The Unseen War, (The Hidden Domain of Spirits)

By Gordon Simmons

'The Unseen War' subtitled 'The Hidden Domain of Spirits' takes you behind the scene where Spirits deftly manipulate a cadre of Earth's religious sects, church orders and government institutions in a deadly dance of deceit, murder and medieval torture as these Spirits eagerly await the arrival of the NASA crew into their dimension. These Spirits who are divided into two camps both posit themselves as good and the others as evil. It is encumbered upon each crew member to determine which to support and which to oppose in their quest to escape the hell they find themselves in, all this while Earth lies in the balance.

'The Unseen War' is a mind bender that challenges the reader to strategize along with this NASA crew how three dimensional beings can outwit the spirits in these timeless and spaceless dimensions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gordon Simmons
• Release date: Jan 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224423996

Gordon Simmons

The writer is a graduate of Dallas Theological Seminary (Th.M) and has earned a Master's Certificate in Screenwriting from UCLA School of Theater.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

As her screams cascade into the night forest air as wolves tuck in their tails and ravens take flight.  Rabbits scurry to their holes and sympathy can be heard in the hoots of wide-eyed night owls.  Unseen spirits, sympathetic to her pleadings, scurry about, powerless to bring comfort to her wails, her whimpering’s fall upon a pair of uncaring ears—ears whose conscience has been seared, whose vows, though cherished, were sacrificed to a believed greater god.  The pleading of her countenance no longer registers in the realm of his cerebral cortex, where pity should be enticed and compassion should usher forth.  In his eyes she sees both good and evil.  In hers, he sees only a Canaanite in the Promised Land, an enemy of his new god.

Earlier, Pandora’s Box proved to be too enticing as she peeked into the Vatican’s sordid laboratory.  Shocked by what is hidden there, her heart thumps powerfully as she backs away silently up the stairs that lead her away from these unimaginable horrors.  Traumatized by visions no pure eyes should see, she cradles her swollen belly, suddenly afraid of and yet still protecting what lies inside her. As she faintly hears the creak of the massive laboratory door, it opens slowly one story beneath her, her bladder lets loose an uncontrolled torrent of warm yellow liquid.  Paralyzed with dread and on the precipice of fainting, she struggles to remain conscious.  One foot in front of the other, she commands her limbs but they are reluctant to obey.  Terror has made all around her surreal—an Edvard Munch painting—sinuous, angry reds and hostile purples swirl about her perception.  Maddening and disoriented, her mind races forward but her body remains frozen in a silent scream. 

While he was lost in his work was her best chance to escape, she thought, but nothing escapes the notice of a priest who has wagered his immortal soul on what appears to be a losing bet.  Slipping her coat on and grasping her suitcase, she determines to make her escape through the forest night.  Afraid of the things unseen in the dark night forest air but terrified by the horrors witnessed in this house of God so far from everywhere, she hears his rancid breath behind her.  Startled, she gulps in what she assumes will be her last breath.  Instinctively she clutches the crucifix around her neck.  Her muscles tighten as stiff as a three-day-old corpse.  She braces for what she assumes will be a searing pain. As she closes her eyes, her only want is that the deathblow be quick and concluding. 

Still clutching her crucifix, she opens her eyes to look upon it and prays to a God past events have made her no longer certain of.  A moment passes then two.  I’m just hearing things, the Priest is not behind me, she rationalizes but doesn’t have the courage to look back over her shoulder.  Relieved, she feels it safe to breath and exhales slowly, cautiously, quietly.  Comforted by her thought, God has heard my prayer, she remains still as the room settles down in her mind and things become perceptible.  The hum of the Sub-Zero refrigerator, the brass knobs on the pantry doors, the eight burner Wolf commercial stove, I’m in the kitchen, she realizes and mentally strategizes her way through the foyer to freedom.  A measure of calmness quells through her tense body as she feels control slowly course through her members.  Thank you, Father,  she whispers quietly, confident no one will hear. 

Bless you, My Child,  comes back in refrain as soothing as she imagines the voice of God to be but horribly audible.  She turns to stare into a pair of eyes void of sympathy.  Hoping in vain, she lowers her hands over her belly to protect this thing that the Vatican has placed inside her... Her screams cascade into the night forest air.

CHAPTER ONE

The old gray-stone mansion stood like a once kept lady whose better days were long past.  She has not worn the years well.  Twenty years of misuse, abuse and neglect, can take its toll on even the stoutest of creations.  But still her gothic style, which tiers three levels upward casts an ominous shadow on all who dare to approach. 

Sitting perched atop 240 acres of upstate New York virgin land, she is a constant reminder to her suitor of memories he hopes will never be revealed.  The mansion was built deep within undeveloped forests, owned by the U.S. government, but covertly leased to the Vatican.  She can only be accessed via one unmarked trail.  One trail that, with the blink of one’s eye, will cause its seekers to pass by as they drive along Route 8, which lies 20 miles just off Interstate 87. 

The mansion, unlike in her younger years when she had many suitors coming and going throughout the day and night, now has only one.  He drops off weekly rations from the Catholic mission in Syracuse.  Brother John has never step foot inside the Vatican’s mansion.  His senses tell him that her lack of hospitality is more a blessing than a lack of courtesy. 

As his Range Rover passes through the mansion’s security gate, familiarity causes his eyes to no longer see the ‘no trespassing sign’  It once was prominent but now overgrown with forest vines, it no longer warns trespassers, let alone Brother John.  The security gate, once manned by the Vatican’s famous Swiss Guard now only has their emblem, the sculptured lion hewn out of Italian marble, to stand sentry.  The ‘gate’ has so long now been out of repair and stuck in the open position that Brother John does not slow down but passes right through the ‘gate’, security no longer being an appropriate adjective. 

As he approaches the mansion proper, familiarity also causes him not to see the overgrowth of weeds and the flaking of the dark green paint that has long ago given up on preserving the wood trim it covers.  However, the ominous shadow she casts still gives him the heebie geebies.  He knows she has secrets untold, but Brother John is just a simple man with a simple faith.  He rationalizes that the truths the Vatican is hiding, this far out in the middle of nowhere, if known would surely cause his faith to falter.

Like a beautiful woman though in need of cosmetics is still beautiful, so is the mansion in Brother John’s eyes.  He would love to restore her to her former beauty but, like Pandora’s Box, he can sense iniquity inside and glad he doesn’t have to enter her door.  He is not blinded to the fact that this old mansion and all who dare to partake of whatever delicacies her 38 rooms has to offer has fallen out of the graces of the Vatican. 

For the past twelve years, the better part of wisdom has told him to just drop off the supplies at the mansion’s entry, knock on the door and leave before Father Mult answers.  For the past twelve years, this has been his routine.  For the past twelve years, the routine has been successful in making his trip a good one, or better said, an uneventful one.  For the past twelve years, it has been a nice four-hour ride in the Range Rover, two hours up and two hours back, time enough to get close to nature, time enough to commune with God.  Nevertheless, for Brother John, this is the day that is spoken of when it is said ‘all good things must come to an end’. 

How beautiful the Old Lady still looks after a winter dusting of fresh upstate New York snow, her imperfections hidden by the white cosmetic lightly apportioned by the hand of God.  Like precious diamonds the three o’clock Sun’s rays glisten off the moisture that is trapped in the snow and ice that adorn the old lady.  A slight wind that flurries the snow is a sure sign that even though the sun shines bright, it is deathly cold outside. 

Brother John prepares to meet the freezing cold by buttoning up his coat and wrapping his scarf tightly around his neck.  The biting wind picks up a notch, causing a whiteout, that is, blinding snow agitated by the wind.  Snowflakes swirl in the entry as Brother John steps into the circular drive, bags in hand. 

The echoing thud of the Range Rover’s door closing flushes a flock of ravens that have gathered at the mansion’s entry.  The circular driveway is a hundred feet from those reinforced double doors.  They are guarded by two winged gargoyle statues, each, though made of brass, is tarnished green from lack of care.  Each gargoyle’s head is slightly angled, one to the left and one to the right so that they do not merely look forward but converge on the apex of the approach, making eye contact with whoever approaches her.  The gargoyle’s gaze is unnerving to all first time visitors but Brother John has seen them too many times before to take notice of them anymore.  Neither does he take notice of the Latin Crosses that adorn the breasts of each gargoyle.  They appear to be only ornamentation but speak much more to those who have eyes that can see the meaning behind them, an oversight to Brother John of no consequence but for the Vatican an oversight of infinite magnitude. 

But for now two hundred feet in this cold focuses Brother John’s attention to the task at hand; a hundred feet to and a hundred feet fro, in between drop off the supplies and a job well done is all he has in mind.  Having disembarked his vehicle, he lowers his head against the wind; his arms full of supplies, he makes his way to the front door of the Old Lady. 

Peering down the long walkway to the mansion’s entry, he sees something through the swirling snow.  At first, he fears that they are last week’s provisions lying where he always leaves them, just in front of the gargoyle that guards the left door.  He hopes that Father Mult, the Old Lady’s last suitor has abandoned her, but he fears the worst and prays in vain that all is okay in the mansion as he steadily makes his way down her long approach.

Seventy feet away from the front entry, with snow still blowing in his face, he can just make out that the bundle, laying between the gargoyles lack the paper bag tan color of last week’s deliveries.  Even though the bundle is much too dark to be last week’s deliveries, it is the hint of red that gives him pause.  He fears, possibly a wounded bear.

A cautious man, he stops in his tracks reasoning the Old Lady lies too far from civilization for anyone to hear him cry for help.  Fifty-two trips a year for twelve years and nothing is ever different.  Now he sees a bundle of some sort, no, two; it is hard to see with blowing snow in your eyes. 

He moves a little closer and pauses for a moment.  The cold snow melts against his warm face and cascades into the corner of his eyes.  He wipes them frantically but still his vision is blurred.  Summoning nerve he moves a little closer, then just a little closer more, and again until he is close enough to see that it is not one bundle but two.  He knows that bears are solitary figures and gains comfort from his understanding, comfort but still not ease from his fear.  "If not a bear then what"? A few more steps forward, still with the wind in his eyes obscuring his vision but not his hearing.  No noise, no cawing of the crows, just the eerie sound of the wind howling, reduces him to prayer, Oh, Lord, let me see clearly  he prays with the passion of a man cautious of his next step.

Accustomed to asking of God but unaccustomed to receiving from Him, Brother John is startled by the drop in the wind.  The snow flurries die down and settle on the two bundles.  He wipes his eyes of the melted snow and, now seeing clearly, he stands numbed but not by the cold.  He is frozen in place but not by the bitter Canadian blast that visits the U.S. every winter like an unwelcomed guest who has overstayed its presence. 

Not feeling the weekly rations he is to deliver slide slowly out of his arms and crash to the ground he hopes his eyes misinterpret what they see but he hopes in vain.  It is hard to misinterpret the sea of crimson that has oozed from beneath both bundles that lay between the gargoyles.  This sea of crimson, set against the backdrop of fresh, white, upstate New York snow, sends shivers down Brother John’s spine.  Not taking another step forward he focuses on what the ravens have left and what they have left is a sight no man with tender eyes should see.

Cautiously he makes his way to the entry and, stepping over the two corpses, he bangs on the door.  No answer.  His curiosity overcomes his fear and compels him to look down.  The corpses are frozen stiff and the ravens have hollowed out their eye sockets.  Their eyeless gaze hauntingly seems to stare at him, beckoning him, pleading for his help. 

Unaccustomed to such a close and personal interaction with death, and their empty eye sockets screaming out for help, brings on an inner panic that almost puts Brother John to flight.  On the verge of losing his consciousness he closes his eyes and tilts his head upward, his curiosity fulfilled Brother John steadies himself.  With shaking hands, he grips the massive gold doorknocker and slams it hard three times. The sound thunders, sending to flight the ravens that patiently wait to return to dinner, or at three o’clock in the afternoon, a late lunch.  Father Mult, open up. He screams but no answer.  Again, he slams the knocker repeatedly with even more force.  For the love of God, Father Mult, open up! But still no answer. 

Deathly quiet and far from civilization the wind begins to flurry the snow again.  Panicking he slams the doorknocker harder and harder against the solid oak door that is overlaid with a deep dark cherry veneer.  The oak is for strength, the cherry veneer is for beauty but neither is symbolic of what lies inside the mansion. The doorknocker bellows out but the only noise to break the silence is its returning echoes and the caw of the ravens that seem to mock Brother John’s fear.

To steady himself, he closes his eyes and offers up a silent prayer then, with his shock and adrenaline subsiding, he looks down at the corpses and focuses his attention.  He notices the letters on their jackets, both the male and the female corpse.  The letters read F.B.I. 

Both of their standard issue nine-millimeter automatic pistols are still holstered.  It is easy to reason that whatever happened, they were caught by surprise.  Cautiously, hesitantly, he steps over the corpses as if to touch them he would become ceremoniously unclean.  As if to touch them, he would be irreverent to the dead.  However, the cell phone is in the Range Rover and he has to make a call.  911.

Evening has overtaken the Old Lady and though the wind has died down, the snow still flurries, flurries from the whirling blades of the FBI helicopter.  Its spotlight is fixed on the two corpses still frozen in the Old Lady's entry.  The corpses are a testament to the FBI S.W.A.T. team to approach the mansion with care.  Sergeant (Sarge) Harry Morgan scurries to the entry and, kneeling over his two fallen comrades, takes a moment to console himself.  Then, signaling to the six members of his S.W.A.T. team, he motions for them to advance to his position.  A practical man, not given to following the book, a passionate man, given to emotional extremes, he gives the order, Shoot first, there won’t be any questions later.  Like Brother John, his eyes have not taken notice of the Latin Cross that is affixed to the breast of each gargoyle.  To most, it is just a Catholic ornament but to a selected few, it signals ‘beware’.

Sarge motions for Rochelle Harris to come forward.  Better looks than average Rochelle is a Vatican psychologist.  Dressed in professional attire but draped with a bulletproof vest, she is out of place.  Out of place not so much because of her office attire but because of the fear on her face.  Sarge turns to Officer Perry, most junior of the squad.  Perry, she’s your responsibility.  Sarge is not adept at hiding his utter contempt for the bureaucrats who have infected his finely tuned squad with Rochelle.  Rochelle receives the brunt of that contempt, contempt his face cannot hide.  He speaks as if she is not present, Keep her in secured areas, Perry, only secured areas.  Perry assures Sarge, I’ve got her, Sarge.  Sarge barks back at him, And when I call for her bring her up quickly. He then turns to Rochelle and speaking with utter disdain, We’re the heroes here, you just do as you’re told.  One to be easily intimidated, Rochelle nods in the affirmative. 

Sarge motions for the door to be breached.  One slam of the battering ram and nothing, the Old Lady will not be penetrated easily.  Again the battering ram slams against her, but she only moans, as she braces against its thrust.  Again, and she reluctantly begins to give way, a testimony to her European upbringing.  One more slam of the battering ram and the door splinters, sending oak and cherry veneer shrapnel flying in all directions.  Rochelle flinches from the impact and turns her face from the shrapnel.  She is unaccustomed to viewing such brute force and as such struggles to subdue her urge to run away from the entry that she knows holds answers to mysteries she has longed to see.

CHAPTER TWO

Sarge is the first in; he takes cover by one of the massive European columns that adorn the foyer.  The Old Lady was built to convey to her suitors the glory of God and the power and wealth of the Vatican.  Long ago, she was grand but now Sarge’s eyes fall upon the dark and dreary, illuminated only by the constant flickering of candlelight emanating from a partially opened door, a door that would have easily been overlooked except that the only light to illuminate the mansion’s baroque style furniture and gothic statues emanate from it.  Dark, silent and layered in dust yet this lonely and forgotten place seems alive as the shadows cast by its gothic statutes seem to dance in the flickering candlelight that brings them to life.  Dusty, moldy and with the smell of rotting garbage, Sarge senses that all is not right, here in this house that the Vatican has built.

Sarge, unfamiliar with the opulence of the Vatican, takes a moment to acclimate himself to his surroundings.  Everything is unfamiliar to him except for a slight odor that is different than the odor of rotting garbage.  It is an odor that has dissipated to all except those whose senses go into high alert upon its recognition.  As Sarge ponders whether to go to the light or follow the slight odor of a corpse whose spirit has long ago departed, a voice beckons him, Sarge, Sarge, you okay in there?  Sarge whispers back Hold your position.  Sarge, rationalizing that whatever harm could come from the direction of the odor has long ago past, moves towards the light that emanates from the partially opened door. 

The door is a good fifteen meters away, a long distance to be exposed but Sarge makes his way covering the distance rapidly.  Upon reaching the door entry, he realizes that the sense of desertion, the sense of aloneness emanating from the aura that the Old Lady now secretes has clouded his judgment.  He has exposed himself to the many rooms and hallways that connect to the great room he has just passed through.  Sarge is relieved to see that his next in command, Corporal Higgins, has taken his place at the foyer supplying him cover.  Sarge gives a hand command that Corporal Higgins relays to the rest of the squad and, like clockwork, one by one each member enters the foyer, makes eye contact with Sarge, and then follows Sarge’s hand directions to selected positions within the great room. 

Sarge motions for Corporal Higgins to advance to his position.  No words are spoken between the two.  Higgins' facial expression says it all.  The two have worked together long enough for Higgins to know that he has to look out for Sarge and Sarge to know that he can count on Higgins.  Sarge acknowledges Higgins disapproving gaze with a nod.  Sarge will never be on the top of his game.  After twenty years on the S.W.A.T. Team, he has been passed over for promotion ten times.  S.W.A.T. 101, you just don’t take an exposed position without cover.

Sarge peers through the crack in the door that emits light.  The room is a good size.  It is filled with candles, some scented, some not.  Some graced to be stationed above golden candle stands, others not.  Some have been lighted to the end of their usefulness, others freshly lit.  Again the flames dance to the draft that easily finds its way past the weathered windowsills.  The walls are covered with reflective mirrors, each and every possible spot.  The ceiling is also covered with mirrors but the soot from the candles has all but reduced their reflective properties to zero.  But, still, the mirrors make the hundred or so lit candles appear to be a thousand or so.  Though Sarge, unfamiliar with Catholicism,  still he knows that the strange alters and idols illuminated by the candles look rather befitting a mystical eastern religion than the Holy Roman Catholic Church.  In the corner is a pile of three Hindu idols, each with four arms, all piled one upon the other as if discarded.

Confused, Sarge motions for Higgins to take a look inside the room.  Higgins, a more devout man, devout about as much as a hired gun can be, is more perplexed than Sarge.  I don’t know what we have going on here, Sarge.  He doesn’t look at Sarge as he speaks.  His eyes continuously scan the room. 

All I can say is that they look to be Hindu Gods. 

All six of them? 

Looks that way. 

What’s with all the arms? 

Four each is not a lot for an eastern religion, Sarge. 

What about the three in the middle? 

Got me there too, Sarge.  Better let that psychologist take a look at this. 

Sarge motions to Perry, Perry has taken position at the foyer so that he can bring Rochelle forward when commanded to.  Perry motions to Rochelle for her to come forward.  Hesitant but more curious, after taking a deep breath, she does.  He takes her extended hand and they both hurriedly scurry  to Sarge’s position.  Perry can feel her reluctance grow with each step, so he  strengthens his grip around her hand with each step pulling her along the way.

Sarge, while waiting for Rochelle to be brought forward, motions for the team to begin clearing the upstairs rooms and they take to the task, two teams of two each.  Sarge turns to Rochelle, Take a look.  She looks into Sarge’s eyes then Higgins with the hope of some precursor as to what lies in the room but she finds no help from either.  Cautiously she maneuvers to the crack of the door and subconsciously takes hold of Higgins hand as she peers in.  Rochelle is taken back by what she sees.  She ponders, makes eye contact with Sarge and then ponders some more.  Sarge, not a patient man and already having his fill of Rochelle, barks:

Well?! 

Odd for a Catholic Priest. 

I need more than that, Rochelle.  Tell me what I’m looking at and what the hell it’s doing in here! 

The three idols piled in the corner are the Hindu trinity of gods, Vishnu, Brahma and Shiva.  The three in the center of the room are their wives, Lakshmi, Saravati and Parvati.

What, he has a thing for their wives? 

The meaning is clear to Rochelle.  She is not one given to lies but she is not averse to withholding the truth.  She decides it best to keep that truth from Sarge for now.

He’s a sick man, Sarge.

I can see he’s a sick man, Rochelle.  Shit, I don’t need you to tell me that!  Rochelle responds, He’s broken his Catholic vows, for a priest that’s one step over the cliff.  There’ll be no reasoning with him.  Sarge looks at Rochelle for a long moment, then Finally, something I can use.

The two upstairs teams report, 2nd floor, clear  3rd floor, clear.  From his vantage point, Sarge can see into the dining room.  He leaves Rochelle and Higgins and advances towards it, stopping just before entering.  He motions to Perry who hurries forward with Rochelle closely following along.  They all look into the dining room and see twelve chairs standing sentry around a great oak table with twelve settings of fine china, crystal and silverware.  The walls are adorned with cherry paneling, pictures of Greek culture and Roman landmarks all bounded in six inch mahogany frames.  Beautiful in every detail except for the dust, layers of dust having come to rest upon it all, tarnishing the silverware and covering the opulence. 

Sarge turns to Rochelle and with the same tone as before Well?!  She replies, From the looks of this room, he has been fasting for quite some time.  He will be weak and disoriented due to a lack of proteins.

Weak and disoriented, are you sure Ms.  Harris? 

Yes, Sarge.

As Sarge contemplates her words, Higgins assumes his rightful position and moves towards the kitchen before Sarge has a mind to.  He motions to Sarge, and the trio – Sarge, Rochelle and Perry move to the kitchen’s entryway.  The kitchen is commercial sized, equipped to feed a hundred people if necessary.  It is strewn about with opened cans and half-eaten meals.  Dirty dishes and filth abound.  Cockroaches and field mice enjoy the smorgasbord.  Sarge turns to Rochelle and with as much patience and understanding as he can muster, commands, Rochelle, I want you to breathe through your nose, as deeply as you can.  Rochelle obeys. 

Do you smell a slight odor?  It seems a little out of place for a kitchen, even a filthy one like this.

I smell all this garbage, Sarge.  Sarge can’t contain his outburst.

"Of course you can smell the garbage, you’re not listening to me?   

Higgins shushes Sarge, like a parent does a talkative child as they sit in the pew.  Sarge lowers his voice. I said a slight odor, different from the odor this garbage is giving off. Rochelle takes a second deep whiff.  Sarge waits on her patiently as she tries to differentiate the odors.  After a moment, she closes her eyes and takes in a third whiff to be sure she and Sarge are on the same page. Yes, yes, Sarge, I smell it. Sarge just looks at her for a moment to see if she has any understanding.  She doesn’t.  Sarge takes the time to explain.

People tend to misjudge your Father Mult and all that is left of them is lying at the front door and somewhere close to us.  Lives are at stake here, Ms.  Harris, yours, mine and the lives of my men.  So now, tell me, is he weak, feeble and disoriented or not? Rochelle doesn’t answer, the import of Sarge’s words are too much for her to emotionally manage.  She freezes in place as her breathing becomes rapid and her skin becomes clammy.  Both Sarge and Corporal Higgins have seen it before in civilians.  Sarge has no patience but before he can order Perry to remove Rochelle, Higgins intercedes and buries Rochelle’s head in his chest, comforting her. Don’t worry, Dr. Harris, you’re safe with us. She lifts her eyes to see Higgins’ comforting and reassuring face.We need you here because we don’t know what’s going on.  You have to help us understand the situation.  You can do that for us now can’t you, Rochelle? Rochelle disappointed with herself and not wanting to let Sarge down, replies, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Sergeant Morgan, it looks like he has a good appetite which is a sign he’s secure and comfortable in his decisions.  I believe he will defend them forcibly. 

Corporal Higgins, following his nose, opens one of the walk-in pantries.  As he does, what seems like a hundred field mice scurry away from the light, some race into the holes they have gnawed into the walls, some race past Higgins, Sarge and Rochelle, sending Rochelle into flight.  If not for Perry she would still be running but he grabs her, lifting her off her feet, holding her against her will until the field mice have all scurried away. 

Bring her here!  Sarge commands of Perry and, upon doing so, Sarge grips Rochelle by her wrist and pulls her to the pantry door.  Look!  Rochelle focuses to see a postnatal woman, a Miss Alisha Browning, fully dressed in a heavy coat, hat and scarf with her suitcase by her side.  Her c-section was not performed by the hand of a skilled gynecologist.  She is badly decomposed or at least what the field mice have left uneaten, she and the deformed fetus that, in his first and last attempt at survival, lay between her legs three months premature.  One could easily surmise that, from the hole in her head, her leaving was not according to Father Mult’s plans.  This must be the missing person our agents came looking for, Alisha Browning.  Sarge assumes Alisha was the housekeeper but, even though her face is decomposed, Rochelle can still match it to the photograph in Alisha’s psychological profile.  She doesn’t tell him different.  We don’t expect for you to be a hero Dr.  Harris, but we don’t expect for you to run away either.  We won’t let anything happen to you, now are you with us or not?  Rochelle takes another look at Ms.  Browning, closes her eyes for a moment making the sign of the cross, and, with that, turns to Sarge, You won’t have to worry about me anymore, Sarge, I’m with you. 

Good. 

Sarge, still angry, addresses Rochelle; his voice has a sense of sadness, bewilderment and anger.  Rochelle doesn’t miss his thinly veiled accusation: This level of madness doesn’t happen overnight!  Before Rochelle can speak, Higgins interjects: Let’s stay focused, Sarge.  Sarge recomposes himself and again addresses Rochelle, but in a softer tone.  Never mind, Ms.  Harris, whatever you Catholics do is none of my business, at least not as long as this place has diplomatic immunity.  Higgins, assured that Sarge is under self-control, continues to recon the kitchen. 

Prominent in the kitchen is a rather large door.  Sarge heads for it before Higgins does.  It takes a considerable pull to cause to motion but once moving the 75mm thick steel door, balanced on its hinges glides open with the ease of a bank vault door.  Sarge signals everyone to remain still by holding up his arm with a clinched fist.  Everyone freezes in place not making a sound.  Sarge signals by putting his finger to his ear and they all listen.  Just faintly, over the hum of the stainless steel commercial refrigerator, a voice can be heard, it’s words are not discernable, only a murmur but definitely a voice.

CHAPTER THREE

The steel door opens to a flight of stairs that lead to the Old Lady’s basement.  Basement is too kind of a word.  Dungeon is more fitting.  To Higgins' dismay, Sarge heads down the stairs first.  By all rights Higgins should be the point man but Sarge loves the rush.

The ‘dungeon’ is dark and damp, reminiscent of medieval times.  The file cabinets that line the cobblestone walls break with the decor.  Boxes, hundreds of them, are stacked on top of each file cabinet, each neatly cataloged.  The file cabinets are lined together making row after row, some 90 degrees to each other.  From the top of the stairs, their maze-like formation is apparent. 

The maze of files opens to a set of reinforced double steel doors whose hinges are on the inside.  Sarge reasons, no door ram is going to breach those doors, but the light shining through the bottom of the doorway is a sure sign that those reinforced steel doors will have to be breached.  In anticipation of that difficulty, Sarge radios in a request for an explosives expert to be brought in. 

With each step that Sarge takes down the stairs, the murmurs become more and more pronounced.  Having memorized the maze the files have created, Sarge makes his way through them to the double steel doors.  He listens closely.  With his ear pressed firmly against the warm steel, he can make out a voice talking, holding a conversation, but something is strange.  It’s definitely a conversation but he can hear only one voice.  Sarge motions with his finger, one suspect. 

All of the S.W.A.T. team members silently make their way into the basement.  Rochelle attempts to follow but Perry holds Rochelle back at the top of the stairs.  He whispers to her, Not until it's clear.  Sarge puts two fingers to his eyes.  One of the S.W.A.T. team members understands the signal and brings a long small camera lens placing it under the door.  As Sarge bends down to position the camera under the door, the acidic stench of warmed urine that oozes out from under the door makes Sarge gag.  He draws back a minute to compose himself and to take a deep breath, then holding his breath, he positions the camera.  As Sarge studies the view of the inner room via the monitor, he can clearly make out the components of a laboratory: test tubes and electronic oscilloscopes, vials and incubators, computers and microscopes, that is, electron microscopes.  A funny looking digital clock sits high on the cobblestone wall.  It has twelve rotating dials with the one farthest to the right spinning so fast that the numbers are unrecognizable.  Under it is a large calendar; the year is 1990 but the calendar, old and tattered, is from 1975.  A large furnace with its burners set to maximum heat takes up one corner of the laboratory. 

In close proximity to the furnace, there is a pile of at least fifty deformed embryos. Some have four arms, others multiple legs, conjoined, grotesque and pitiful.  Perpendicular to the embryos are three baby cribs, each containing a baby, but only if one uses his imagination.  Desperately deformed, they appear to be around six months, one year, and a year and a half old, each in a separate crib.  Next to the three cribs is a large toddler’s playpen.  A normal looking toddler approximately three years of age occupies it.  Using his finger, he eats honey from a jar never taking his eyes off a book he is apparently reading.  There are milk cartons and books strewn about the playpen.  A chalkboard sits on top of a stack of books with the following titles: Beginning Algebra, Elementary Physics, and Binary Numbering. 

Father Mult, old, clearly on the later side of his ninth decade, works frantically.  Bent over by his advanced age and with the characteristic hump that accompanies many his age, he looks type cast for a Frankenstein movie.  His hands are old and knobbed; the skin that covers his hands is excessive, liver spotted and wrinkled.  Italian by birth, nothing seems out of place for a man of his advance years. 

The firing of the furnace has the laboratory well over 100 degrees.  Sweat drips profusely from Father Mult as he grips the deformed embryos and, with the strength of a man three decades his junior, tosses them, one by one into the furnace.  He wears a dirty, old and what could once pass as white but now is at best a dingy, gray laboratory smock.  Under the smock just barely visible is a priest’s collar.  As Sarge watches him, he is perplexed by the incoherent babbling of Father Mult. 

Suddenly Sarge has an appreciation for the wisdom of having Rochelle inflicted upon his squad.  He motions to Perry and he hurriedly brings Rochelle forward.  They study the monitor together and listen to his ravings as he continues to intern the embryos to their fiery cremation.  He stops a moment and reaching into his smock he retrieves a handkerchief and wipes the perspiration from his brow.  Then, as if extremely agitated, he looks up and begins to speak in a guttural and desperate voice.  His voice raises many decibels so that now he is clearly heard through the door: But I had to kill those FBI agents! ... But they were going to defile the temple!  Suddenly Sarge closes the monitor and looks directly at Rochelle. 

I assume you want us to take him alive.

Yes.

Then I need some answers.

Rochelle ponders a moment then responds, That’s fair. 

Who is he?

Father Mult is a pioneer in the field of genetic engineering.  Forty years ago, the Pope himself assigned him to head a special project.  He is still working on that project. 

What is the project? 

I’m not at liberty to say. 

Sarge gives her the irritating look she has come to know.  Let that question go, Sarge, for your own sake and the sake of your men.  Sarge, taken aback by Rochelle’s request ponders it for a moment.  In his line of work, he has to be a good judge of character but in order to stay alive he, more importantly, must be a good assessor of ‘threat level.’  All of his training and instincts tell him that Rochelle would not be one to make ideal threats.  He lets the question go for now and moves on to his next.

Okay, then who is he talking to?

He suffers from schizophrenia. 

I can see that, who does he think he’s talking to?

He’s my patient, that’s privileged. 

Sarge’s patience has come to an end.  Even as he strains to hold his voice to a whisper, his agitation is fully expressed by his tone, Give me a good reason why I don’t just blow open the door and kill that lunatic before he hurts anyone else?  Rochelle urgently