The Judas Line

With a bloody smile, Mike held up his cross-a small, silvery thing that didn’t look like much, but was empowered with the unshakable faith of one simple man. That alone imbued it with the strength of the Lord.

The greater demon in New Mexico had been a real bad ass. It had taken a rite of exorcism to banish it. Cazzizz was a newborn, a demon newly formed from the soul of an evil man.

It took only one command.

“Begone.”

Like a pressure wave caught on high-speed camera, the sound, the force of the command rolled over and through me in a swirling, argent flow, but I felt no pain, just a sense of warm comfort.

The demon, however, didn’t get off so lucky. Howling, it was caught in mid-leap like an insect in silvery amber, frozen for one millisecond before simply vanishing with a faint pop and a hint of whitish smoke, leaving the whole bar trapped in a moment of perfect peace.

Oh, God, that felt good.

And then pain. Lots of it, buckets and barrelfuls, almost more than I could stand, coming from near every part of my body. Hurriedly, I let off with a Healing that took just enough edge off the agony for me to push out another one. I sneezed with the scent of cinnamon clogging my nose.

“Oh, I don’t want to do that again,” I moaned, finally levering myself upright. Staggering over to where Mike lay half on the bar, I clapped a hand on his back and smacked him with Healing. Then another, because he looked white as a sheet.

“Thanks, Morgan,” he sighed in relief, stretching. After a long bone-popping moment, he held up the purple bag and teased apart the puckered-shut opening. Long fingers dipped inside and pulled out the Holy Grail.

Sure didn’t look like much-a small green, ceramic bowl with a beige rim and a small crack, more of nick really, on the rim. It fit snugly in the palm of Mike’s hand.

“This is the Grail?” he said skeptically, turning it this way and that. “Looks like a high school art project you’d make for your mother, not the cup of Christ.” Still, despite his hesitation, I noticed he cradled it very, very carefully.

I smirked. “Nine out of ten people used pottery for their wine cups. It was the norm.”

He stashed the Grail back into the purple bag. As the cup disappeared, there came a faint ringing sound from his clothes. Mike patted his pockets and eventually fished out the cell.

I grabbed the phone before he could answer and threw it through the broken door, sending it clattering and shattering on the cold asphalt outside.

“Why’d you do that?” he exclaimed.

The look I gave him could’ve fried eggs. “You know anyone who has the number of a phone I bought yesterday?” How the hell did the Voice find us? The newborn demon?

Mike had the grace to blush. “But why didn’t he call you?”

Reaching into the pocket of my coat, I pulled forth several shards of broken plastic. “This is why. Must have broken when the demon kicked me.” Not bothering to linger, I vaulted the bar and grabbed the duffel I’d set there before my encounter with the demon Alexander. Wetness filled my palms.

“Oh, no,” I muttered, ripping open the bag, fear rushing through my body like a tidal wave. There, in the middle of all my clothes, was the cardboard cylinder that held the Silver, crushed and shapeless. “This isn’t good, man.”

Black fluid coated the bundles of hundred dollar bills, unholy water spilled from the fish bowl. I could smell an acidic tang as the foul liquid ate through the money like an evil acid.

“Morgan, I’m so sorry, I must have landed on it when Alexander tossed me at the bar.” Mike rubbed his lower back at the memory.

“No problem, man, but this, this is how he found us.” I tore into the crushed cylinder, careful not to touch the black fluid, and extracted the small black bag, dangling it in my fingers by the leather straps. “No holy water to mask its signature.”

“And that means what?”

“Means we run, and right now!”

Out the back and into the delivery truck. For the first time in I don’t know how long, panic had a good hold of me with icy claws and wasn’t letting go. Truck and axle nearly parted ways as I took a curb too hard and too fast. A trickle of blood ran down my throat from where I bit my lip, but the only thing I could think of was Get to Bend.

“What’s going on, Morgan?” Mike yelled while the truck bounced up and down. He was definitely a little green around the gills.

“It’s thirty miles to the church in Bend,” I hollered back. “That’s where we can destroy the Silver.” The truck smoothed out some and the noise level decreased. “Right now the Patron can track us because the Silver is out and we can’t afford to stay still for any length of time or we could be hip-deep in fiends. We have to get to holy ground ASAP.”

I could see Mike trying not to be skeptical, but he just shrugged and said, “What’s going on with Jim and Dale? How are they going to get rid of those bikers?”

“You realize the bikers aren’t a threat now, right? It’s what the Patron will send after us that’s the threat.”

“What aren’t you telling me, Morgan,” he said in a voice filled with gravel.

I knew that tone, was dreading the question and didn’t want to answer it. “Jim and Dale are at the Sun Spot Drive-In.”

“And what are they doing there?” he urged.

“Ambushing the remaining bikers.”

“What?!”

“After you went to bed last night, Jim and Dale called some family and friends and arranged a welcome for the remaining bikers at the drive-in. Seems like there were a lot of people willing to take a swing at the gang. The list of people included the deputy sheriff, who said he wanted ‘run those bastards out of town on a rail.’ ”

“What are they planning?”

“What do you think? A picnic? Some fish and chips and a screening of the new Batman movie?” I shook my head. “No, the gang’s pissed off a lot of locals from Terrebonne to Bend, and most of them want to join in on the action. I think at last count there were a hundred fifty people signed up and they are going to beat those bikers black and blue and trash their bikes.”

Silence. And more silence.

I risked a glance at Mike. He was stroking his ridiculous handlebar moustache. “Normally I’m opposed to violence, but the gang has done a lot of harm and if the sheriff won’t help, then I suppose the people must take matters into their own hands.” I was so shocked I nearly hit an old Hyundai chugging down the highway toward us. “But,” he continued. “I hope they don’t kill anyone.”

Shaking my head, I said, “No, the plan is to turn them from psychopathic bikers to beaten and bruised psychopathic pedestrians, and then run them out of town.”

He nodded reluctantly. “I just wish you would’ve informed me of your plans.”

“Sorry, man, I didn’t want to strain your sense of law and order.”

“Morgan, one thing you should know: the Church has been struggling with secular laws for as long as it has existed. I see no problem with using violence against evil when all other recourses have been exhausted.” He spoke as if we were chitchatting in a mall rather than in a truck zooming down the highway at seventy. I shook my head in wonder at Mike’s ability to surprise me even after fifteen years.

Smiling, I snagged the CB. “Dispatch, this is 183.”

“One-eight-three, go,” came Bernie’s staticky voice over the radio.

“Dispatch, be advised that we are en route to the Chamber of Commerce.” That was my way of telling Bernie he could pick the truck up there. It was merely a hop, skip and jump from there to the Holy Redeemer Catholic Church.

Squawk! “Be advised, Olivier,” Bernie said in a voice as cold as the grave. “You’re never going to make it.”

My insides nearly became my outsides as terror spiked through me. That wasn’t Bernie. Beside me, Mike