were indistinct now. She picked the black cloth out of her pocket. It seemed to be an altar cloth of some type, and its scent filled the air. The more she walked, the stronger it became, until finally, she saw where she needed to go.

It was a church. James had taken her by this church on several occasions and warned her about the man who lived and worked there. Now, it had a new steeple, a large cross that adorned the roof above the front doorway. The closer she got, the more pronounced and all-enveloping became the scent of the cloth. It was soon all around her. This was where James wanted her to go, but he was not there. She would go there and wait for him.

Missed Opportunities-Prince Harry And The Islamic Shooting Gallery

Prince Harry, had he remained in Afghanistan, might have all but single-handedly subdued the Islamic insurgency, rendering it abjectly defeated for centuries to come. Why the royal family decided to remove him is a mystery for the ages. What danger could he possibly have been in due to Matt Drudges reporting that he has been stationed in Afganistan, on the front lines, pulling combat duty? Hell, he should have stayed there.

I can see it now. Word circulates throughout the entire radical Islamic world that Prince Harry, third in line to the British throne, is in Afghanistan, fighting on the front lines. Numbering in the millions, perhaps the tens of millions, these uncouth, illiterate, incoherent, ignorant savages converge on the place en masse.

Sure, the Brits would need to send extras forces, but what the hell-it would be like shooting morons in a barrel. All they have to do is establish a perimeter, and wait for the signs of dirty white rags mixed with your basic Taliban black. Take aim, and fire.

Imagine the words of one of our devout Islamic goat-humpers as he finishes his morning prayers, secure in the knowledge that he and his comrades will certainly be the ones God rewards by allowing them to capture the Prince for a fun weekend of torture, humiliation, and painful beheading. If he is wrong, then he will die, but that is all right. Some other worthwhile Muslim will surely prevail, and in the meantime, “God” will reward him with an eternal bevy of heavenly beauties, untouched by man.

AKHMED-I AM COMING, LORD ALLAH, TO CAPTURE THE ROYAL INFIDEL! GOD IS GREAT, AND MUHAMMED IS HIS PROPHEEE-(Gunfire interrupts his soliloquy and he falls in a hail of bullets)

AKHMED-I AM DYING HERE GOD. YOU SEE? DYING HERE! PRAISE BE TO ALLAH!

(Repeat ten million times-or hopefully ten times that much).

Royal Family-you got to learn to think outside the box.

Of course, it might not be too late. It could well be that the Islamic world might suffer a crisis of faith, having to deal with the idea that “God” somehow refused or failed to let them know of Prince Harry’s whereabouts, and otherwise with his divine grace guide them in such a way to cause the hated infidel to fall into their hands. It could well be the Islamic world might suffer a meltdown, a collective nervous breakdown, as they wonder in spiritual agony why their “God” did not deliver this victory to them.

On the other hand, maybe not. These are the same idiots who threatened an American airline company-post 9/11, mind you-with an “Islamic boycott”. Oh, the horror! Yeah, that would really show us, huh?

Fucking morons.

Not Quite Live Blogging Obama

Just got through listening to Obama's speech at Valley Forge High School in Parma Heights Ohio, on C-Span. It was somewhat impressive, and even comforting to a point. It's easy to see why he impresses the crowds that he continually draws to what you can describe as an event more accurately than a mere political rally.

Okay, so for a Democrat, he's not so bad on gun rights. When one woman stood up and asked him a question pertaining to this issue, however, I noted she seemed to be one of these strident, cold and shrill bitch type moms. It made me wonder, are these questioners really inside plants meant to convey a certain archetype? If so, it was effective. He managed to reassure the apparent Shrill Hillary clone as to how crime can be fought (giving due credit here to Bill Clinton's 100,000 "Cops" program, which he promises to reinstate) but also reassuring gun advocates that he believes in the Second Amendment right to bear arms.

Well, somewhat reassuring. He did mention closing the "gun show loophole" and having a federal tracking system of guns used in crimes to trace where those guns were purchased as a means of insuring gun dealers obeyed background check laws. By the same token, he never mentioned the old bugaboo about "assault rifles".

Overall, I give him a B- as far as his stated current position on gun owners rights, which is about as good as you can hope for from an allegedly liberal Democratic Senator.

On immigration and border security, pretty much the same drivel you can expect from most Democrats, and many Republicans-including McCain. However, he did throw in there somewhere that there needs to be an increase in border guards and border patrols, so for that reason, in addition to his promise to crack down on people purposely hiring illegal immigrants, I give him a C+.

He slipped up once in mentioning health care reform, referring to it as "welfare reform", though he quickly corrected himself. Still, I had to wonder, where the hell did that come from?

He promised to have open hearings on the subject, at which he would bring all parties to the table, including insurance and drug companies, wryly adding that they wouldn't, however, be able to buy every seat at the table. He chastised them for diverting so much of the money derived from their current tax breaks, allegedly needed for supposed research and development, into marketing, such as in commercials where people are happy and dancing in fields of flowers in commercials where you never know what drug is advertised, "except for that one. Yeah, you know what that one's for". That brought a pretty good laugh.

He's going to begin to bring troops home beginning his first year, though he swears not to withdraw precipitously, but slowly and deliberately. This would take two years, he said, which would put the Iraqi government on notice that they need to get their act together. In the meantime, he would continue to help build infrastructure, train their military and police, provide humanitarian aid, etc. There would be a continued presence, just not a permanent military base.

On the really positive front, he would end tax breaks to corporations that send jobs overseas, but would keep them for companies that keep jobs here in America. Hard to find fault with that. Well, for me it is anyway, so I won't try.

As of now, I still doubt I will vote for him, or for anybody else. By the same token, I have to admit, by the time the rally was over, I didn't feel so bad at the prospect of him being the next President Of The United States.

However, I do dread his judicial appointments, the one current fear above all others when it comes to Democratic candidates that I just cant seem to shake.

I'll say this. He has gotten a bad rap as far as being big on rhetoric and lacking on specifics. True, he spoke in pretty broad generalizations, but he gives the impression that he does have strong, compelling ideas, without feeling the need to go into minutiae, which would probably doom his campaign. Overall, I give his performance a B-. That's about as good as it gets with me for any politician of any party, so be impressed.

Though the man does have obvious rhetorical gifts, I was struck more by the cerebral policy of his address, his casual and yet assertive tone, his commanding and yet comforting demeanor.

Frankly, I tend to believe that if he gets the nomination, he will win the general election, though it might well be a close one. Why? Well, put it this way. Whenever a candidate who has great charisma runs for the presidency, he almost always wins. This has been a fact since the days of radio. Call it the "Harding Effect". I can't think of one time it has ever failed.

Buckley And His Legacy-Will It Die WIth Him?

My favorite saying of the late William F. Buckley, which I paraphrase here-

Even if you took the rhetoric of the marijuana prohibitionists at face value, prohibition of marijuana has still caused far more damage to far more people and to the country than marijuana ever would or could.

Buckley was not a god, of course, but this was one of a number of issues where he was, as far as I‘m concerned, right on. Of course, he was a thoughtful man who happened to be right far more often than he was wrong. On the Iraq War, he was correct to note that it was the correct thing to do to invade and overthrow Saddam. He was also right when he said, more or less, that the endeavor had fallen apart and we were losing the war. Then, he was right to support the Surge.

Some people in the early days thought he was an incendiary bigot and race baiter, as he made it clear that he understood the concerns of white southerners, and others, owing to the potential effects of miscegenation, and the likely turmoil that would come about as a result of forced desegregation.

He had some points in regards to the obvious culture clash, the heavy-handed tactics of the federal government, and the potential long term consequences of social engineering, though he was wrong in other regards about what he trumpeted as the basic immorality of blacks.

No, he wasn’t perfect. For proof of that, take into account the fact that he not only supported John McCain, but donated money to him. He was, however, perhaps one of the first architects of the on-going Republican takeover in the South, something that, when he began his career, could never have been foreseen.

Yet, he was not only an economic and foreign policy conservative, he was, as a devout Catholic, a social conservative as well. William F. Buckley did not just build the three-legged stool. He crafted it in his own image.

He founded the National Review, and was in fact one of the founding fathers of modern conservatism, along with Robert Taft, Barry Goldwater, and of course Ronald Reagan. When he retired, he handed the reins of the National Review over to Neo-con William Kristol-which was not a good choice, in my opinion. Of course, to be fair, I am only a part-time conservative. Buckley personified the movement.

Now, at his death at the age of eighty-two, that movement that he founded has fallen into disarray and seems in danger of itself passing on. One wonders if he would have noted the irony.

Although Buckley came across to many as an elitist, he distrusted elites, declaring famously he would trust the first one hundred names in the Boston phone directory before he would the faculty of Harvard. It has been well over forty years since he spoke this line, and as far as I know he never repeated it. Well, after all, those first one hundred names in the Boston phone directory probably voted for Ted Kennedy by a two-to-one margin.

Nabokov's Final Gambit

Dmitiri Nakokov is in somewhat of a bind, a true moral dilemna. Should he abide by the deathbed wishes of his father, the author Vladimir, and burn the first draft of his last and unpublished novel? Or, should he disregard those wishes and save the novel-perhaps even publish it?

If Dmitri decides to burn the novel, I will certainly support him. By the same token, I support him should he decide not to, whether he publishes the novel or keeps it in a locked vault, or donates it to a collection of various author’s work, or whatever he might decide.

His problem is, he seems to want to save the work, but can’t seem to think of a valid reason to disregard the late elder Nabokov’s wishes.

Well, suppose Vladimir left Dmitri instructions to take his only tangible material possessions-let’s say it was a million dollars worth of diamonds-and dump them to the bottom of the Caribbean. Or, what if Vladimir left a large house, and instructed a homeless and destitute Dmitiri that he should use the entirety of the money left his father to have the house dismantled, or razed, or burned to the ground, or imploded.

Unless these instructions were codified in a legal will, could anyone fault Dmitri for refusing to destroy or otherwise disregard what is, after all, his own legal birthright and inheritance?

I do not assume, of course, that Dmitri Nabokov is destitute and homeless, but that is really beside the point. This novel, left in the care of Dmitri, is as much his birthright, his inheritance, as any other tangible asset that may have been left behind by the elder Nabokov.

Dmitri has, in my opinion, the right and the prerogative to dispose of it as he will-or not.