“Women,” he said with an exaggerated sigh to the bartender, as if this single word could sum up the full complexity and confusion that was the fairer sex. He slapped down a five-dollar tip on the bar and made his way slowly out of the dive to the parking lot.
He was lucky that night, watched over by the one who had sent him the task, who had taught him this, his most valuable lesson. But for weeks after leaving Las Vegas, he expected to be pulled over every time he saw a highway patrol officer or a Deputy, and he had been afraid. It was a first for him.
At first, he had not understand what had happened that night. He spent hundreds of miles going over the event in his head, looking at himself through her eyes, analyzing the situation.
It had come to him eventually, a simple realization: on some lower level, she had detected his intentions. During that momentary slip, as he had teased himself with the pleasure of his reward for the work that was to come, he must have emanated some kind of psychic energy which she had picked up on — an aura, was how he thought of it.
Since then he was careful to always to wear his psychic-mask when hunting. Slipping it on each time he stepped out of his cab, not letting any part of the real Byron Portia ooze out between the cracks. Byron thought of it as locking himself away in a little room inside his head. Like one of those interrogation rooms you’d see on the old cop shows with one-way glass that he could see them through, but all the person in the room would see was a reflection of themselves staring back at them.
It had worked. No more whores causing commotions in bars. Simple and efficient.
And so, here he was, years later, heading south on I-15 toward Los Angeles. Still undiscovered. Protected. With much work behind him but far more still to come.
It was New Years Eve and there would be an awful lot of people out celebrating. That was just fine by him. He could lose himself easily in a crowd, walking among those he had been given the task of watching over, while searching for those he hunted. And tonight he felt the pull, the need, a powerful imperative filling his blood.
This was how it always started. That tingling sensation deep in the pit of his stomach, telling him there was work for him to do. All he had to do was follow his gut, park his big old truck, and wait. It was like getting an email straight from God. Inevitably, the person he was meant to find was going to cross his path.
Byron Portia’s truck hurtled along the highway, surrounded on both sides by desert, the sun a liquid ball shimmering on the far horizon. He was just a couple of hours outside of LA, and if everything remained copasetic he would find somewhere near Burbank airport and park for the night. That would give him enough time to clean himself up and go see-what-he-could-see.
Tonight, he would hunt.
Three
Father Edward Pike pushed the great oaken doors into place, drew the two huge metal bolts closed, fastened the locks, and sealed off the outside world from Saint Bartholomew’s Church for the night.
With the final lock securely in place, the priest’s face seemed to lose all strength, dragged as though by some sudden pulse of gravity toward the cold slab floor of the church. In its wake stood a hollow shell of the man he had imitated for the past twelve hours.
Through sheer force of will he had managed to preserve his façade of normalcy; it was the least he could do for his parishioners, he supposed, to maintain the pretense he was what he claimed to be, the final selfless act of a lost soul.
His face now drawn and haggard, his green eyes dull and jejune, Father Pike took one painful step after the next, making his way along the aisle between the rows of lemon-oiled pews, the fragrance of incense still clinging to the air around him. He shuffled towards the chancel, the echo of each footfall his only escort through the now empty church.
Not bothering to genuflect as he reached the communion table, he paused instead to stand at the head of the aisle, his eyes drifting upward, before settling finally on the life-sized crucifix that was the centerpiece of the sanctuary.
During the day, the natural light of the huge stained-glass window stretching from the floor to the ceiling nearly fifty feet above, would light this emblem of Christianity. The window reproduced the fourteen Stations of the Cross, images that symbolized scenes of suffering in each of the successive stages of Christ’s passion. A design created to instill a sense of awe in all who entered the church, to humble the proud and spark joy in the hearts of the downtrodden.
The colorful mosaic of painted glass lent an otherworldly etherealness to the church, sunshine pouring like wine through the beautifully colored scenes. But at night, without the sun’s illumination, the window was black and lifeless.
Soulless, he thought.
The aged priest understood the dichotomy it represented.
To compensate for the loss of light once the sun set, hidden blue and red spotlights sparked into artificial life, tastefully highlighting the effigy of the suffering Christ hanging from the cross, his face a mask of suffering. The sculptor had captured perfectly the man-god’s torment; a vicious crown of thorns digging into his head, a spear wound in his side bleeding water and blood down over his hip. His agony was so obvious. His suffering so profound, no one looking upon the scene could fail to be moved by the enormity of the sacrifice it portrayed.
But this was not what the Father saw.
He saw an icon of deception, a promise to the human race that would never be fulfilled, could never be fulfilled. It was an empty vessel of a lie, as hollow and dead as the very tomb the crucified man had finally been laid to rest within.
As empty as his own heart now felt.
Like a cancer, Edward’s despair had eaten through him, coring him out like termites devouring the foundation of his spiritual house, until, finally, with nothing left to support it, his belief had collapsed in on itself. And, for the past three years, Father Edward Pike had been faithless.
He no longer believed in the wonder, the resurrection or any of the underpinning principles that had drawn him to the Church and a life of service to God.
Despite this crisis of faith, he continued to perform his daily duties out of habit rather than devotion, even though he was unworthy to be a leader to his flock. Hoping against hope that it would pass.
But how could he be expected to lead when he was so lost himself?
He had so very many questions, and not one of them could he find an answer for within the pages of the book of books.
That first morning, he had awakened with a feeling of disquiet and unrest in the pit of his stomach. Stumbling through the morning prayers and service, he found himself distracted and unsure of himself, something he had never experienced before in his forty-two years as a priest.
For a while, he thought he may be sick. And in a way, he supposed he was sick, but it was a malady of the soul, not of the flesh. It would have been so much easier to deal with a life-threatening illness; instead, he was facing a much harsher future.
He had prayed every day for guidance, beseeching the Lord God Almighty to show him the way back to the path of enlightenment, to help him find his way home, to guide him back to divinity. Every day he awaited an answer, and every day he drifted further away from his religion when no answer came.
Finally, he had stopped trying, too tired and too old to continue to bother. The Church had priests trained to help those like him but he knew that would have involved him stepping down from his position within the parish, surrendering his flock to another. The embarrassment would be too much for him. Besides, he had battled his inner demons for too long and now he was tired. No, now he was exhausted and entirely depleted.