The Judas Line

egg.

Lifting the bowl, I noticed about an inch of heavy black liquid resting on the bottom, moving turgidly. As I watched, a drop of black liquid oozed from the leather bag and hung suspended for a moment before descending to mix with the sluggishly swirling fluid.

Squinting, I calculated it would be another twelve hours before the holy water in the bowl would become denatured enough for what lay in the bag to be detected by the Voice.

Time to go.

A quick wash, a change of clothes, two handguns (the Kimber.45 ACP and a Beretta PX4 Storm), a six-inch hunting knife and one twenty-six-inch collapsible solid-steel baton later, I was good to go. Over my shoulder I carried a large duffel with fifty grand in hundreds, the fish bowl (wrapped carefully and sealed tight), and five disposable cell phones.

On a side table next to an old red corduroy recliner sat a fat yellow candle with three wicks. They had never been lit and shone a dull waxy white. After moving the candle to the living room floor, I rolled cypress leaves in my palms-the crushing released a bold, earthy scent-and scattered them all about. Next I lightly dusted the wicks with powdered sulphur and lit them using an antique Zippo with a cross etched on its metal. As the wicks caught and sputtered, I said a phrase in a language that sounded like the pop of pitch in a flame and had the tang of hot metal.

Nothing.

I repeated the words, throat spasming, and was rewarded with an answering hiss. The flames dancing on the three wicks bent toward the center, elongating and meeting some three inches above the candle’s center. More hissing and popping greeted my ears.

In the language of Fire, I gave instructions to the tiny fire elemental and it replied with crackling laughter.

Gravely I bowed to the sprite and it jigged in pleasure. I took one last look at the place I had called home for so long-a comfortable, nondescript haven that had suited me down to my toes. I really thought I had more time.

“Magus,” the sprite cackled. “What do you want me to do with the bodies?”

I had to smile at its simple, honest greed. “Burn them down. Down to dust,” I answered gravely and walked away.

Chapter Three

Mike

What to do, what to do? I mused, staring at the manila envelope Jude had given me, my butt cheeks cold against the wooden pew. Christ stared with great sadness and pain from the large cross behind the altar, offering comfort, but not enough to sooth my turbulent thoughts.

Part of me wanted to read what was inside, but the other part was afraid of what I might learn about my friend. Jude was the most mysterious man I knew, and it seemed best to keep it that way.

After I’d returned from Germany, my time in the Army all said and done, the Call to the Church had pulled me into the Seminary and presto, change-o, a priest I became. Much to the dismay of my parents, who were lapsed Catholics to the point of being Protestant.

Then, fifteen years ago, on a clear summer’s noon, after I-a young priest-had finished my second service ever, I had met a young man in black and tan, standing on the steps staring at the church with something like superstitious dread.

People in their Sunday best had avoided him as if by instinct, streaming around him as if he were a large, jagged rock. After I waved goodbye to my flock, I closed the door and approached the nervous young man.

He watched me warily, as if I carried a weapon under my robes and was prepared to attack. Up close I noted how young he looked-twenty or twenty-one-with long curly hair that fell to his shoulders, so black it seemed to drink the light. Olive skin, perhaps of Mediterranean descent, maybe Greek, with a short hawk nose and delicate features, almost feminine. His eyes were fawn-brown and he had the longest lashes I’d ever seen on a man. Black biker boots. The slacks and tan polo shirt were incongruous-a punk rocker trying to look respectable.

I pasted on my most sincere smile and held out a hand, which he eyed dubiously. “Hello, young man. Welcome to St. Stephen the Martyr Catholic Church, I’m Michael and you are …?”

He took the bait. “Jude. Jude Oliver.” Hard calluses met mine. By the feel he was no stranger to hand-to- hand; his grip had some serious spice to it. “Who was St. Stephen and why is he a martyr?”

Taken aback, I blinked a couple of times before answering. “Ah, St. Stephen was a follower of Jesus, a prophet and miracle worker who was stoned to death after being tried for blasphemy against Moses and God.”

“He blasphemed? Then why is he a saint?” Jude’s intense stare was definitely disconcerting.

“It’s believed that the charges against him were false, brought by the jealous and venal. Even though he knew he would die if judged harshly, he kept his faith and begged God not to punish his enemies for killing him.”

Those powerful dark eyes moved past me to the church. “That is an unusual steeple,” he noted quietly.

Okay, the attention span of a hummingbird. Got it. “Yeah, kind of weird new age. Not quite the traditional gothic, but I like it.” The steeple was a hollow square tube that ended in a chisel-shaped skylight, a definite part from the norm.

“Does God love everyone?”

All right then; conversational whiplash was the order of the day. “Yes, my son, God loves everyone.” Something about the way he spoke bothered me … his accent was flat, almost atonal, as if he’d learned English as a second language at an expensive European prep school. I’d met a few rich German and Swedish kids who sounded like that.

Those eyes once again fixed themselves on mine. “I am not your ‘son,’ you know.”

“Figure of speech. It’s a priest thing.” Who was this kid?

“Even the evil ones, sir? He loves the evil?”

I stroked my moustache. “I’m not sure there are any truly evil people-”

“There are.”

“What?”

Those eyes became even more forceful. “There are. Trust me.”

Hmm. Maybe a bit daft. “Even them, Jude. Think of all people as God’s children. You love your children, even the bad ones, you want them to wise up and come to their senses, rejoin the fold, so to speak.”

Jude pursed his lips in distaste, as if he’d bitten something sour. “Not sure I can understand that, accepting the irredeemable, inviting them back into … the fold.”

I took a step forward and his body tensed, as if preparing for flight or fight. My years in the Army had made me tough and I worked out regularly, a regimen that kept me hard, but somehow I knew this kid could kick my butt up one side and down the other if he chose. “Young man, no one is irredeemable.”

For the first time something besides wariness flitted across his face. It looked like hope. “Can that be true?” he whispered.

“Of course, Jude. God does love us all.”

“What about the Anti-Christ?” he asked suddenly.

“What do you mean?”

“The Anti-Christ, does God love him?”

Wow. I sure didn’t see that one coming. “You go straight for the jugular, dontcha, kid?”

That earned a small twitch of the lips. So a sense of humor was hidden down there. Deep. “Well?”

Where was a rewind button when you needed one? I scrubbed my face with my palms and gave my answer some serious thought. “You know, the Anti-Christ is Satan’s expression on this world, the portal he uses to work his will. A finger puppet, so to speak. Satan is a fallen angel, created by God, and if God loves all his creations, which he does, then logic follows that he must love Satan, perhaps like a wayward son, and thus, by extension, the Anti- Christ.”