Chapter 3: Home Base
I woke up in time to dress and make it to church for the Mass at six in the morning. It had become a daily thing. Part of it was my duties as Eucharistic minister, which I tried to fulfill as often as possible, no matter who was shooting at me. Part of it was simple devotion.
Another part was pragmatism. I wasn’t concerned about “topping off the superpowers,” as Jeremy called it, but with the ring on my finger. The diamond in the setting had been split from a dangerous relic—the full version was the Soul Stone, a weapon I had used against Tiamat. However, the jewel ran on virtue ... or vice. The complete Soul Stone was kept under the Vatican to make sure the energies that charged it weren’t destructive.
The last thing I wanted was the jewel on my finger, the Soul Ring, going to the dark side. I could only imagine it taking me along for the ride, instead of vice versa. If it picked up on sin and vice as much as it picked up on virtue, one New York City train ride under Manhattan might turn it into a nuclear bomb.
My Mass was at the nearest church. It was also the church nearest to the station. Most police funerals took place there because so many of us chose to live the neighborhoods we worked. The twice-yearly police mass happened there. It had a big organ, seating for a thousand or two, marble floors and columns. There was gold leaf and stained glass windows and big brass doors....and it was walking distance from the catering hall.
But as a church, it was fairly ugly. For all of the quality construction materials, it was indistinguishable from a standard North American barn.
Leaving Our Lady of Lourdes took me across the street, into an island in the middle of a poorly thought-out intersection. Two islands had to be constructed to keep the streets separated since all of them were at different angles. Part of it was this part of Long Island had once been farmland, and they just paved the cow paths. They were also very drunk cows—the two islands separated seven streets within twenty-five feet.
I crossed three streets and came to a corner. The parcel of land was walled up by ten feet of plywood—the house had been torn down and was being built back up again. My house was two more blocks away, crossing two more streets. Going left or right would take me home.
However, going right would take me near the house of a friend of Mariel’s who had been murdered. She had been the second victim of a possessed serial killer.
So I went straight, even though I had to bend down to avoid some low-hanging branches. I dropped lower to avoid one that had broken and swung down even lower.
Then the two gunshots snapped over my head.
I threw myself forward and dove into a roll. By the time my roll finished, I had come up on one knee, gun in hand, facing the plywood wall. I would have returned fire immediately, but there was no shot. The plywood wall concealed the shooter; it was also too thin to prevent a bullet from going in one side, and out the other block.
Third rule of firearm use – don’t shoot unless you know what’s behind the target, in case the bullet went through. Any blind bullet could have taken out a passing pedestrian, a vehicle, or worse, taken out a kid.
I threw myself behind a car parked at the sidewalk. If the shooter really wanted to get me, he’d have to come for me. Technically, the Soul Ring could have created a shield as part of a direct assault on his position. But displaying God’s gifts in public went against every instinct I had. Besides, one good video posted to the internet would have made my life difficult.
I waited a moment and listened. There were the sounds of traffic from the main road. There was a gentle breeze. There were...
Footsteps over gravel, running away from me. Scrabbling over plywood, on the other side of the house.
I was on my feet and running for the corner again. My gun was low and behind my thigh. Last thing this shootout needed was a civilian calling 9-1-1 about a man with a gun. This was the part of New York City where people did see something and say something.
I wheeled around the corner, coming in low.
The assailant was already down the block and making a hard right—running away from my home. By the time I caught up to his position, he’d be the next block over, on Springfield Boulevard.
I ran to Springfield, moving parallel to him, running past an apartment building that took up half of block across from the church.
By the time I made it to Springfield, the sidewalks were empty. I waited a moment in the hope that I had outrun him. Because there was no way that he had outrun me—if he went up or down Springfield or crossed the street, he would still be in plain sight.
What if he’s lying in wait for me? I wondered.
I moved cautiously along Springfield, heading South. I wheeled around the corner, gun high.
There was no one there. My assailant had made a clean getaway.
I think it’s time to start changing up my route to and from church.
I called it in on my cell phone. It would be a waste of time, but it was procedure.
As for who could have been out to kill me? Both lists were as long as I was tall. One list consisted of all of the supernatural forces of Hell that wanted me, dead, damned, or both. The other list was merely a collection of politicians I had annoyed.
Demons and politicians liked me less than a lot of the people I arrested.
However, I hadn’t caught the smell of evil. Thus, the odds were good that this one was merely a human menace. Probably a political one. I had been back in the city only a few months, ample time for even the local incompetent hooligans to arrange for a hit. Yes, I meant the politicians.
Then again, the killer from the day before had gotten away. From what I had seen of the assailant, it could have been the same man. If he held a grudge, I wanted to know about it. Frankly, the most important part of calling it in would be to see if there was any evidence connecting the two.
You might be thinking, Tommy’s gone paranoid. This is New York City. People don’t need a reason to kill each other. This could have been a random psycho.
True.
It also could have been someone who saw my picture in the paper a few years ago and wanted to kill a “celebrity.”
It could have been a lot of things.
But the way my life worked, there was rarely such a thing as a “random encounter.”
It took a while for my backup to clear the area. There were two or three doorbell cameras that had an angle on the attacker. He still came out as more of a blur. It was also clear that he had a ski mask, so any footage would have been of minimal use.
I took a long way around to get home, just in case.
Upon arrival, my house was situation normal—odd.
Between breakfast and classes with Mariel, Jeremy was exercising. The entire family had spent time with me in Rome, so Jeremy’s idea of exercise had been cribbed from some Swiss Guards he had befriended. His idea of push-ups, for example, started with a headstand and then pushing his entire body straight up. It was better than trying to explain his Parkour running routines.
Lena was in the kitchen, putting away the contents from the dishwasher... with her mind. At present, she loaded plates and glasses into their own cabinets, as well as sorted out the silverware. Telekinetic teenagers were downright normal compared to the last few years of my life.
I am so glad we don’t have visitors. That doesn’t even count the bullet holes no one covered up.
Mariel sat on the couch, reading through today’s coursework. Mariel had long, wavy, chestnut brown hair, round, deep-brown eyes, a pleasant heart-shaped face, and a healthy olive complexion.
I sat down on the couch and put an arm around her.
“Hey. How are you?”
She looked at me, her bright brown eye looking through stray strands of brunette hair. A smile quirked in the corner of her lips.
“What happened now?” she asked in her whiskey voice. “Supernatural or criminal?”
I winced internally. She didn’t need me to tell her something had gone wrong—why should she? I was late coming in from church, and I texted her that I was delayed after I had called it in—before she was awake.
“Criminal, I think. Someone shot at me from behind the construction site near the church.”
Mariel rolled her eyes and looked back at the work. “Welcome home.”
I sighed. “I know.”
She read over the workbooks for a moment. “You know that our two teenagers are probably better educated than we are, don’t you?”
I shrugged. “We’ve had the opportunity to teach them ourselves. That and our time at the Vatican. We’ve taught them metalworking and shop. We won’t even go into the math that the Swiss sniper taught them. Jeremy knows more theology than I do at this point, as well as Latin and Greek. Lena has been teaching him Polish, German, and Russian. Remind me, did they both read Chaucer in the original Old English, or a translation?”
“Original. Though I think of it as extra crispy, really.”
I nodded. Ever since we had been driven from the city, the family had moved to Tennessee. Local home-schooling was intense and practical. After more than six months of that, it was a year of home-schooling at the Vatican.
Although neither Mariel nor I had asked why Lena and Jeremy both knew the names of veins and arteries so well. I figure there had been a Swiss melee specialist with a practice knife and a diagram of the best placement for stabbing people somewhere.
“The Department of Education still giving you a problem?” I asked.
Mariel gave a slight nod, still reading. “You’d think we’re going to teach them black rites in the basement.”
“I think the state would prefer that,” I muttered.
In my year away from the city, everything had gotten a little strange in the local atmosphere. I had only been back a short while, and yet I had needed to break up several library “activities for children” because someone had the bright idea of inviting a convicted sex offender to read to the kids. He was dressed up in women’s clothing, so someone had thought that somehow made it a good idea.
As someone who spent his rookie year in Greenwich Village, I could still tell you it was getting weirder out there. This is after witnessing the Halloween parade, the full event of which could only be broadcast on premium cable after dark.
So I was a little cynical about anything to do with local government...
Okay, the politician who tried to have me assassinated might have contributed to that.
I was going to spend a few minutes on the couch with Mariel before I grabbed breakfast and ran off to work...
Then the doorbell rang.
Nuts.
I sighed, and was already in motion. “I’ll get it.”
Mariel gave me an “Uh huh,” as she kept reading.
I made it to the front door and checked through the peephole.
There was a short, squat, relatively ugly old woman out there. She wore a gray pantsuit, giving her the look of a North Korean prison warden. Her gray hair was piled on her head like compost.
But she didn’t seem to be armed. I could take her if I had to.
No, I’m not paranoid. People usually are out to get me.
I opened the door and smiled at her as pleasantly as I could. “Hello. I’m Detective Nolan. Can I help you, ma’am?”
She glowered at me. In a voice that sounded like Harvey Fierstein with a 20-pack-a-day habit, she said, “Did you just assume my gender?”
I restrained from rolling my eyes. While I had been away, someone had also thought it was a good idea to make “misgendering” a prosecutable offense. However, that “law” had come and gone as a fad, as soon as the city’s lawyers told someone that the city would get sued (and lose) if they tried to enforce that particular joke of a law.
I ignored her stupidity and said, “How can I help you?”
She growled. “Shamika Meadowsweet. CPS. I’m here to evaluate your new adoption. Bring me the children.”
Internally, I winced. Externally, I forced my smile to stay in place. With an attitude this upbeat and positive, I was ready to slam the door and call a lawyer. But that would probably end poorly for all concerned. City government didn’t like it when citizens did something without their approval—including bringing Lena home and educating her ourselves.
I already had a bad feeling about how this would go. Ever since we returned, Mariel and I had been getting flak from the Department of Education about homeschooling.
If I had turned down my paranoia, I would have considered that the arrival of Child Protective Services was standard with any adoption.
I nodded. “I’ll bring the children. One moment.”
I closed the door in her face. After all, she didn’t ask to be invited in.
“Kids,” I barked loud enough to carry through the house. “To the front, please.”
Lena and Jeremy were at the door in under twenty seconds.
Both children were tall, and neither one looked like they were going to stop growing. I recalled that boys started growing later in puberty—but Jeremy and Lena were already 5’10”, and Jeremy was fifteen, Lena sixteen.
Jeremy still looked very much like a boy. His brown curly hair was cute, and I wanted to ruffle it. His jeans were well-worn, and his T-shirt was a Templar knight and sword on a white background.
That shirt will go over well with this creature.
Lena was in a dress. It was bright pink, but it was somehow not like most pink – it wasn’t so obnoxious it burned my retinas. Her blonde hair was back in a ponytail. She looked ... concerned. If I had to guess, it was the face I made when I smelled evil.
“Child Protective Services is here,” I told them. I glanced at Lena. “This is standard for any adoption. So it should be SOP with you.” To Jeremy: “Not so much for you. So, both of you, head on a swivel. Who has their phone?”
Both of them held up with hands with a smile. Both of them had their phone out. Each phone had a recording app armed and ready.
I think I raised them right.
I walked out of the room. CPS wanted to talk with the kids by themselves—even though I shouldn’t have been thinking of them as kids. At the rate their education was going, they would be ready for college in a few months.
I microwaved the breakfast Mariel had made for me. By the time the plate was scraped clean, CPS was done with both of my kids. Neither of them looked happy. Jeremy excused himself to hit the showers. Lena went back to the kitchen to finish the dishes.
I walked back to the porch. Shamika Meadowsweet was packing up her notes.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
She gave me a smile that, in any other circumstance, I would consider a leer. It was possible she was doing it wrong.
In her croaking voice, she rasped, “Nice ring.”
She looked at the Soul Ring Ring on my right hand.
To all appearances, it looked like a college ring, with a similarly large jewel in the center. Though in this case, the jewel looked like a multi-faceted rose-cut diamond, set in a black and silver band. Like a college ring, it had two emblems, one on either side of the jewel. One side was the Crusader Cross of Jerusalem—a cross with four other crosses, one in each quarter of the primary cross. The other emblem was a shield, like a family crest, in front of the crossed keys and papal crown of the Vatican flag. The shield looked like it had an inverted sword on it, forming a cross—the coat of arms for the Swiss Guards. The shield only displayed the coat of arms for the current Pope.
“Souvenir from being abroad,” I told her honestly. “Now, about Lena?”
“Your choice of ward is ... convenient.”
I arched a brow. Now, I was confused. What part of adopting a teenager was convenient? For anybody? Ever?
I held my hands up in mock surrender. “Sorry. I’m afraid I don’t get your meaning.”
The old biddy smiled in a queer fashion. Yes, the word no longer meant strange in modern use, but it was the best way I could describe it.
“What is she now?” she croaked. “A? C? Small D?”
I blinked. My confusion only deepened. “No. She gets straight As. We wouldn’t homeschool her if she was doing badly.”
Meadowsweet scoffed at me so hard, she snarled. “Don’t jerk me around. You come back from Europe with a hot teen, and you expect me to think there’s nothing funny going on?”
Then the penny dropped.
I kept insisting to my confessor that I had a temper. He seemed to think that having a flash of wanting to throw a pedophile out a top-story window was rational and reasonable. But I don’t think he ever truly understood how deep the desire ran or how intense it was. So at moments like that, no one really grasped that yes, I did have a temper. I just hid it well and never acted on it.
At that particular moment, I was enduring an occasion of sin—an opportunity of great temptation. In this case, it was very tempting to unleash every dollop of gratuitous anger I had ever felt on this vile Creature from the Black Lagoon that had been crapped out by some monstrosity in CPS.
At that moment, my cell phone rang. I didn’t take my eyes from Shamika, lest she swoop in like a scavenger and take my kids away.
“Nolan.”
“Good morning!” came the perky voice of my partner. “We have a body.”
Great timing. I can avoid having a body of my own to bury in the backyard.