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
