Mark Stone - The Judas Line

Swallowing a lump of dread, I turned to see what I had half-expected, a look of disappointment in my friend’s eyes that made me almost wish I had those old, hard calluses on my soul again. “We go to the cops, my Family finds me. Us. After what you’ve read, do you really want to meet Julian?”

Righteous anger, fear and determination warred behind his baby blues for a few moments before his shoulders slumped and he nodded in resignation. It must have been a bitter pill for him to swallow, but at that moment necessity beat out the desire to assist the police and I couldn’t be happier. However it did sting a bit to know how much that admission cost him, how badly it dented his principles.

Despite the blow to civic sensibilities, we meandered around the city until we found a battered blue Ford pick-up with a red and black For Sale sign in the front window. The rusted ’80s vehicle rested on somewhat inflated tires in front of a respectable ranch style with a front yard containing three tons of crushed red and white rock.

When the owner cautiously answered the front door, he visibly relaxed at the sight of a priest on his front step. He was further reassured by Mike’s willingness to pay his outrageous price for the beat-up old truck, although he lowered it a tad in deference to Mike’s collar.

If franchise hotels are like weeds, then fast food joints are like cockroaches; when you see one, you know there are a thousand more just around the corner. Between a Wowzaburger (home of the greasiest cheeseburger in the Southwest) and a dilapidated white crack house lay a broken, dirt-covered drive that suited our needs perfectly. After parking the Grand Prix (carefully wiped of all prints) on the broken concrete, Mike picked me up and we were gone in far less than sixty seconds.

Mike stared out into the darkness, barely illuminated by the truck’s anemic headlights. “Where to?” he inquired in a voice devoid of life.

“Time to see Leslie Winchester,” I replied, more tired than I had been in a long time. When I worked alone, absent friends, the events of the past day wouldn’t have fazed me one bit, but now, with Mike as my own little Jiminy Cricket, my energy levels had dropped somewhere south of zero. Who knew that a conscience could take so much out of you? I stared out of the corner of my eye at Mike as he drove, his jaw set in ferocious determination, and I realized I wouldn’t trade places with my old self-that egocentric bastard-for all the safety and security in the world.

“Is there a Catholic church in Mesilla?” asked Mike.

I nodded. “A rather famous one, San Albino.”

Big hands gripped the steering wheel until the knuckles shone white. “Right. Show me where.”

How could I refuse?

Less than ten minutes later we reached the heart of Mesilla, a large plaza that held more tourist trap shops than you could shake a stick at, most selling ‘authentic’ Native American artwork and knickknacks. Hundreds of luminaria (small paper lanterns made of brown bags and weighted with sand in which a candle was set) were placed along the walkways illuminating the square, as well as the large wood and stucco gazebo in the plaza’s center. Festooned in and around the gazebo were electric Christmas lights, contrasting boldly with the luminaria.

At one end, looming over the plaza like a patient father, stood the basilica San Albino with its twin rectangular towers bracketing the main body, a large white statue of the Virgin Mary out in front of the steps, staring at the stars.

We parked in a narrow lot just off the square and Mike quickly hopped out. “I’ll be back,” he said tersely.

Well, well, well … Feeling like a bad boy forced to stand in the corner for a time-out, I briefly experienced the need to follow. Instead I ground my teeth in frustration, sat on my fundament and waited.

And waited.

In the old days my natural impatience would have had me out of the truck in a hot second. This time, I sat and fumed.

Perhaps an hour went by, maybe more, but I didn’t have a clue because in the middle of my fit of pouting I fell asleep.

Jude

“Wake up, Jude.”

They say you have to wake a trained killer from a distance because his first reaction would be to cause grievous bodily harm to the person doing the waking. In my case, that had been true, but fifteen years of relatively stress-free living had blunted my Spidey-sense somewhat so that I didn’t even register Mike’s presence until his loud voice startled me out of my slumber and caused me to mumble, “Whblet?”

He snorted, face craggy in the pick-up’s overhead light. “Some ultra-dangerous wet work magus assassin you are.” He sounded a lot happier than when he left.

Given enough time, perhaps ten minutes or so, I would’ve burned the flesh from his bones with a scathing remark. “What took you so long, man?”

“Confession.”

Wow. I never studied the workings of the Catholic Church, but it made sense: even priests needed someone to talk to. “Almost wish I’d been a fly on the wall in the confessional.”

For the first time since we’d found the body of the young girl, Mike smiled with genuine good humor. “He did recommend a good psychiatrist.”

We both laughed, then he sobered. “The good father will contact the police anonymously concerning the body,” he said.

Before my mouth could open wide enough to fit my size tens, I gave what he said some serious thought. Even if the police did manage to track the call back to the priest, the seal of the confessional would keep his mouth shut as to his source, so I didn’t have to risk the Voice finding me in a police station. Mike must have seen all this in my face, for he just nodded, inserted the key in the ignition and fired up the tired old truck.

I nodded. “Let’s go see a rock star.” With that, we left the square and its shops made of adobe, brick and wood. The luminaria were a warm fare-thee-well in the rearview mirror.

Full night had descended and a fingernail moon lent scant light to the parched landscape as we pulled up to the estate of Leslie Winchester.

Unlike most construction in that part of the Southwest, the eight-foot wall surrounding the estate was made of large limestone blocks instead of adobe. It was too dark to see the castle; no light shone through any windows, but we did see a driveway guarded by a large wrought-iron gate with a speaker box set on a three-foot pole off to one side.

“What do you think?” Mike asked as we exited the truck parked across the street.

I handed him my duffel with the Silver in its holy water bath. “Let’s ring the bell.” My thumb pushed the button on the speaker box.

No answer. Again I pushed the button.

Soon after, a squinchy kind of warble came from the box. “Yes?” came a deep, cultured voice with a British accent.

Of course she’d have a butler or valet or major domo or whatever the Brits called them. I was willing to bet his name was Jeeves.

“Yes, sir, father Michael Engle and friend to see Ms. Winchester on some rather urgent business.”

A roomful of snooty came back over the box. Jeeves must have been looking forward to a quiet night. “You must realize, sir, that it is after 8 p.m.”

Tempting as it was to push a load of my own attitude back at him, I kept my voice respectful. “Father Engle desperately needs to talk to Ms. Winchester and it will only take at the most ten minutes.”

“I shall inform the madam.” Jeeves responded blandly. “One moment, please.”

A hard knuckle rapped my arm. “Father Michael to see Ms. Winchester?” Mike sounded a little miffed.

“People respond to priests more positively than just an average Joe off the street.”