Blind Instinct jc-7 Page 12

  Inspector Richard Sharpe introduced Jessica to Father Jerrard Luc Sante, who flew from the chair like a witch to take her hand in his. He'd been sitting behind Sharpe's desk, studying the hard copy of the message left at the base of the tongue, presumably by Burton's killer.

  Luc Sante stood rigidly stiff, a man in obvious physical pain, holding himself together through sheer willpower and defiance. His vivid, mesmerizing, stark blue eyes shone clear and icily lucid. Even in his handshake, she could feel the virtual wince that coursed through his body at her touch.

  Sharpe had promised an ancient man, but he had said nothing of the man's infirmity, his demeanor, the folds of skin, the rutted wrinkles of a face that had seen too many evils in one lifetime.

  “I have heard so much about you, Dr. Coran,” his voice, unlike the body, came forth with ease, free of any hacking or cough or wracking pain. The wispy hair, like cotton candy, made angel-like push-ups atop his head.

  Jessica wondered if he'd live long enough to actually see a book written much less printed. “And I have heard a great deal about you, sir.”

  “From Sharpe here, no doubt. We have worked a number of cases together, have we not, Sharpe?”

  Sharpe cleared his throat and said, “Dr. Luc Sante has helped clarify a number of certifiables for us over the years. He's had a long association with the Yard.”

  “How long now, Richard? Tell the young doctor.”

  “Thirty some odd years, Dr. Coran.”

  “Remarkable.”

  “And in that time, tell her what I've done for Scotland Yard.”

  “Father Luc Sante, as Dr. Luc Sante, has helped tremendously in our understanding of both killers and their victims over the years.”

  Luc Sante muttered something under his breath, unhappy with Sharpe's brief and general reply, now taking up for himself. “I have helped solve over seven hundred cases, thanks to my knowledge of how evil works through men, my dear.”

  “Indeed a grand history, sir.”

  “Of course, I haven't the reputation you have, and in most cases, I'm well behind the scenes, acting as a psychotherapist, you see.”

  “Father Luc Sante also knows Latin. What would you translate this little message to mean, Father?” asked Sharpe.

  Jerrard, some sixty plus years of age, Jessica guessed, debilitated through some disease he likely kept at bay with prescription drugs, swallowed hard before replying and said, “Well, Richard, it's fairly straightforward. No mystery here. It simply reads, 'Grant unto me, Blessed Mother.' “

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “It is a supplication, a prayer.”

  “What kind of prayer winds up as a brand beneath the tongue?”

  “It is a supplication to the Virgin Mary to bestow special honor on the deceased.”

  “Special honor?”

  “Quite…”

  “I'd say it looks like a fairly twisted honor, from where I stand.”

  “Read my book! And Richard, you must purchase a copy. You owe me as much!” He held up a copy of Twisted Faiths: A Jungian Examination of Wrongful and Harmful Beliefs Throughout the Ages, which had been lying on Richard's desk. “Finally just had the damn thing bound-self-published. No more time to waste with wretched and incompetent people in the publishing world.”

  “Rejected, huh?” asked Richard.

  “Like a two-shilling whore, Richard, but I tell you the publishing world is one colossal whore, a giant bitch! All of them, merely interested in the almighty pound and what some teen-aged Hollywood brat has for breakfast. Who or what Fergie is feeling today, or whether the Queen's ass is held too high, or if her hair will be allowed to go white this season or not- shameless twaddle!”

  Jessica took the book from him and fingered through the opening pages, seeing an introduction by the famous psychotherapist guru, Dr. Phillip Deacre.

  Meanwhile, Luc Sante, like a fount, continued to talk. “There've been twisted beliefs and twisted awards bestowed for those very beliefs for… well, for countless generations.”

  Sharpe broke in, asking, “So, Dr. Luc Sante, what do you make of this tongue branding? Has it… Have you ever come across it before?”

  “A cult of St. Michael, originated as early as the resurrection, you might say, revived during the Dark to Middle Ages, yes, and never fully extinguished. Believed to inspire both the recipient and those in audience to cling a bit closer to God, you see.”

  “Inspire? But how does the cult inspire?”

  “By driving out Satan, all his minions, including but not limited to the mental hellions.”

  “By driving out evil?”

  “Combating evil as defined by the cult, of course-exorcisms, all that, which can include arresting sickness and boils and all manner of physical demonics, you see, as well as mental demonics.”

  “I see.”

  “Nothing really new under the sun in religion, actually, Dr. Coran, merely new twists on old tales, most rather predictable at best. Not unlike your American cinema, really. Save these followers, these fans, believe what they do constitutes the salvation of their souls.”

  “What are you saying? That Burton may have been a member of a cult?”

  “Quite possibly, or their unwitting sacrifice. Either way, it bears looking into, wouldn't you agree?”

  “Well, yes, absolutely,” replied Richard, as excited as Jessica had seen him.

  Jessica closed the book and looked from Sharpe to Luc Sante who declared, “Don't you see, Richard, my boy? If Burton accepted the emblem of a cult, then perhaps his death leads directly back to this very cult activity.”

  “Luc Sante, you are a genius.”

  “I did not find the markings. She did,” he replied, pointing a shaking, shriveled finger at Jessica who felt the finger pierce a spot between her eyes. “She's your hero this time round, me boy.” He then glanced at his watch. “It's half past ten! I've already missed one appointment. I must run, Richard. Keep me apprised, and as always, I will do whatever in my power.”

  “Let us give you a lift, Father,” suggested Sharpe. “Get you there in half the time.”

  “Run the siren?” he asked with a glint in the eye. “If you like.”

  “You well know I love it.”Jessica and Richard exchanged a smile at the old man's expense. Jessica thought him lovely. As they made their way to the motor pool, Jessica asked Luc Sante, “The words the ancients used in their tongue branding, Father…”

  “Yes?” he replied.

  “Would they have been the same as those we've found here today?”

  “Actually, they would have been quite close, indeed. But not likely identical, no.”

  “Perhaps we are dealing with someone who knows about this ancient cult or similar cults in early Christianity.”

  “That is a likely possibility, yes, my dear, yes. However, no coincidence is also an enormous force in the universe, controlled at the hand of Puck, the devilishly sneaky orphan of Satan who enjoys a good laugh at our expense.”

  “Puck?”

  “Of course, Puck. What? You do not believe in evil spirits or mischievous spirits aloft in the world?”

  “I believe in a palpable evil.”

  “That finds its mark and inhabits a man's heart.”

  “Or a woman's, yes.”

  “Agreed then we are.”

  She thought he spoke like the Star Wars character of Yoda.

  The siren wail all the way to his church and office delighted the wizened old man. “How like a banshee wail it is,” he said repeatedly, a smile gracing his weathered features.

  Father Luc Sante's church stood amid the squalor of a rundown neighborhood, looking like a castle under siege, held hostage by its surroundings. The church, built on the order of a small cathedral, had seen better days. It hardly measured up to the great cathedrals abounding in London. Still it displayed magnificent oak doors with huge metal hinges and a beautiful cupola, graced on all sides by wide-eyed, curious gargoyles staring down on them as
they entered, making Jessica wonder if stone could think.

  A light rain had driven them to rush from car to entrance-way rather quickly and hurriedly. Once inside, the priest quickly found himself on familiar ground and moved with more fervor than before, going straight for the office he maintained at one end of the rectory. A pleasant-looking, mild-appearing, gray-haired secretary named Janet, her gray skin like that of the gargoyles outside, greeted Luc Sante with a stem warning. With gritted teeth, as if meaning to bite him when finished, she said, “I won't be made the fool for you, Father.”

  “Whatever can be troubling you, my dear Miss Eeadna?” asked Luc Sante, taking both her hands in his in a protective gesture.

  “I won't stand and lie for you, not here, not in eternity, not anywhere, Father.”

  “Ahhh, my patients, is it?”

  “Will you tell me what I'm to say when you fail to meet with one of your… so-called patientsT'

  “Keep patience, my dear Janet. Always keep patience in your heart, dear.”

  A younger man in vestments came from a second office, hushing Miss Janet Eeadna, as her desk nameplate had her. The younger priest asked if Miss Eeadna would care to take tea with him. She beamed, delighted, taking the young priest's arm and sauntering out with him.

  “That's Martin, soon to replace me here. Good man, really. 'Fraid the bishop won't be calling me out of retirement, no. But what I shall do in retirement, I don't know, Richard. I pray the police keep me active.”

  “We will call on you, Father, no doubt,” assured Richard. “Look, we must be getting back. Much to do today, you see, so-”

  “Oh, no! You must stay to meet Martin. He'll be right back, I'm sure. Oh, here he is now! Martin!”

  The younger minister beamed, grasping hands all around, shaking vigorously and apologizing just as vigorously for “poor Miss Eeadna” whose mind, it seemed, wasn't at all what it once was. “I shall have to clean house once you've retired. Father,” he chided the old man, “but I do appreciate your leaving the old parish picture up,” he finished, pointing to a pastoral little parish in a wooded area in a painting behind the desk which Jessica thought beautiful.

  “My first parish, painted it myself,” explained Luc Sante with a shrug. “Once dabbled in art but gave it up.” He then said to Jessica, “Dear Miss Eeadna needs rest, and the church will most certainly see to her getting a fair pension.”

  The two men seemed most agreeable about the changing of the guard, Jessica thought.

  “Allow me, Richard and Jessica, to introduce my young prot6g6, who will be taking over my duties when I retire in a few weeks, Father Martin Christian Strand.”

  Sharpe introduced himself and Dr. Coran to the younger man whose blond haired ponytail marked him as of a new generation of clerics. “Saint Martin, we call him round here,” said Luc Sante, a twinge of bitterness in his tone. “Such a do-gooder, Richard, you've not seen the like before! Has no business in this business, and certainly no future in it, going at it the way he does!” He roared at his own joke. Strand joined in the laughter, Richard following suit. Jessica managed a smile.

  The room felt darker than it actually was, what with the old, darkly stained wood bookcases all around and the huge, oak furniture with anthropomorphic legs.

  Strand modestly declined the sainthood, explaining, “We don't need any more saints in the church. What we desperately need here in the community center is a new toaster and a microwave!”

  Suddenly, a door burst open and from within Dr. Luc Sante's inner office stepped a man with a wild shock of hair and eyes both bloodshot and bloodthirsty, shouting, “I need to talk to you, Luc Sante! Now!”

  “Jessica, Richard, go with Martin, and he will show you around St. Albans. I must see to Mr. Hargrove here who has been so very patiently awaiting my arrival.”

  “ 'Fraid I can't stay, but you go ahead, Jessica,” Sharpe told her. “I'll leave the car and driver for you outside.”

  Sharpe's departure came so suddenly, Jessica hadn't time to protest. She and Strand took to the massive corridor. Strand pointed out the paintings adorning the walls and the Italian marble floors as they moved along.

  He explained what they did by way of helping the homeless and helpless of the neighborhood around the old cathedral located near one of London's most notorious bazaars where anything from drugs to an honest to God medieval table and chairs set could be had for the right price.

  Strand appeared a devoted disciple of Luc Sante's, and was most obviously devoted to the old man's causes. Strand showed her a room where local children played at games and made things with leather and hemp. He showed her the soup kitchen where she saw the poor being fed.

  They walked back toward Strand's and Luc Sante's offices afterward. Martin Strand-handsome, tall, powerfully built, remarked on how sad it sometimes became. 'Toiling here inrelative obscurity, it pains me to see Father Luc Sante's work going ignored. He is rather a genius, after all,” finished Strand.“So, you've read his book?” she asked.“Every word he's ever committed to paper, yes.”

  Jessica saw Luc Sante's red-eyed, wild-haired patient ambling fast away from the office and out the oak doors, the sunlight pouring into the corridor as a result. The aberrant thought that Dr. Luc Sante had just been murdered by one of his own patients crossed her mind like a fleeing bird before it escaped on seeing the old man in his office doorway, waving them to return.

  When they reentered there was no Miss Janet Eeadna to disrupt them, and no more patients to see for the day, according to the old man who looked pleased.

  “And how is it with Mr. Hargrove today, Father?”

  “He is a man plagued with as thorny a bush of perplexing problems as I've seen in years. Still hearing the voices, I'm afraid.”

  “Surely, they're no longer telling him to kill his wife?”

  “No, they've quaffed that issue it would seem.”

  “But 'ave grown shrill on other issues, is it?”

  “By my word, Martin! Have you placed one of those bugging devices in me office?”

  “I 'ave not, but I will if you wish it so.”

  “Can you imagine that, Dr. Coran, every word a patient says in there”-he stopped to point to his psychotherapy office-”heard at some remote location by any and all who happen along? It would be the ruin of me, but perhaps it might also enlighten some otherwise intelligent folk who still have not one flimsy idea that evil walks into my office every day.”

  Before Jessica could reply Strand cautioned her, saying, “You'd best watch this old magician, Dr. Coran.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Do you know what we in England call a psychiatrist, Doctor?”

  “Inform me.”

  “A trick cyclist is what.”

  She laughed at this and Luc Sante sneered. “Go on with your duties. Saint Martin. And if you haven't enough to keep you busy about here…” he threatened.

  “I'm gone, I'm gone, and how very pleasant to've met you, Dr. Coran.”

  “Out! Get out!” The old man ended near tears of laughter. Jessica thought him sweet; obviously a man who lived every single moment to the fullest.

  Father Strand and Doctor Luc Sante's relationship was charming, and Jessica felt the latter was an extremely likable, knowledgeable Renaissance man, quite up on criminal psychology. He had quickly won Jessica's confidence and friendship.

  “I wish to thank you for the tour of the cathedral, Dr. Luc Sante, and for deciphering the mysterious words found under Burton's tongue.”

  “You are leaving so soon?”

  “There's a great deal waiting back at the Yard for me, yes.”

  “At least keep this and read it,” he said, lifting the copy of his book that Jessica had skimmed in the car coming over.

  “Let me pay for the book,” she insisted. And while he began to protest, in the end, he willingly took the British currency amounting to $24.95 American.

  “It barely covers the printing costs. Dr. Coran,” he apologetically adde
d. “But I'm pleased, in the end, that you have taken a copy of my self-published treatise on the subject of the ultimate evil.” Jessica read the book's abbreviated title, without the Jungian preface, giving pause to the words: Twisted Faiths. A tagline read: A History of Fetishism and Cultism in Middle Europe and Great Britain 1400 to Present Day.

  Jessica said her good-byes and Strand returned in time to usher her to the door where he smiled and said, “He's a wonderful soul, that man.”

  “Yes, I think we can well agree on that.”

  “I could do nothing to harm him. Yet here I am taking his one love, St. Albans, from him in a matter of weeks.”

  “He seems to have made his peace with it, and he… Well, I daresay he couldn't have selected a better successor. Will you also be doing the trick cyclist's work?” she quipped.

  “I have some certification papers to finish up, but yes, as a matter of fact, I will. Regardless of what some think, the Vatican is interested in our carrying on as usual here at St. Albans.”

  “Good luck to you then, and I'm sure we'll see one another again.”

  “I'm sure.”

  He waved her off, the handsome Billy Budd of the place, looking like Richard Chamberlain in his youth, a regal and muscular young turk, she thought. The man was at extreme odds with the old man of St. Albans, so filled was Strand with rich life, earthy color, vigor, and power. He waved to her as she dashed down the walk doing her best to remain dry without an umbrella.

  The midday drizzle had turned the sky a gunmetal gray, and the gargoyles far up overhead, guarding St. Albans as it were, wept under the steady drenching they stoically took. Yet, many of the gargoyles enjoyed the wet, even ciphoned off water from the roof, their tubular interiors acting as waterspouts, a utilitarian use of art if Jessica had ever seen it. On the one hand, the statuary stood as sentinels between two worlds, on the other, as sediment-filled drainpipes-quite the concrete opposite of the otherworldly symbolism attaching to the grim-faced stone monsters, and an oddly disproportionate thing to behold, she thought. But then, each day she discovered something new and queer and fascinating about London, England, and with this final thought on the matter, she climbed into the police car left behind for her “transport needs” by the ever thoughtful Inspector Sharpe.