The old man convulsed suddenly, arching his back away from the fire and clutching with one feeble hand. He still was not awake. His arms quivered and bunched to his chest. More blood came with each shake of his body.
Samael pulled the drenched red cotton away and clutched a new bundle. He tamped it into the wound, placed a few folds of gauze atop the cotton, and taped it all in place. Then, rolling the priest to his back, Samael began the same process with the wound in front.
This time, he poured a bit of rum down the hole to sterilize whatever raw edges the bullet had left within. A few cotton balls followed after. He packed the puncture and fed the rest of the gauze roll around the man’s torso, taping the whole assembly in place. The cotton and gauze had stopped the blood, and Samael drew up the covers around the old priest.
He was done. He stood and went to the bathroom to wash the blood from his hands. The water smelled like eggs. He spit in the sink, took another swallow of rum, and then thought to clean off the blood-streaked mouth of the bottle.
Finished, he stripped his own clothes. In underwear, he sat down on his bed. Propping the pillows in a wedge, Samael leaned against the headboard and took a moment to breathe. The air felt stinging and good in his lungs. He took another drink.
How like the other killings? Nothing like them. Keith had done most of the others, and Samael had felt nothing but a detached interest and a concern that things be handled properly. Yes, Samael had killed the two officers, the paramedic, and the EMT in the ambulance, but he had not done so for the fun of it. He’d done so to escape. The tanker truck driver was probably dead, too, but that was only a helpful accident, shaking the cops.
But what about this priest?
He wasn’t dead, for one thing. Even if he were, it was all done in self-defense. After hearing his confession, after swearing he would tell no one, the priest turned Judas. His current state was his own doing. Samael remembered the candle flames, searing in his head, and the admonition to forevermore feel the evil he had done. The priest was only the next bright torch added to a funeral pyre.
But he had tried to make it right. He’d taken this Judas and cleaned and dressed his wounds and given him a bed to lie in and bought for him shelter. If he awoke, there would be food and cigarettes and rum, too.
For I was hungered, and you gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and you took me in: Naked, and you clothed me: I was sick, and you visited me: in prison, and you came unto me.
But the priest did not need Wonder Bread and Mr Boston Rum. He needed an emergency room. Even leaving him in a phone booth after calling an ambulance – that would have been better. But Samael could not. This priest was the only creature in the world who knew his secret, knew it fully. To part with such a creature was beyond Samael now. This priest was a surrogate for Donna – was his anchor to humanity. To give him up would be to become utterly alone. The priest and he lived and died together. Only if the priest survived would Samael survive. He took out the pack of cigarettes, opened the cellophane, flipped back the lid, and coaxed one small white cylinder from among the rest. He realized he had no way to light it. He set the cigarette and the open pack on the lamp stand, stood and stretched, and then went to the priest’s bed. There, he lay down behind the man, held him in his arms, and fell softly asleep. Then the soldiers of the governor took Jesus into the common hall, and gathered unto him the whole band of soldiers.
And they stripped him, and put on him a scarlet robe. And when they had plaited a crown of thorns, they put it upon his head, and a reed in his right hand: and they bowed the knee before him, and mocked him, saying, Hail, King of the Jews!
And they spit upon him, and took the reed, and smote him on the head.
And after they had mocked him, they took the robe off from him, and put his own raiment on him, and led him away to crucify him.
And as they came out, they found a man of Cyrene, Simon by name: him they compelled to bear his cross. And when they were come unto a place called Golgotha, that is to say, a place of a skull, they gave him vinegar to drink mingled with galclass="underline" and when he had tasted thereof, he would not drink.
And they crucified him, and parted his garments, casting lots: that it might be fulfilled which was spoken by the prophet, They parted my garments among them, and upon my vesture did they cast lots. And sitting down they watched him there; And set up over his head his accusation written,
THIS IS JESUS THE KING OF THE JEWS.
Then there were two thieves crucified with him, one on the right hand, and another on the left. And they that passed by reviled him, wagging their heads, and saying, Thou that destroyest the temple, and buildest it in three days, save thyself. If thou be the Son of God, come down from the cross.
Likewise also the chief priests mocking him, with the scribes and elders, said, He saved others; himself he cannot save. If he be the King of Israel, let him now come down from the cross, and we will believe him. He trusted in God; let him deliver him now, if he will have him: for he said, I am the Son of God. The thieves also, which were crucified with him, cast the same in his teeth.
He could only be dead. When morning came, there was no breath left in the priest, no pulse. He was cold. Samael sat up beside him, blinked in sleepy recognition, yawned, and pulled back one of the priest’s eyelids. The organ beneath was motionless and dry. It did not respond to the odd light of morning. Samael let out a long, deep sigh.
“You were my only hope,” he told the old man. “You were the only one who knew. I thought if maybe I could save you…”
The words died away. Samael slumped down beside the man, put his arm around the knobby shoulders and held him. The priest’s skin felt cool and gelatinous like uncooked chicken.
I’ve done it again, killed again, even after all the candles and cotton balls and prayers. Oh, Donna. The accident that killed you killed me and this priest, all three. Death comes in threes.
Worse yet, Samael realized he was already sorting through ways to dispose of the body. He could go buy a set of knives and feed the priest, bit by bit, down the toilet. That still left bones, though, and would have been better done in a room with a bathtub. He could take the body along, but the minivan didn’t have a secure trunk away from prying eyes. He could push the body up into the attic crawl space and let the smell eventually alert the owner. None of those options seemed charitable, though.
Instead, Samael decided to leave the priest in bed, with a “Do not disturb” sign on the door. He’d paid for the second day in advance, so he would likely have a day’s running before the manager realized the man in the bed was dead, not asleep. When he did discover the body, he would also find a note.
Samael pulled a sheet of Silent Night stationery from the lamp stand and wrote a quick note: To whom it may concern:
Here is the father kidnapped from St Charles Church. He was shot in the process of reporting the Son of Samael to the police. I tried to dress his wounds, but he died anyway. He has given me away in death as he could not in life.
Son of Samael
He folded the note and placed it gently in the priest’s hand. Bending, Samael kissed the man’s cold lips.
“I used to be an angel, Father – one of those beautiful statues – white wings and stone eyes. I’d still be one except I couldn’t kill this one woman. I had mercy, see?
Angels aren’t supposed to have mercy; that’s for humans. My stone skin got soft. Everything hurt – sunlight and midnight, heat and cold. Everything hurts when you’re human.” Samael snatched the priest’s keys from the side table. “Lucky me, I’m not anymore.” He picked up the bag of groceries and headed out the door. “What I am now, even I don’t know.” The door closed. Now from the sixth hour there was darkness over all the land unto the ninth hour.