Beyond Evil

By Dan Morris

Someone is performing a bastardized version of the Black Mass in San Antonio, Texas where Catholic Nuns are sadistically tortured, and slain. A scrupulous attorney hires an elite private investigator, Frank McLaughlin, to investigate on behalf of an anonymous client. Frank elicits the help of a White Witch, Fiona and they quickly fall in love. Time and time again, Frank's resolve is tested as he is torn between logic, duty and his own undefined faith.

The police are baffled as the Catholic Archbishop cries out for action while silently pointing an accusing finger at the World Church of Satan. Chief of Homicide, Norman Lenowski, has pulled out all stops to solve the murders by creating a special task force called "Operation Madness."

Fearing a cataclysmic showdown with the Catholic hierarchy, the World Church of Satan, headed by Lord Nicholas Stonefire, launches its own investigation into the serial murders.

The Catholic Papacy unleashes their ultimate troubleshooter, an Assassini. The carnage continues while all efforts cross and collide until the shocking end. There is ample fodder here for all conspiracy theorists.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 18, 2007
• ISBN: 9780595886739

Dan Morris

Dan Morris retired from the U.S. Army as a warrant officer (Special Agent) in counterintelligence. He also worked as a police patrolman and then as a detective in Florida. He has written and edited thousands of intelligence & investigative reports as well as articles for journals. Currently, he resides in Denton, Texas.

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Copyright © 2007 by Daniel L. Morris

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case ofbrief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-0-595-44343-7 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-0-595-88673-9 (ebk)

Contents

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1

The heavy and humid night air made Frank McLaughlin, private investigator, sweat profusely under his cap and his shirt collar was soaked. But there was more going on than the humidity and heat. The area was just as menacing as the weather.

Frank hated this part of town, especially at this time of night. The area and late hour had a way of inviting the worst in people. At midnight honest and sane people were home in bed or with their families. The more undesirable people were left to prowl and take refuge in areas like this. The darkness was the worst part and it caused a thought to pass through his mind wherein he concluded that he couldn’t see shit if he was stepping in it.

The whole assignment had a creepy aspect to it. For one thing, he had no clue who was footing the bill for his efforts. He hated working for most attorneys because most of them were as crooked as their clients. Eric Myers just charged more for his legal expertise. Myers had to be one rich bastard after all these years of conniving.

Meyers was an asshole, Frank was sure ofit. He also hoped Myers was not setting him up like some Judas in a crooked scheme. Frank vowed that there was no way he would take the fall for anyone, especially a lawyer. Simply, he was not buying into Meyers’ legal crap about honoring his Attorney-Client Privilege. Deep down, he felt Myers was just emptying the coffers of some scrupulous, sleazy client.

In the mean time, Frank guessed he should be loyal to Meyers because the law did recognize the Attorney-Client Privilege. Theoretically, Frank was confident that Myers couldn’t be called on to produce evidence concerning a client. He also thought that the Attorney-Client doctrine had to rub off on him because he was acting as Meyers’ agent. He still wished he knew who their client was because knowledge was power. The whole case was too peculiar and that made it stink. At any rate, Frank would remain loyal unless Myers tried to cross him. Hopefully, that case would not end up going sour.

The deserted street was filled with an abundance of potholes and this irritated Frank as he attempted to weave around them. The street was nothing short of an obstacle course. A grin spread across his face as he finally saw what he was looking for. Just as he thought, the place was a dump at the end of a dead-end street. Once he got a better look at the building, he concluded that it had probably been closed for ten years or more. He was well aware that drug addicts frequently used such places while they indulged themselves. Old warehouses like this one should be demolished once they outlived their usefulness.

Oops. Frank sounded off when his head nearly struck the truck’s roof as it bounced. He eased up on the accelerator to slow down and avoid tearing the bottom out of the truck’s undercarriage. Rough railroad tracks were not meant to be crossed quickly. San Antonio wasn’t spending any money on this street. He became more alert as he continued to drive. As he closed in on the building, he switched off the headlights to avoid announcing his arrival. He eased the little Nissan pickup up next to an old chain-link fence then slowed it to a stop without so much as a squeak.

There wasn’t a soul in sight and he didn’t know if that was good or bad. At times like this he disliked his work and questioned why he hadn’t opted for a safer career. Obviously, there were hundreds of better, safer ways to make a living.

The ware house was the kind of place Stephen King would choose for one of his horror stories. Hell, Frank had no yearning to be a lead character in a true life horror story. Right now, he was content not to see the rest of the cast. God knows who or what they would be like. They would probably make my skin crawl and scare the daylights out of any normal person. However, he knew as well as anyone that real life can be worse than an old horror flick.

Leaving little to chance, he leaned across the cluttered seat and opened the glove box. Reaching inside he scooped up the familiar grip of his 9mm Taurus semi-automatic pistol and instinctively checked the clip, then chambered a round by jacking the slide to the rear and letting it go.

There was no need for the safety. He liked these newer automatics with the double action trigger. Gripping the gun with his right hand, he spoke both to himself and the pistol, I hope you’re up to whatever task that’s out there.

On more than one occasion he regretted not purchasing the larger .45 caliber piece. The knockdown power of a larger caliber definitely had its advantages. At least he had the fifteen-round clip.

Pessimistically, checking the clip once more, he eased the door open and got out. Reluctantly, he decided not to lock the door in case he was forced into a hasty departure. Muttering softly to himself, Frank expressed a degree of regret.

Regretfully, he wondered why he hadn’t brought along backup. He should have called someone to meet there like Joe; he’s good when it comes to a clinch.

He knew there was no use fretting over what could have been done. It was time to move on, alone. He was well aware that the night’s chore had to be done alone because of the secrecy issue. But, that doesn’t make it any easier. Had he pulled someone else into the case, Myers would have come unglued. On a deeper level, he knew the need for secrecy was extremely important. After all, all those stern warnings by Myers were still ringing in his ears. Of course Myers wasn’t the one out here in the middle of the night risking his hide.

Staring across the street provided no real clue of what to expect once he entered the huge, gutted, two-story building. The windows, dirty and dark, the ones that were not broken out, distinguished the deserted warehouse.

The building’s owner had no right to allow it to get into its present condition. All that broken glass and spray-painted gang-related graffiti had to be appalling to anyone looking at it. What could those little punks gain by disfiguring an abandoned warehouse? The only credit due them was that they hadn’t missed a single abandoned building in the whole south-central part of the city, not to mention all the benches at bus stops.

The month’s full moon illuminated little as it strained to peek around large ghostly black clouds. Shadows lurked in every direction, a grim reminder that the street maintenance crews gave no priority to lighting in such areas.

He had stared way too long into the darkness because his eyes were beginning to play tricks on his mind. Shadows were beginning to take on a life of there own and that was not logical. The deceptive effect was strong enough to cause an adrenaline rush.

Not wanting to waste time, he willed himself to get a grip on his emotions. He had to calm down and become alert or lose focus and slip into an unhealthy state. The worse time to screw up is when a person is alone.

Earlier in the week the meeting with Meyers was nothing short of bizarre and filled with intrigue and stern warnings. Frank recalled the meeting clearly.

It was common knowledge that Myers was a slim ball of epic proportion. Anyone could see that his eyes were full of deceit. Frank did give the man credit, though, because he was one hell of an actor. He probably developed those skills by facing countless juries early in his career when he tried his own cases. For more than a decade he has been farming that chore out to trial attorneys. Admittedly, Myers did a good job of convincing others that they were always on the same team. Unfortunately for Frank, in this instance, Myers schemed while Frank took all the risks. He always appeared so concerned when he repeatedly warned Frank that the assignment would be dangerous and extremely sensitive.

Admittedly, he did feel a sense of intrigue by not knowing who had ordered the investigation.

One thing was for certain and it wasn’t just his ego at play. His work didn’t come cheap, considering he had the highest rates of any private investigator in the city. At any rate, Meyers and anyone else who had ever used his services knew that he was a combat veteran with a counterintelligence background. In short, he could be counted on to be discreet, not to mention resourceful.

Nonetheless, he was experiencing an inkling of disgust for accepting such a mysterious assignment. What harm could there be if he knew the client’s identity? This whole thing is beginning to resurrect a lot of uncomfortable memories from the back streets of Hue, Vietnam to the slums of Hamburg, Germany. The $5,000 cash retainer Meyers shoved in his hands a few days ago was beginning to lose its soothing effect. However, there was nothing to be gained from dwelling on the matter. In fact, it was time to get back on track.

Frank’s eyes flicked about in their sockets as he gave the warehouse another once-over. The anticipation of confronting an unknown and potentially dangerous situation weighed heavy on his mind.

Compensating, he took a couple of deep breaths before heading inside. He armed himself with his flashlight, Taurus, and wits. He had done some pretty scary things in his life with a lot less.

The metal entrance door was closed, but not locked and gave way easily with a firm shove and shoulder effort. The door creaked as it swung wide revealing a large, dark and empty room. Entering the building, Frank shifted the flashlight to his left hand and felt along the wall with his right hand without turning on the flashlight and possibly alerting someone.

He paused long enough to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness. A dim flickering light glowing through a partially opened door at the far side of the room caught his attention. He reached back with his right hand and retrieved the Taurus from where it had nested in the small of his back.

Tentatively, he moved forward across the floor, eyes searching earnestly for any sign of movement.

So far so goodhe whispered reassuringly to himself. I wonder who put the candle in the middle of the floor.

Halfway across the room and along the left wall was another door. Paper had been taped over the top portion, which was glass. The paper was not old and cruddy like the other décor. Those pages were likely from today’s issue of the San Antonio Express-News. Obviously, someone doesn’t want any prying eyes gawking inside.

The paper gave off a soft glow because of another lit candle on the other side of the door.

The door was not locked. However, the knob did demand a stern wrist and shoulder effort before budging. It swung open with an eerie creaking sound. This wasn’t the first time, and probably wouldn’t be the last time he entered a room like this, in the dark.

He massaged the pistol grip until he acquired the right fit for shooting and decided not to turn on the flashlight.

After going through this scenario so many times in his life, he was familiar with it. The reality was that entering a room like this would probably replay itself a few more times before he gave up this line of work. As with this instance, darkness always seemed to be a constant.

The candle gave off enough light for him to see sufficiently to move about as long as he took his time. He knew the time and situation was right for using that old, yet effective technique known as slicing the pie. He couldn’t have felt any safer with any other technique

Both palms now cradled the Taurus, but his right trigger finger remained outside of the trigger guard. His left hand secured the small flashlight next to the barrel. He pointed the weapon down at a 45 degree angle and positioned himself to the left of the door and back about three feet. Cautiously, he shuffled to the right in short sliding steps, a few inches at a time. He moved to the right peering inside until he had cleared as much of the room as he could from that vantage point. He then looked to the left and shuffled again and was in the room in a matter of seconds.

The sight before him was ghostly. The room was filled with more black candles than he had ever seen at any given time in his life. They were strewn about the room and the flames made the walls appear alive with dancing, shifting shadows. He figured that hell would also have rooms just like this one.

There was a tightness welling in his chest; he stopped and inhaled a couple of quick, shallow breaths. The floor was nothing short of a blur except for the center of the room.

Frank had difficulty discerning the scene before him. Centered in the room was a table and displayed on it was a nude woman. She appeared pale and motionless. Squinting, he looked at her face and recognized the cold stare of death.

The scene stopped him dead in his tracks. Slowly, he inched forward knowing there was no urgency because she would not be alive. Training overcame the shock of what was unfolding before his eyes. He scanned the room’s outer limits for anything unusual. Finally, his gaze fixed on the space above the lifeless woman.

An inverted cross hung from the ceiling just a couple of feet above her head giving the scene the most profane desecration of Christianity known to common man. He was sure things would only get uglier as he looked about the room and inched forward.

His eyes strained as the hair on the back ofhis neck stood up. He stopped and wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his left hand. He set his jaw and clinched his teeth anxiously while he evaluated the scene. He was about to move forward when a shadowy figure darted from behind and to his right. Startled, he pointed the pistol in the direction of movement and flicked on the flashlight.

Sweet Jesus, it’s just a cat. Look at that little sucker hall ass he whispered aloud. I bet I won’t see him again. He’s probably more scared than I am."

Suddenly, a pigeon cooed from the rafters above. Mechanically, Frank was poised and ready to fire. Just as quick as he had acquired his target, he relaxed his firing grip and took his finger off the trigger. His attention swung back to the scene that dominated the room.

The scarlet fluid, which recently surged warmly with the spark oflife, was just beginning to darken. It oozed slowly and trickled from the dead woman’s parted lips.

Frank calculated that she hadn’t been dead long. The obvious clue was the rivulet ofblood that still trickled from the corner ofher mouth. His inner voice was speechless as he looked at her lifeless shell.

He was aware that her sleep was eternal; one that only her soul could awake from. It’s not natural for anyone to lie down like that. She was left for others to see; displayed on a makeshift altar. Even though her eyes were open she couldn’t escape the fixed stare of death.

Frank was not only troubled by the scene, he was also extremely saddened by it. He knew her mutilated and violated body had been deprived of feeling and mood. Using all of his imagination he couldn’t imagine the fear, disbelief, and horror confronting her during her final moments.

Frank leaned over for a closer look.

He had seen his share of death in his life. In an inordinate number of them the victim died with his or her eyes wide open. He always ended up with the same question in the back of his mind. Not only was the question esoteric, it was also academic. Could the eyes of the dying capture the faces of their attackers? He also wondered if those images were somehow saved in some defunct memory cell deep in the cerebral gray matter of their minds. Should that be the case, and forensic scientists could retrieve those images, just think how many crimes would be solved.

Conversely, he hated to think that this woman’s cold eyes could have endured such horror and terror while capturing those images for her heart and soul. That’s just too much to contend with. No one should have to reckon with such trauma during their last few seconds of life let alone preserve them. She would have inherited one hell of a tormented soul.

Frank took a couple of steps back for a better look.

Neatly folded under the table were what appeared to be the woman’s clothes. Tears crept from Frank’s eyes, shielded only by the room’s dim lighting when he gently touched the habit, rosary, and crucifix of a nun.

Now was the time to exercise extreme caution and care for other reasons. He couldn’t allow himself to disturb the crime scene. Even the fact that someone was at the scene can give prosecutors problems during a trial. He knew he would be taking a chance when he decided to technically alter evidence. He pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and used it to flip open the flap of a large leather purse that was unlatched.

Interesting enough, her money and credit cards are still there. Robbery had not played any part in the crimes motive.

Carefully, he replaced the Taurus into the small of his back and removed his handkerchief. He plucked a drivers license from the purse. On a small notebook he had retrieved from the right rear pocket ofhis jeans, he jotted down her name and address.

The photo on the license matched the dead woman and identified her as Sister Bernadette Chandler.

I’m so sorry sweetheart. No one should go like this, let alone a servant of God. He understood that his words fell on dead ears, but his words were appropriate.

He made a quick sketch of the scene noting the placement of candles. Following this, he drew an arrow pointing north so he could orient the scene in the future when he tried to capture everything in a written report.

Her torso was riddled with what appeared to be stab wounds and there was a large wound over the spot where her heart once throbbed. Between her legs was a piece of folded paper wedged and partially soaked with blood. A silver crucifix also protruded from the same space. He spread the paper open with the tip ofhis pen and read the note:

Hail Satan! Nothing escapes his revenge, not even the most holy Christian.

He accepted the notions that the crime scene technicians would go ape-shit over this one.

Convinced the evildoers were long gone, he let his mind dwell on other things. The police should not find out that he had been here. If they found out, he would be out of a job and into a lot of trouble. Sooner or later he would have enough explaining to do, that was for sure, and he couldn’t count on Meyers sticking his neck out for him.

He had to erase anything that would tie him to this place while preserving the scene’s integrity for the crime scene technicians. He couldn’t miss a trick or he would end up becoming a suspect and he didn’t need that.

Clicking on his flashlight, he began searching the path he had taken.

Whoever did this took a great deal of care in covering their tracks because the only footprints present were his. He had to correct that, real quick.

The task at hand somehow seemed to be a dishonoring necessity and Frank doubted the wisdom of altering the scene in even the slightest way. However, he began in earnest by removing his cap and bending over. Withdrawing from the stimulation of the grotesque scene before him, Frank began to step slowly backwards, swishing his cap, back and forth, obliterating his footprints.

He wiped off the doorknobs with his handkerchief, confident he wasn’t erasing the perpetrators’ fingerprints. Anyone deft enough to pull off this elaborate death show wouldn’t have left anything to chance.

Backing away from the building, the shadows gathered, and at last only the dim outline of the doorway remained. The moonlight was fading and black billowing clouds were invading the sky. Frank stood still in the darkness, eyes fixed on the building, lost in thought. Overhead, thunder exploded with terrific crashes. Brilliant, vivid flashes of lightning dazzled his eyes, illuminating the street for milliseconds. Each flash was followed by pitch darkness. The profound sadness in Frank’s heart began to give way to anger.

The dark clouds advanced nearer and soon Frank felt the rain falling in large sporadic drops. He shook his shoulders with a shiver and climbed into his pickup as the rain’s strength increased to a torrent. He started the engine and drove off slowly.

He was confident that the drenching rain would wash away his tire tracks. Once he crossed the railroad tracks he sped up, wanting to get away to some place where he could collect his thoughts.

Frank wheeled the pickup into one of the parking spaces outside his office, which was located on Old Austin Highway. The parking was in the rear and out of sight from the main street, away from those unseen prying eyes that caused problems for private investigators. The building was a single story structure and each business had its own private entrances, front and back. The entrances to Frank’s office were unique in that there was an additional entrance on the end of the building so he could shuffle people in and out without each other’s knowledge. This was sound operational security as well as a comfort to some of his more anxious clients.

The night was now filled with a light, friendly rain that was refreshing and smelled clean. He decided to stand under the awning and enjoy the cleansing effect.

Once inside, he switched off the security system, passed through the reception area, eased through his office door, and disappeared into the darkness.

He collapsed into his high-back, red leather chair. Closing his eyes he could hear the storm’s thunder echo in the distance. The night’s greatest exertion was past.

Hoping the storm wouldn’t knock the electric out, he flipped on the desk lamp and fired up the computer.

He was aware that violence was as American as apple pie. Still, not even Vietnam or the years he was a policeman had prepared him for what he had just encountered. Just when he thought he’d seen evil in all ofits disguises and forms, he was forced to recall the night’s details. Now, he had to record it objectively, without emotion. He had to keep to the facts and write in that cold investigative report writing style. Even ifhe wanted to, he couldn’t rush into mere assumption or speculation. Hell, he didn’t even know what this is all about.

The whole thing was locked up in his head and it has to find its way into print for Meyers. Because of the sensitivity and magnitude of the case he couldn’t even hash it over with anyone else. Silently he cursed the secrecy issue.

Damn all this oath of secrecy shit, it’s just not right.

Leaning back in his chair, he wondered how the news media would report this death. Damn it! I have to get this reported to the police so they can contain the crime scene before someone else stumbles on to it and screws it all up.

He darted out of his office and hopped into his pickup, slamming the door shut. Urgently, almost obsessed, he drove to a payphone in front of the convenience store on the corner ofEisenhower and Old Austin Highway. He couldn’t risk calling from his office because of the caller ID setup the police had. There could be no link to him. Doing his best to disguise his voice, aided by the rustle of some aluminum foil, he reported some kind of disturbance at the abandoned warehouse.

Now that the police were notified he felt a little better. He knew that the police had the technology to filter out his disguised voice and obtain a voice print. Fortunately, the police didn’t have his voice print on file. In fact, they didn’t even know about his connection, yet.

Back at his office, Frank opened a can of Pepsi and once again sat down in front ofhis computer screen. Robotically, the night’s events were recorded on the screen, devoid of emotion and with accurate objectivity. Frank was a master report writer. There was no mention of his actions at the scene or how he obtained the details. He wrote in the third person and gave no details that would lead to his identity.

He decided not to sign the report. At this point in the game anonymity was prudent.

Frank stretched out on the leather couch in his office with the lights out except for the dim red glow of the numbers on his digital clock which he repositioned to face him from the corner of his desk. He stared up at the ceiling fan, which he turned on medium. The fan’s blades forced gentle vortexes of air down across his worn face. His body relaxed for the first time in hours and his mind cleared as he listened to the dull hum of the fan motor. The sleep that followed was deep and restful.

In the morning, Frank woke, reinvigorated. He stretched, yawned, stood and walked to the little refrigerator in the hallway. He retrieved a bottle of orange juice, popped a vitamin in his mouth and washed it down with a refreshing gulp. Frank brushed his teeth and splashed cold water on his face.

He bolted out the door to his truck and went to the same convenience store where he had used the payphone the night before and purchased a copy of the morning newspaper. The front page was devoid of any headline covering the ritualistic murder of a local nun. Tucked away, deep in the local news, there was mention of a woman’s body being discovered in an abandoned building on the city’s south side. An unidentified police spokesman disclosed: The abandoned building was frequently occupied by homeless people and drug addicts. Release of the woman’s identity was pending notification of her next of kin and circumstances of her death were pending a coroner’s report.

Confused and angered, Frank tossed the paper into the trash receptacle at the store’s entrance. This had to be big, really big, for the police to cut the media out. Maybe there were other nuns like Sister Bernadette Chandler, who had been murdered this way. Perhaps the police wanted to avoid panic or maybe they were trying to keep a lid on this while they tried to corner some demented serial killer. That had to be what’s going on here, what else could it be?

Oh yes, there’s someone with the means to hire an upscale lawyer and high-dollar private investigator who sure as hell knew something about what’s going on. Looking down at the ground, he asked himself how many lives had already been shattered so far while some asshole has the key to the whole thing and is playing games.

Before it’s over, this whole thing is going to burst wide open. When the story blows and the spool of secrecy finally brakes and unravels, the media is going to go crazy. Until then, he needed more background, and a lot ofit, in order for his investigation to progress. It was time for a serious dialog with Meyers. There had to be an investigative plan with clear objectives and goals. If last night was a test, Frank had passed because he now had enough to cause a serious backlash for one big-time attorney.

2

Unknown to Frank and prior to his horrible encounter with the ritualistic murder, others were about to enter the equation. Their entry would directly impact everything that he would face, to include the outcome. The place was thousands of miles across the Atlantic in rural England. These forces were sinister in appearance and would parallel, cross and interface with everything occurring in San Antonio, Texas.

In England, the ambiance was not so much horrific as it was eerie and intriguing. One night in particular was enough to bring goose bumps to the average bloke. The scene opened coldly as an elderly man walked about an old castle with deliberate, measured steps. Rounding the corner, he entered a walkway covered by high ceilings and enormous open arches. One side revealed the remnants of a fading western sunset that partially illuminated an archaic courtyard, a full story below. Even the most common imagination would have captured the essence of this once magnificent floral paradise. Surely, it had been some medieval aristocrat’s signature of pride and beauty.

The cobblestone walkway through the courtyard provided a subtle variety of earth tones. Had the scene been restored to its original form it would have inspired appreciation from the most sophisticated senses. Surely, the scene had once contained a captivating aroma of blooming flowers that certainly had enchanted many hopeful young hearts. All must have pleased the eye of both Lord and Lady of yore.

The old man, partially bald, slumping and overweight, paused and gazed about at his surroundings. At last, his thoughts began to explain what his eyes were witnessing.

He really did regret what had been done to the place. So much of the neglect was his doing, aided by time. This castle was once bright, rich and vibrant, so full oflife. In its present condition it, lacked all those magnificent floral arrangements and soothing fragrances. The worst part is that all of the uncaring management and apathy has been intentional. He detested seeing those weeds thriving in place oflush green grass and shiny ivy. He wished he had been here in another life time when the yard had been a kaleidoscope of warmth, color, and charm. At any rate, the place now had the desired affect. The life had been stripped away and the outside reduced to cold dark walls and lackluster foliage.

The piercing eyes of rodents now permeated and ruled this world of dark shadows and cobwebs. Unknowingly to outsiders, the scene was all staged to create the allusion of evil.

The old man wore a distant expression, blank, except for his eyes, which bore some strange burden of responsibility stretched to the point ofbeing cursed. Such pain was ever so prevalent in those who cater to the dark side of life.

The man now dedicated himself to another calling. He now served Satan as a trusted disciple. All of this gloom that surrounded him was all designed to create an effect, one that probably appeared incomprehensible for the common efforts of modern historians. Oh yes, he also guarded another truth that was even deeper in purpose than ordinary evil. The old man smiled, acknowledging his secret.

Turning abruptly, he ascended to the first of many stone steps that spiraled and tunneled upward into pitch darkness. There was something sinister about this man that harnessed his loyalty and pulled it to the dark side. He was a soldier on a mission and it had something to do with evil.

Suddenly, the solemn darkness was interrupted by the rasping sound of a wooden match flickering to life. The fragile flame was quickly put to a torch that began burning with a yellow and dull intensity. The flame’s glow served its purpose as it illuminated the stairwell. He continued his trek, lighting a sequence of torches, which were secured firmly to the wall in ornate metal sconces. The lighted torches marked his progress as he climbed.

Any observant Christian would conclude that this man’s soul was filled with anguish and his eyes were blind to all that was considered good.

Emerging from the stairwell, Preston Toomey stopped short before walking into the room on the next landing. He waited for some word or command from the dark imposing figure of Lord Stonefire, the most prominent person at this deplorable place.

Without turning to face Preston, Lord Nicholas Stonefire spoke with a deep penetrating voice Preston, challenging times are before us.

What on earth do you mean? Preston wore an eager look.

Stonefire turned with a raised eyebrow and cast a troubling glance over his shoulder toward Preston.

During the past two months, I have received several letters from one of our devoted brethren in the United States. I am terribly troubled by what is happening there.

Is it those meddling Christians again; are they out to destroy the Dark Prince? Preston returned with a look of concern.

"Of course they are you fool. You surprise me. Satan is to the Christians what the rabbit is to the dog. They are compelled to chase us down and kill us wherever we can be cornered.

Everyone knows Christianity would fail without Satan. We are safe on those grounds because they are glad to have us around to pursue and exploit. But now, the intensity is out of balance and our cause is in serious jeopardy. The most devout of Christians know they cannot, and should not, destroy Satan altogether. And, if that isn’t enough, there are those intolerable white witches, and my ex-wife is one of them. They’re a different story.

Stonefire paused for an extended moment to think before continuing to speak with diminished passion.

"However, as irritating as they are, neither Wiccans nor Christians are at the heart of our current dilemma. It is not that simple. I’m sure that many in both groups are capitalizing on, and no doubt rejoicing over, the situation. The ones we must seek out and destroy, however, are not legitimate Christians, Wiccans, or out of control Satanists. The ones at the root of things are insane, ultimately depraved and mad beyond anything acceptable in contemporary society. They are sociopaths.

These misfits are the ones who will discredit us beyond repair. They will bring a wrath down upon us so severe that not even the dreaded inquisitions will compare. My assumption is; they have their fingers in Christianity, Neo-pagan cults, and our own Church of Satan. However, they are not true believers in Satanism. We must ferret out these lunatics and deal with them most severely.

In a valiant effort to paraphrase in simple terms, Preston declared, So we’re going to fight the Christians, discredit the Wiccans, and kill a bunch oflunatics who threaten our survival?

Stonefire smiled in agreement and that pleased Preston immensely.

Hours lapsed and darkness fell. Lord Stonefire’s troubled eyes surveyed the sentinel trees standing across the dark meadow adjacent to the castle. The moon lit his face in pale ghastliness. He began to speak softly, yet with conviction.

We are Satan personified, His rightful heirs and devoted disciples. His tone trailed off until there was only the whisper of the wind.

Gazing confidently, Stonefire smirked and slowly turned his face skyward. Eyes firmly fixed on the full moon he began, The Wiccans will not even acknowledge the existence of our Prince. They don’t even believe in good or evil. I wish we could teach them the error of their beliefs.

Why do we concern ourselves with a hand full of white lighters? These White Witches don’t have the power to destroy our existence. Surely, they can’t put Satanism out of business. And as for the Christians, they are as important to our survival as we are to theirs.

Assuming the role of teacher, Stonefire began to lecture Preston.

"The Ten Commandments alone make Christians our adversaries. One thing is for certain; we take on our enemies with a whole heart.

"Sure, I know that paganism was around long before Christianity or Satanism. We also know that the Inquisitions forced pagans so far underground that the old religions were nearly extinct. Now, the Neo-Pagan movement is proof of a true resurrection of the old religions. Wisely, for credibility and acceptability, they portray Jesus as some kind of great medium. In part, they give Him credit for some of His attributes and then take leave from His teachings when such concepts conflict with Pagan interests. This empowers Wiccans and makes their cause more tolerable because it minimizes their differences. They claim to use their magic for altruistic purposes only. Where is the value or pleasure in that?

"Lest we become overwhelmed, we must become their terror also, and get our due credit. We must make them wince at every shadow in the night. We must strike a hard blow to their cause before they bleed off too many of our followers. I can’t wait to see the first White Witch fall to her knees and worship Satan.

Compared to Wiccans, Satanists share one common belief with Christianity. We are both patriarchal, whereas, Wiccans are more prone to Goddess worship and being at one with Nature. Then there’s that age old controversy over Mary Magdalene and the Holy Grail. Even the Catholic Church is divided and running for cover over that issue.

Stonefire stopped talking and moved off the landing, out of the cool moonlight, and into his study. The room was surprisingly cordial, well decorated and dust free. Its furnishings were hand carved and extremely ornate. The blackened oak beams accented the cathedral ceiling and bespoke unbelievable antiquity. Plainly, the ambiance was of the old world, one of wealth and aristocracy.

The library was well stocked. There were many shelves filled with theological and classical books. Others contained treatises on magic by such authors as Paracelsus, Albertus Magnus, Trithemius, Hermes Triotmegistus, and Borellus. Some works were in strange alphabets and the titles appeared indecipherable.

The flames in the fireplace leaped up in a myriad of red, orange and white, and the accompanying smoke