Chapter eighteen
Bishop Reginald White stared at the crackling fire, his thick thumbs nervously polishing the jewels on the gold cross slung around his neck. So much had happened in the past twenty four hours, his life had been turned upside down and he wondered if it would ever return to normal.
The previous night, as he sat at home enjoying a glass of brandy and a cigar, he was disturbed by a knock at the door. More disturbing still was the man on his doorstep. Olive-skinned, slick black hair in a grey suit, he introduced himself with a flick of a business card. Martyn Puliga, Vatican Envoy.
He spoke with a soft Italian accent, his voice barely above a whisper but with a sense of urgency that White couldn't ignore. 'Bishop, collect yourself a small bag of belongings for a few nights stay. You are coming with us.'
'Us?' White said. 'Stay?'
'Please, sir. There is little time. I have confirmation, from the very highest order, and I am assured that you must come with us for your safety.' The envoy removed a padded envelope from his jacket and handed it to the bishop. He opened it and pulled out a wax tablet. The papal seal. White's throat dried as his fingers traced the indentations. He snapped open the thin wax and removed the paper within. Written in Latin and signed by the pope himself, it gave orders for Bishop Reginald White to follow the implicit instructions of the bearer.
White gathered a few essentials - clothes, cigar case, shaving kit - and threw them in an overnight bag. Envoy Puliga followed him around the house, hovering close to windows and doorways as the Bishop flustered around his three bedrooms.
'Can you at least tell me what this is all about?' White asked, hurriedly searching through drawers.
'No questions, please. Senor Garcia will explain all things.'
'Who is Senor Garcia?' White said, struggling along the landing with his case.
'Please, no questions. Hurry.'
With that, White completed packing and followed Puliga out of the house and to a large black Lexus that was parked across the street. A blocky, grimfaced man emerged from the rear door and held it open. White was ushered into the back seat where another large, grimfaced man sat. White squeezed into the rear of the car and was hemmed in between the two. Puliga sat in the driver's seat and started the engine.
'Everything OK?' the man in the passenger seat asked.
'Fine. Everything is fine,' Puliga replied.
White was uncomfortably crushed between two men in the dark rear seat of the car but decided to keep quiet for the moment. Blue road signs flashed by outside, highlighted momentarily by the car's halogen beams. They were heading onto the motorway.
'Can I ask what is going on now?' White asked eventually. There was a moment's silence as the two men in the front glanced at each other.
'You will have to forgive me. My name is Alessandro Garcia, and I am the Vatican representative sent for your protection.'
'The Vatican wants to protect me? From what?'
'From a witch, of course. Why else would they send a witch finder?' Garcia said. 'We understand it is a low level threat. You are being escorted to a safe location for the foreseeable future, until the threat level turns out to be insubstantial or further instructions are received.'
White remained quiet for the rest of the journey. He was stunned by the reply but too nervous to ask further questions. The men in the car were determined, of a single purpose, and were going to deliver him somewhere. If they made up stories to get him there - then further questions would only bring more ridiculous answers.
They drove through the night, reaching the border of Scotland and beyond. They left the main roads and headed into the hills, stopping at a small, squat castle. In earlier years it would have been a hunting lodge, and if not owned by the church would surely have been remodelled as a hotel for quiet weekend breaks.
The Lexus pulled up to the front doors and more men came out to greet them and unpack the car. All were serious and intent on their task. The bishop was ushered to a state room and instructed to rest. Exhausted by the car journey and the stress of the situation he was asleep within minutes.
He woke to find Puliga at his side with a simple breakfast. 'Time to rise,' he said. 'You are requested downstairs.'
White finished his breakfast in silence and made his way downstairs to a huge reception room, adorned with stag heads on the walls and wildlife oil paintings. Garcia sat in a leather chair before a fire in the grand fireplace and stood as the Bishop entered.
'Thank you for your patience,' Garcia said, beckoning White to sit opposite him.
'Can you explain what is going on?' White pleaded, settling into a chair.
'I'm afraid I have very little to share,' Garcia said, 'Only to say that my mission is to ensure your safety.'
White remembered the warnings uttered by MacDonald at the funeral. If only he could see me now, he thought, with bodyguards of my own. 'What is it you're protecting me from? Has it anything to do with the Valentine Trust?'
'If the Vatican had wanted me to know any further details, they would have told me. All I know is that we will be here for a few days, perhaps over Christmas, and we will be informed when the danger is past.'
'It's a little awkward for me, I'm afraid. I have plans over the holidays.'
'Cancelled,' Garcia said. 'We have taken the liberty of informing your secretary of your absence.'
White slumped back into the chair. He was too tired to complain, and events had moved so fast that they left him confused. He reached for a nearby glass of milk.
'Please - do not touch,' said Garcia, shaking his head. 'The milk is not for drinking.'
Bishop White sniffed at the glass and wrinkled his nose. 'This milk is sour anyway.'
Garcia leaned forward and inspected the glass. Chunks of curdled milk appeared within. Small chips of congealed milk at first, then larger lumps, swelling and pushing against the walls of the glass.
Garcia leapt to his feet and grabbed the glass. He shook the contents, which was now a solid lump of curdled milk, the powerful stench ripe in the air. All within a matter of seconds.
'Attencione!' Garcia shouted, throwing the glass to the floor and sprinting to the doorway. He disappeared from the room, slamming the door behind him.
White flinched at the noise of the door and stared at the milky sludge settling into the rich carpet. He wondered what would be so important about a glass of milk that had caused the envoy to react in such a way.
A sharp staccato of noise rebounded from the hallway. Gunfire.
White started at the sound, his heart thudding as fast as the gun shots. He considered calling for help, or perhaps offering assistance, but then he noticed the fire. The flames, previously flickers of yellow with a heart of red and orange, were now a pure, brilliant, vibrant blue. The fireplace shone with a luminescent light, bathing the room in an unearthly glow, and making White's eyes water.
A scream sounded somewhere in the lodge. More screams, then yells and footsteps pounding down a stairway. Silence once more. White found himself moving to the edge of the room, away from the cobalt flame, willing himself to shrink into the darkest corner.
Someone ran down the hallway outside, yelled an incomprehensible curse and crashed through the door. Puliga. He was badly injured, his right arm held to his chest, dripping blood. He grimaced; bloody teeth bared, and pulled out a knife with three blades. One blade was dull grey iron, one silver and the last a blade of sharpened wood. He was mumbling, and if he saw the Bishop, he did not register him. He walked a few paces into the room and turned, waiting as the door smashed open, splintering at the hinges and falling flat on the floor.
A man, stepped fresh from a horror movie, walked through the wreckage of the doorway. It appeared as if someone had poured thirty pints of blood over his head that covered his body. Part of his face, his right shoulder and half his chest were the only places clean of blood. Beneath the blood he was naked, but he was not unmarked. It was scratched and scored throughout with l
ines of scars, as if a net of scar tissue had been thrown over him and pulled tight against his flesh.
'Just you and I left, pricker,' the scarred man said.
'I'll not suffer you to live, witch,' Puliga said, swiping the distance between them with his three bladed dagger.
'Funny you say that. That's what your superior said just moments before I pulled his entrails out and strangled him with them.'
'You . . . you monster.'
'Enough talk. The trustee has to die. If you are foolish enough to stand in our way, then suffer the consequences.' He lunged forward with a blade that was hidden from sight. Puliga scuttled back out of reach, readying his own weapon. But the scarred man thrust again, reaching low and long with a strike that held perfect form.
Puliga leapt back again, readying his three pronged blade, but suddenly found that he couldn't move that arm. Neither could he move the other. He stared down at his chest and at the growing stain of red that soaked his shirt.
'You have done for me.'
'Wilt away, pricker.' The scarred man carried on through the room to Bishop White, who huddled in the corner.
'I don't know your background, Trustee, or why you are worthy. But you are not worth the death of my fellow witches who have fallen under the blades and bullets of the Vatican Witch Hunters.'
'Please. Don't. I . . . I can give you anything.'
'I only need one thing from you.' The scarred man said, 'This won't hurt -' He slashed his knife into the side of White's chest, piercing his heart and killing him instantly, '- did it.'
He caught the Bishop as he fell forward and laid him gently on the floor. He glanced at the blue flame fireplace, tutted, then walked to the telephone.
The number he dialled rang twice then was answered.
'It's done,' he said.
Pause. 'Everyone else.' He nodded then replaced the receiver and left the lodge, dripping blood along the way.
*
The phone rang twice. Papa Doc snapped the receiver to his ear. 'Speak.'
'How many of our witches died?' He listened to the grave news then said, 'Come home.'
He depressed the receiver and dialled an international number. It rang fifteen times until, satisfied that it was not going to be answered by the intended recipient, he hung up.