Revenge is Sweeter than Flowing Honey

By Crissy Rock and Ken Scott

The trussed up body of a priest is discovered in a fashionable apartment block in Manhattan. It looks like a sex act gone wrong and of course the Catholic Church is only too keen to cover up the details.
What they don't know is that it's the work of a female serial killer who is convinced that the voices urging her on are from a different era.
The killer targets the clergymen, acting out the exact methods of torture used on the accused women from centuries gone by. She wants to terrorise the Catholic Church the way it terrorised Europe for over three hundred years.
Cardinal Barberini is the right hand man to the Pope and he knows only too well that the Papa’s life is in danger. But he does not need a retired policeman and a third rate journalist to tell him that, nor does he need them to interfere. He has a very capable death squad on the trail of the killer and they are getting closer. Now he may need to deploy a second team to deal with the odd couple who know far too much about the church past and present…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oak Tree Press
• Release date: Jun 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781783333387

Book preview

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One

But (and this is remarkable) when on the next day the other witch had at first been exposed to the very gentlest questions, being suspended hardly clear of the ground by her thumbs, after she had been set quite free, she disclosed the whole matter without the slightest discrepancy from what the other had told. MM.

The priest bowed his head as he knelt. He spoke as if there were tears in his eyes but they were strangely dry.

Father I have committed a grave sin, forgive me. Your mysterious ways are indeed strange to me for you made me the way you did and guided me from childhood in my quest to join your order. I have no one but you to confess to for I dare not disclose my actions to a living soul. I am sorry to burden you Father but have no alternative but to turn to prayer. Hear me Father and forgive me for I repent and I plead with you to hold the child’s tongue.

The priest gazed skywards and crossed his chest.

I have thought about taking my life Father but I know I must carry on your good work until I am no longer able to do so. I beg for a sign Father, a sign that you wish me to continue your work, a sign that you understand and I promise I will sin no more. I know not what this sign will be or in what shape or form you will deliver it but I have faith in you for you have created me the way I am. I have respect and love for you and I dedicate my life and know that you will show me the error of my ways and forgive me.

The priest stood and wiped at a solitary tear in the corner of his eye. He held onto the pew in front of him and genuflected to the huge cross once more. His knees weren’t what they once were and he almost cursed to himself as a stabbing pain shot through his left meniscus. He almost cursed but then remembered where he was.

He stepped to the side and looked up at the gold leaf encrusted figure of the Lord suspended on the cross.

Such extravagance.

He made the sign of the cross once more, turned and walked through to his office in the far end of the church.

Cardinal Barberini was trying to find a word that would describe how he was feeling at that present time. Concerned, anguished... either could fit the bill he supposed but then again it was best not to jump to conclusions. Not just yet anyway. The Church has always had enemies who would do their utmost to strike at the heart of the Vatican and the secret of survival was simple, you had to be stronger and more powerful than your enemy. Conflict and wars - they were an inevitable part of life and it was important to hit first and ask questions later.

Cardinal Barberini laid the ancient tome on his desk and opened it at a chapter titled Aragonese Crusade. He gave a wry smile. Crusade’s he thought. Lord, did the Church know how to organise a crusade or two and how the masses flocked to receive the Papal Blessing and absolution from all their sins if they simply boarded the ships to The Levant and waged war with the Muslims.

The 1st Crusade, the 2nd Crusade, the 3rd 4th 5th 6th 7th 8th and 9th Crusades, Crusades from the north, Swedish Crusades, Wendish Crusades, Alexandrian and Mahdian Crusades and incredibly even a Children’s Crusade. Thirty thousand poor mites who marched in the name of their Lord to convert the Muslim heathens to Christianity.

Cardinal Barberini laughed inwardly as he read on. The Aragonese Crusade was ordered by Pope Martin IV. It was estimated that 25,000 people perished in that particular Crusade though some groups would inevitably claim a much higher death toll, always ready to criticise his beloved organisation. Atheists, Protestants, Jews and Muslims all ready to stand up and be counted when it came to criticism of the Catholic Church.

He stood and walked over to the corner of the room and poured himself a drink. Cognac... Remy Martin. He took a mouthful and allowed the beautiful tasting liquid to linger on his tongue. He held it there for a moment then tilted his head back slowly as the gravity pulled it to the back of his throat and to the receptor cells in his taste buds. Truly an exquisite experience.

He swallowed and breathed out and the strong alcoholic aroma seemed to fill the room.

The inquisitions. Another exquisite experience. How he wished he could have been alive when the Catholic Church was at its most powerful. True, there were barbaric times, bloody and murderous but the underlying purpose was justified. The heretics and non-believers were misguided and they needed to be saved. If they couldn’t be saved they were eradicated. It was the way it was back then; a sign of the times. The world was a better place because of the Crusades and the Inquisitions he thought to himself with a smile. The Catholic Church had saved the world from Islamic domination. Just occasionally it would be nice if that were recognised by the liberals. There was always some individual ready to stick the knife in.

The telephone rang. He took the call and listened carefully. It was the Bishop of Place Vendome in Paris. He was expecting the call and he listened as the Bishop spoke. Suddenly he felt the urge to take more cognac on board. He thanked the Bishop for the information then bid him goodnight. He replaced the receiver.

He began to tremble involuntarily and reached for his glass again. He drained it quickly and wiped the surplus from his lips as he gulped in large quantities of air. He hadn’t even tasted the fine cognac this time; he’d taken it for effect only.

He reminded himself not to jump to conclusions. He was getting paranoid in his old age.

Two

There is also, concerning witches who copulate with devils, much difficulty in considering the methods by which such abominations are consummated. On the part of the devil: first, of what element the body is made that he assumes; secondly, whether the act is always accompanied by the injection of semen received from another; thirdly, as to time and place, whether he commits this act more frequently at one time than at another; fourthly, whether the act is invisible to any who may be standing by. And on the part of the women, it has to be inquired whether only they who were themselves conceived in this filthy manner are often visited by devils; or secondly, whether it is those who were offered to devils by midwives at the time of their birth; MM.

The girl’s thoughts were more lucid than they had been of late. She had no anger now. That had dissipated. Today she had a sense of well being and pride at the way she had carried out her third killing.

Her business was doing well. She was good at what she did and was turning down the smaller jobs and concentrating on the wealthier clients and high-class projects to the extent that she began to take on specialized employees and charged quite ridiculous fees for her services freeing up considerable time to concentrate on killing, which she was also very good at.

The girl was heading for New York, the Manhattan apartment of an ‘A’ list actress. She’d worked on her new London holiday home 18 months prior and her latest role in a Hollywood blockbuster persuaded her to splash out a six-figure sum on a five room renovation across the pond.

Little did she know as she sat in the airport that another opportunity would present itself in New York.

On the aeroplane somewhere over the Bay of Biscay she took a light breakfast of scrambled eggs and smoked salmon, lightly sprinkled with a dusting of paprika. She accepted the steward’s suggestion of a half bottle of Don Perignon, figuring it would help her sleep. She’d been up at a ridiculous hour that morning and had slept badly as she always did.

Three hours into the North Atlantic Ocean her eyelids were growing heavy and she allowed herself to drift off into another world... a troubled one

The girl awoke covered in a cold damp sheen. The airhostess informed her the flight was just a few hours from New York and she tried to compose herself a little.

The spirit was back again taunting and demanding action and she craved another death.

The plane arrived at JFK airport fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. The girl gathered her hand luggage together and prepared to disembark. She tried hard to push the images of the dream into the recesses of her mind, for the time being at least.

As the girl collected her luggage she experienced first-hand the infamous American customs official who kept her waiting for a further fifteen minutes examining her suitcase and asking her at least a dozen questions on her profession and how long she intended to stay. Before long she was clear of customs and in one of the famous yellow cabs en-route to the city.

The hotel was situated in Manhattan with majestic views across Central Park and the rooms were luxurious and spacious with a gigantic flat- screen TV built into the wall. She unpacked her luggage as an involuntary shiver rippled down her spine. She looked out of the window and could see her beaming, toothy, childlike smile reflected in the glass. She was living the life of a normal person for a while at least. She knew Maven would come calling soon.

The girl awoke and showered, skipped the hotel breakfast and headed straight out into the streets.

She was in awe of the massive buildings that seemed to rise up from the pavement. Floor after floor after floor of highly polished glass, the upper floors split into tiny square centimetre blocks. At first she wanted to count each level but found it almost impossible for her eyes to take it all in.

The girl loved the noise and the hustle and bustle that went perfectly with the atmosphere of this incredible city and she was so glad to be a part of it. She tried to put a finger on what it was she loved about New York so much and then it came to her. Anonymity. That was it. It was the sheer anonymity of the place, walking past hundreds and thousands of people who didn’t give her a second glance and she loved it.

She blended into the masses of people around her almost as if she was invisible. It suited her just fine. She stopped at a café for coffee and although it was a little chilly she was determined to sit out on the pavement and drink in the atmosphere.

The girl found herself scribbling some notes on to a napkin and looked at the words as they appeared as if my magic, not her words, the words of another hand. Maven was taking over.

She looked across the street and noticed an old church sandwiched between two huge skyscrapers. It looked so out of place, like something from a different era and yet something about it seemed so inviting. She needed to resist the urge. She hated churches. Don’t go.

The attraction was growing stronger. No don’t go.

She drained the last of her coffee and her eyes were once again drawn to the church building. She settled the bill and stood and took a hesitant step forward.

She wandered across the busy street almost oblivious of the cars and trucks wondering what was pulling her there. Surely a quick look inside won’t do any harm she thought. Churches and cathedrals did little for her as a child nor did she get any great comfort from them in adulthood when she attended an odd wedding, a funeral or a christening. And yet this was strange. A magnetic draw she couldn’t resist.

At the bottom of the stone steps she looked up at the dreary imposing building. The church doors stood open like a great big mouth waiting to swallow her up. She took a deep breath as she climbed the stairs one by one and reluctantly stepped inside. It’s coming - the horror show will begin soon.

The pews in the church lay either side of the aisle like rows of giant shiny ribs. The ancient stone walls were adorned with statues of saints and Popes from yesteryear, all looking down at her and the cold almost hostile stares followed her every footstep. The altar was strategically placed in the very heart of the building with a huge cross supporting the broken body of a gold leaf encrusted Jesus Christ complete with fake blood oozing from his hands and feet and seeping from his forehead beneath his crown of thorns. She suppressed a smile.

The girl’s footsteps echoed with each step and she found herself conscious of the noise, gently easing onto her tiptoes in a vain attempt not to disturb the worshippers. A few people were scattered around their heads bowed deep in prayer. She pitied them. She pitied the brainwashed ones.

Time to get out of there and enjoy the early morning sunshine, she’d been in there long enough.

As she walked over towards the door a voice behind her spoke. He asked if she needed help.

She turned around quickly to find herself looking at a priest and she at once realised this was the reason she had been called.

Are you new to this parish? he said.

The girl lowered her head, said she was visiting from England and was just a little curious to see the inside of his church.

And you’re more than welcome, he said with a smile. He introduced himself, I’m Father O’Neill.

It was a smile she’d seen a thousand times before. A flirtatious smile, a certain natural glint in his piercing handsome emerald green eyes and she thought of the ridiculous rule the Catholic Church imposes on the poor priests.

Their dialogue continued as the priest tried to make polite conversation. She felt compelled to run away and yet something kept her in there. Maven was very persuasive. She felt her anger building and she could do nothing about it. She wanted to run but Maven ordered her to stay. There is work to be done she said.

As the priest guided her towards the door he gently placed his hand upon her shoulder and her whole body seem to shudder. She stepped back shocked and alarmed as her breathing increased slightly and she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

The girl ran.

It was a relief to get outside. She tried to shake the feeling. She was being silly she reminded herself. It was only a church.

Maven told her not to worry. She would be seeing him again soon.

It took the girl only twenty minutes on her laptop to find all she needed to know on Father O’Neil. There were news stories and even a dozen images on Google search. Father O’Neil had been a naughty boy. How the fuck was he still working for the church? She couldn’t shake the skin crawling feeling she had inside the church when the priest had touched her.

The girl took off her shoes and lay on the bed closing her eyes. She felt sleep creeping over her and there was nothing she could do about it.

She was walking through woodland. The heat of the sun warmed her skin as she collected herbs on the floor of the forest placing them into a wicker basket. She heard a rustle from the trees behind her. It startled her and she turned. There was a group of people... fourteen, fifteen perhaps more and a lone priest. A young woman was pointing at her and said something that the men seemed to take notice of. Three men came towards her. Something didn’t feel right. They meant her harm. They wanted to hurt her. It was that priest, O’Neil. She could see his deep green evil eyes. She dropped her basket, turned and ran. She ran as fast as she could with a determination she had never felt before. She ran fast but the men were getting closer and closer until she could feel their presence almost upon her. A hand grabbed at her hair pulling her backwards onto the ground and they were upon her like a pack of wild hyenas.

And then the girl awoke with a start and the familiar perspiration covered her from head to foot. These dreams were coming to her far too often. It had felt so real, even her head was aching where they had pulled at her hair. She rose from the bed and tried to shrug it off. She ran a bath, undressed and stepped into the hot water. What was wrong with her? Her body was aching? Perhaps the jet lag was kicking in she told herself.

After a long soak the girl stepped from the warm water and began towelling her hair. As the towel touched her shoulder she recoiled in pain. She went across to the mirror and noticed what looked like a large welt mark across her shoulder. Where the hell had that come from? She couldn’t recall bumping into anything. She looked again and ran her fingers across her skin. The flesh was raised and starting to bruise like she had been hit with some sort of belt. This didn’t make sense. Had she fallen out of bed during one of those recurring violent nightmares?

Were they coming after her? Do they now know?

The girl looked in the mirror smiled and whispered quietly to herself. Bring it on. Bring it on you motherfuckers.

She was enjoying her stroll through Central Park, the early evening breeze caressed her weary body and strangely refreshed her too and she stood still for a moment with her eyes closed. The coolness of the air tugged and pulled at her skin and she decided it would be a good idea to walk the few blocks back to the hotel. It would blow away the cobwebs she told herself... clear her mind. There was nothing like a good walk to do that.

The girl took a slightly different route to the one she was used to and before long she realised that for some strange reason she found herself directly opposite the old church. How could that be? She didn’t want to go there, hadn’t planned it. The route she took should have taken her away from the church. She was more than a little confused. Tiredness, it had to be.

All of a sudden her legs felt like lead and her head started to spin so much so that she steadied herself on a shop window.

No, she wouldn’t walk. She’d take a drink or two and call a cab. She made her way across the road to a small bistro and sat down at a table outside.

The girl ordered a half bottle of chilled white Chablis. It wasn’t long before the wine had arrived and as she placed the glass to her lips and tipped it she felt the coolness line her throat. It was a pleasant feeling and before long the alcohol kicked in and she felt herself slowly unwind. It was good to be alive she thought and this wonderful city was growing on her by the minute. The girl felt at home.

I hope that’s just medicinal, a familiar voice said.

She looked up as she placed her glass onto the table. It was the priest from the church. Let the fun begin, said Maven.

She didn’t know where the sentence came from. It was as if it wasn’t hers as she asked the priest to join her. He came on to her, there was no other way to describe it and the girl thought the bastard had dug his own grave because he asked for it. It wasn’t her fault or Maven’s it was the priests because yet again he showed his hypocritical leanings and opened himself up. He forgot all about his vows and his promises and had no intentions of even attempting to quell his manly urges.

The girl and the priest became quite drunk.

As the darkness drew in the priest looked at his watch and said he’d better be going. He raised his almost empty glass and said his farewells. Their glasses touched and he looked straight into the girl’s eyes with a steely stare as his hand brushed against hers.

It was unmistakable... quite deliberate. The girl hadn’t misjudged his actions. The man of the cloth wanted her. He was a fraud and without a shadow of a doubt he had hit on her.

Maven said she would have him soon.

The girl persuaded him to stay. It wasn’t difficult. She ordered another bottle of wine. He was so easily led, no willpower whatsoever and the conversation notched up to another level. They talked about celibacy and sex and they giggled like two children in kindergarten.

The priest was struggling to compose himself, conscious of his clothing and the many prying eyes that surrounded them. But this was New York and it didn’t matter. So what if a man of the cloth was acting a little flirtatiously and enjoying a glass of wine. Who cared? He removed his priest’s collar just after ten o’clock.

That was the moment she knew she had triumphed. She read him like a book as he sat back in his chair, placed his hands on the table and grinned smugly. The girl was enjoying leading this priest a merry dance. It was the thrill of the chase, the great taboo of awakening the sexual feelings of a man who was programmed not to entertain such thoughts.

Later they took a yellow cab over to Queens. They had dinner in an Italian restaurant on 73rd Street. The priest said he liked the Queens district of New York, he liked the ambience he said but she knew they were there because no one knew him. He was a fraud and a charlatan; he was lying through his teeth.

The girl had dinner with Father Michael O’Neil on two separate occasions before Maven came calling and she killed him.

The nightmares were becoming progressively worse and the attention to detail remained with her long after she had woken. She wrote everything down and found what she was looking for quite easily in the bizarre backstreet sex shops and flea markets of the Big Apple.

Make no mistake the girl thought, New York is one fucked up city.

***

Father Michael O’Neill was originally from New England of Irish descent. His ancestors had settled in America after the potato famine and through the generations had built up a very successful import and export business.