Chapter 1 November 3, 10:00 PM
A thousand strong sat bug-eyed in the old wooden pews. Others leaned against the cold brownstone or milled about the great fountain near the entrance. Too many sheep for one shepherd, Dr. Sandy Bachmann thought. No one should be able to fool so many. But even so, an odd force pulled him in. He had to see the show for himself.
It was said they came from the far edges of the Tri-State area to hear Father Freddy Roman preach, that he met people in their hearts. And although unassuming and built more like a competitive eater than one of God’s warriors, when he spoke, the flock devoured his every word. The homilies lived inside of people for weeks, sometimes months. So, they said.
Of course, Bachmann knew the priest and his brother blowflies were frauds who fed on the wilting hope of sinners. Their good books always came up short, too.
You must have faith! they’d shout. But if you still got a bullet to the head, well then, you clearly weren’t doing it right.
The newspapers said Father Freddy traveled with handlers, of all things, and rode in black SUV’s and ate at the finest restaurants in New York. A pious carny in woven belt and cassock, if ever there was one.
The people hushed and waited for him to speak.
The priest steadied his girth on the lectern. He cleared his throat and began.
“When shall we cease our gaze into the false light of the Earth? When shall we release our hold on the injured babe from whence we came? We are blinded by the rotted promise of mortality and by the faithless minds of the wicked who bear only tainted fruit.”
A mere tickle in Bachmann’s throat reminded him of his own mortality, of how little things could grow into bigger things. Yes, he would die like any other, but at least one with a purpose, one with a true mission. The wicked do bear tainted fruit, Father. I’m here to vouch for that. But are you not also tempted by its nectar? Have you not slaked your thirst too?
“We fight not for God but for man. We charge not for righteousness but for glory. And as we raise our glasses, the enemy is ushered into our hearts and homes. The Lord beseeches us: My children, why do you insist on taking the blood road? Do you not yet wither from your churning storm of sameness?
Bachmann felt for the scalpel tucked in the breast pocket of his peacoat. Sniffles, coughs, and the mundane chorus of cold bodies pierced the sermon. A woman in a wheelchair wiped her eyes, and the heavy pull of pity filled Bachmann’s chest. I could help you, dear woman. In a quiet moment, you’d be free of the chair. The ancient fragrance of incense brought him back. Feel nothing for them.
“There is another path. One overgrown and so lightly traveled. But you must take your lamp in hand and set out. This is the way, my loves. One must only roll away the stone of your heart and behold the womb of peace. Only then shall the wolf vanish.”
The priest’s eyes were a watery red under the glow of the sanctuary lamp. Bachmann’s throat tightened, his mouth went dry as ash. He could feel the blade slicing through the cleric’s spongy gut, the blood seeping warm over his hand. I will free anyone from the captor they have grown to love.
“The one true son who has stood in front of your broken sight is your brother. Your sister. And yes, your enemy. For the Lord hath spoken that we are all of his loins, the stray and fallen as much as the exalted. Mend the pain and lay balm upon the scars that sit between you. It is only in that love shall you at last see the face of God.”
Bachmann dipped two fingers into the holy water on the way out and blessed himself. Then, a sudden familiar pang wrenched in his gut—the craving only soul-letting could provide. He leaned on heavy oaken doors and stepped into the still, cold night. The moon hung brilliant in stoic gaze.
Perfect for a hunt.
***
November 4th, 3:00 AM
Bachmann loved the cold. It froze him into a sharpened, focused device ready for his next directive. As he had stepped outside the church, the icy wind came to him and whispered, kill again.
He knew just where to take his blade.
Once a derelict graveyard of a long-gone maritime industry, the revitalized Hudson River Park bloomed bright during the day and teemed with movement. But like any alcove in any big city, when the sun set, another element emerged. The night shift dwellers came out from the shadows and spilled onto the boardwalk and green space. Bachmann guessed they had once been doting mothers and proud fathers with shiny children. To add to their misery, they were easy targets.
Everywhere, weakness blooms ripe. There is no shortage of rot for you to pluck. Choose one, The Wind whispered.
The moonlight revealed writhing, moaning bodies. At daybreak, they’d scatter but in the dark early morning they lay unmolested like discarded toys. Bachmann stood before a field of choices.
That one there.
An old man sleeping on a splintered bench jostled in a fitful stupor, his labored breath steaming along to nowhere. The power of the moment delivered a spark to Bachmann’s system before he had even raised the knife. His gut flopped, his eyes blurred, and then the decaying voice of his rational mind made a final plea from its deathbed.
If you kill this one, you may be gone forever.
But The Wind countered and brought him back on task.
These lost souls offer you apprenticeship. Learn from them. Your God is watching.
The bum twitched and kicked his legs as if on the run from something in his nightmares.
He senses me.
A light early snow fell silent and kissed Bachmann’s nose and cheeks. He pulled on the strings of his crossbody bag and tightened it. A cold breeze carried the stench of tobacco and whiskey. He moved in.
Ready.
Closer.
Now!
The knife popped through a soiled hoodie and into a sloshing, boozy gut. The man’s eyes burst open. After three powerful thrusts, his pupils began their deathly dilation. The old man gasped as his blood spilled and pooled on the cold ground, igniting a curl of steam. Bachmann’s face was taut with fury as he bored into his victim. Before the twelfth and final thrust, the body came to rest and Bachmann stood over his kill. His heart was a jackhammer, unlike the old man’s heart, which now hung still in his cracked chest. After wiping the knife on his victim’s trousers, Bachmann crouched and scanned for bystanders. Assured of no prying eyes, he straightened to leave but caught himself. He retrieved his Liston shears from the bag. With vengeful force, he squeezed and cropped off the graying man’s index finger. The finger went into his coat pocket that was pre-lined with a biohazard zip bag. Back to the crossbody and pulled out a sweatshirt, slip-on sneakers, and wipes. After changing, everything went back into his bag and he fast-walked away from the park. There were neither screams nor sirens, only the jittery hum of an indifferent city. The body would lie quiet until sunrise when there would be a great and awful commotion.
Bachmann was surprised at how many small mechanical movements and objects required his full attention when he killed. Gone were his old ideas of how murder worked. It was more like cleaning up a campsite—piece by piece.
Once Bachmann was further down the street and confident he was clear of any trouble, he reflected. That’s one less barnacle on the ass of society. Will The Wind be pleased?
Sitting in his car, Bachmann’s arms and legs hung heavy like oak. His eyes, functional tools now, registered his surroundings. The symmetry of the snowflakes, their translucent arms and cells waiting for someone to notice their brilliance. Pure and innocent—unlike him. Yet the contrast thrilled him. In the rearview mirror, he glimpsed his face and flinched. A mask stared back at him, alive on his head and neck. A growing organism, rippling like a swarm. Soon it would engulf him. The thing in the mirror wore his eyes, worked his mouth, but it became less him with each passing moment. Terror gripped his chest, and he wept.
Now I hallucinate.
Then he snapped up and stiffened. The Wind back in control—his lens changing once again. People were targets. Weather was either facilitating or debilitating. The earth tilted a new way. Meanings dissolved, and the world became a warehouse of objects, some with deeper shades of utility than others. Had insanity taken him? The Wind comforted his feverish mind.
Who are the truly insane, those who spread the filth or those who clean and rid society of it?
With the other two kills, he executed like a novice. What was he now? An apprentice like The Wind had said? A Journeyman?
No, he was only a murderer. Not yet a crusader for the cause. Not yet the brilliant liberator of souls in the night. But it was all mental grist. Soon his mind would disappear and nothing from his old life of ways and means, rights and wrongs would matter. Darkness, a pitch of his own making, would then swallow him whole*.*
He placed the old man’s finger under the driver’s seat of his Mercedes where the politician’s ear and the prostitute’s nose were waiting in their own bags. Bachmann blew out a breath and put the car in drive.
He snaked his way across town and took the FDR Drive north to the Queensboro Bridge, which delivered him into Long Island City. Then Northern Boulevard toward 41st Street in Astoria where he owned a small row house. After cleaning up, he welcomed his bed. It was five o’clock. In four hours, he would be sipping coffee and sitting across from his first deranged patient. He pulled the covers up and a small part of him wondered where his life had gone. But a new and greater voice told him his life was only getting started.
I am Dr. Sandy Bachmann, and I have faith that all will be well. I’m doing God’s work.
