Veil - 02 - The Hammer of God

  The

  Hammer

  of

  God

  REGINALD COOK

  THUNDER

  HOUSE

  PRESS

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for this stripped book.

  This is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters, with the exceptions of a few well-known historical figures, are product of the authors’ imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. Where real-life historical figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict the actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work.

  The Hammer of God

  A ThunderHouse Press Book

  PRINTING HISTORY

  ThunderHouse Press First Edition/2011

  All rights reserved. Copyright © 2011 by Regional Cook This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

  For information address:

  ThunderHouse Press, a division of ThunderHouse Entertainment, LLC

  8306 Wilshire Blvd. #375 Beverly Hills, California 90211

  (424)-209-9757

  E-Mail: reggiecook@yahoo.com

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book BLOOD by Reginald Cook. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect content of the forthcoming edition.

  Printed in the United States of America

  THIS NOVEL INCLUDES PREVIEW

  CHAPTERS OF

  REGINALD COOK’S NEXT GREAT SUSPENSE

  THRILLER IN THE VEIL SERIES

  Blood

  OIL, MONEY, & POWER

  THP

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to my editor, Kathleen Jackson, for her insight and skill. Thanks to my good friends Ronald Jones and Michael Agee for their much valued encouragement and support. As always, the fruit of my loins, Nicholas and Briana, are a constant inspiration to me. I love and appreciate you both more each day.

  And finally, thanks to my muse and love of my life, Stacy Arnell. Our mutual love of the arts, especially good storytelling, is a unique and special joy in my life. Your confidence and unwavering support of me and my work is a blessing I am thankful for, and will cherish all my days.

  Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil walks about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.

  2 Corinthians 4:8-9

  We are hard pressed on every side, yet not crushed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed.

  1 Peter 5:8

  Prologue

  Pope Pius IX, as was routine when in Rome and not traveling, knelt in front of his chamber window at sunrise for prayer. Seven years removed from the start of his Papacy in 1846, and the anxieties of the church had not waned an inch. In fact, as time edged forward, the mire under his feet deepened.

  Riot led to riot, and the Pope was pronounced a traitor to his country.

  Palma, a papal prelate, was shot to death while standing near an open window. On the steps of the Cancelleria, where he’d gone to open parliament, his Prime Minister, Rossi, was stabbed to death, and Pius had been pressured to promise a democratic ministry. Then, draped in a homemade disguise, with the assistance of the Bavarian Ambassador, Count Spaur, and the French Ambassador, Duc d’Harcourt, Pope Pius escaped from the Quirinal, where his enemies had surrounded him.

  Pope Pius returned to Italy, April 1850, after the French restored order to Rome. But cancerous opportunists, who struck down his authority, had terrorized the citizens and committed untold atrocities, all in the name of democracy.

  However, nothing vexed the Pope’s soul like the vision he’d been wrestling with for the past two weeks. Every morning since it started, he rose before dawn and entreated the Lord with the prayers of an earnest man, begging for the nightmare to pass. This morning, he closed his eyes and moved his lips with wisps, and the heaviness came faster than usual.

  Sweat flooded his face, burning his eyes, soaking the neckline of his white vestment.

  Asmodeus and his band swept into the Pope’s chamber unnoticed and encircled the man on his knees deep in prayer, sneering and snorting their delight. Asmodeus towered over the Pontiff. The eleven others formed a semicircle around them both.

  Pope Pius continued to pray, squeezing his eyes tight, his murmurs unintelligible. Asmodeus knelt down and whispered in his ear. Tears bled from under Pius’s eyelids, and he clenched his teeth and sobbed, “Why, Lord, why?”

  Asmodeus and the others watched the Pope pray harder, this time stretching his hands toward heaven, begging for relief, and they laughed.

  The windows of the chamber swung open and a brisk wind swept through. Michael and eleven of God’s strongest angels breezed into Pope Pius’s chamber, pushing back Asmodeus and his band of demons.

  Michael recognized each fallen angelic being and took note.

  Asmodeus, Chief of Demons, Balan, Prince of Hell, Buer, Commander of Fifty Legions of Devils, Hecate, Queen of Witches, Jezabeth, Demoness of Falsehoods, Naamah, Demoness of Seduction, Philotanus, Demon of Pederasty and Sodomy, Python, Prince of Lying Spirits, Ronwe, Demon Commanding Nineteen Legions of Devils, Semiazas, Chief of Fallen Angeles, Sonneillon, Demoness of Hate, and Vetis, a devil who specialized in the corruption and tempting of the holy.

  Pope Pius relaxed a bit, the crying abated, but the prayerful murmurs increased.

  “What business have you here?” asked Asmodeus, his voice deep, commanding.

  “Our task is as always,” answered Michael. “One you know well.”

  “We have permission to be here,” bellowed Asmodeus. “Granted by our Father.”

  “For what purpose?”

  A hideous, scaly smile spread across the face of Asmodeus. He reached inside his smoldering cloak and pulled out a thick, metallic sword. The others in his band followed suit.

  Michael looked around at those with him. Raphael, Gabriel, Uriel, Anael, Raquel, Raziel, the Archangels. Malakim and Dunamis, both associated with heroes, known to instill courage, also known as “The Shining Ones”. Camael, who wrestled with Jacob. Remiel and Tarshishim, who guide the soul.

  Michael turned back toward Asmodeus, placed a hand inside his glowing robe, and pulled out a large mallet-like hammer, with a long, worn, sturdy oak handle. The other angels did the same.

  Asmodeus took a deep breath and blew a smoldering orange flame from his nostrils. The fire wrapped itself around the swords of each of those who followed the demon.

  Pope Pius cried out, “No Lord! No! Do not abandon thy servant!” A light, brighter than the essence of the sun, flashed through the room and when it faded, Asmodeus and the demons lay prostrate on the floor. Michael and the Lord’s host stood strong, their hammers glowing with the Holy Spirit.

  Asmodeus and the others scrambled to their feet, violently waving their swords and slashing the air, spewing sulfuric fumes. They floated above the room, flames pouring from their nostrils like angry demonic bulls.

  “Il Martello de Dio,” whispered Asmodeus.

  Michael and the holy hosts rose to the ceiling, each hammer at the ready. Both groups charged forward, clashing into an explosion of fiery thunder. Outside the Pope’s window, the sky turned black, and lighting clawed the sky. A hard, dense rain pounded everything in sight, and the window shutters slammed against the building until they were torn from their hi
nges and sucked up into the sky.

  Pope Pius jumped to his feet and summoned his aide. He sat behind his desk, dictated a decree, and made a list of twelve priests to be called to him at once. When the aide left the room the Pope fell back to his knees.

  “Bless oh Lord, Il Martello de Dio, The Hammer of God.” Pius wept.

  1

  Gazing down into dazzling blue eyes, Charles Tolbert marveled at the milky softness of his lover’s skin. Women had rejected him over the years, casting him aside like a half eaten candy bar, but now he was in love.

  Charles stroked dirty brown hair, soft and billowy, like cotton freshly plucked from an aspirin bottle. He closed his eyes, took a whiff of just washed skin, the scent of clean, with a hint of soap lightly engulfing his nostrils.

  When he lifted his eyelids, the beauty before him enticed him to tears, but he gently bit his bottom lip, fending off the surge of feral emotion. Without invitation, Charles pressed his lips against a mouth he could no longer resist, the moist touch of which sent his heart a flutter, his senses a blur. He pulled back, sporting a smile that could shame the angels in heaven. But as quickly as it came, his joy dissipated like steam rising from the sea.

  “What’s wrong?” Charles asked. “Have I done something wrong?”

  “I can’t do this anymore,” his lover answered. “I’m sorry, but this is wrong.”

  Fear washed over Charles. He fell to his knees. “Please, I can’t bear the thought of losing you. I know we’ve both been under a lot of pressure, but I promise it’ll get better.” Picking up the white satin robe that lay across a beaten antique couch, Charles slipped it over velvety arms that caused him to lust over the head he’d kissed more than a few times, and the body he’d held with great admiration and envy. He took a few steps back, and admired his angel.

  “You always say we’ll stop, but we don’t,” his angel said.

  “I know, I know,” said Charles. “But let’s not talk about it now.

  We’ll talk later. You have my word.”

  No answer came, just wet eyes and red cheeks. Charles cleared his throat.

  “I’m sorry if I hurt you. I love you.” There, I said it. “We’ll talk more in a few days, until then let’s continue to keep it quiet.” Still no answer came, just a wounded stare. His lover turned the doorknob and left the room. Guilt washed over Charles. He’d broken his vows again, caught up in an affair he knew would destroy his relationship.

  He fastened his ice white, high collar shirt, and slipped into his favorite suit, dark and slightly wrinkled. A wood framed full-length mirror, as old as the building he worked in, caught his attention and forced him to look upon the ugliness he so abhorred. He turned away, chest heaving, mouth dry, and plopped down in a blue leather swivel chair behind his desk. Losing a love that brings me such childlike joy is not something I’m prepared to do. Chocolates, he thought. I’ll start with chocolates, then a shower of gifts. It’s a bit pretentious, but it’s a start.

  Charles smiled at himself in the mirror, his jet black hair and boyish good looks overriding the monster that now retreated within. He checked his watch. I’m late.

  He grabbed the tools of his trade and headed for the door, the monster in the mirror right behind him.

  2

  Strikingly exquisite, the ten foot stained glass image of the Assumption of Our Lady, surrounded by twenty-three angels in a montage of red and multiple shades of blue handcrafted glass impressed Robert Veil. Church was not his favorite place to be during the middle of baseball season, but sitting there in a spiritual ports-of-call that had played host and home to Chicago’s eighteenth century Northern Italian immigrants, Robert’s heart pounded and his palms moistened. He was about to lay eyes on his godson, Samuel, for the first time in almost six months.

  “I bet he’s grown an inch or two,” Robert whispered to Donovan Napier, Samuel’s father.

  “An inch and a half since you last saw him,” Donovan whispered back.

  “Shhhhhh,” Donavon’s wife, Alison, hissed. “You boys will have plenty of time to stick your chests out over Sam when service is over.” She gave Donavon a sly smile and sat back against the naked wooden pew. Donavon gave Robert a “we better do as mommy says” look. He smiled back. She’s your mommy, not mine.

  Robert, born Catholic, defected as soon as he could slip from under his mother’s radar, and had forgotten how opulent Catholic Churches could be, Chicago’s Assumption Church especially.

  Below the stained glass masterpiece up front, hung a stunning recreation of Leonardo da Vinci’s masterpiece, The Last Supper, which would’ve made the Italian master proud. Smaller, but every bit as impressive, was an extensive splattering of stained glass images, in addition to dazzling mosaics and murals prominently displayed on the walls and ceiling. Robert counted five different types of Italian marble on the altar rail, and a dozen museum quality statues standing sentry on three sides of the remarkable sanctuary. Under their feet lay a sea of deep royal blue carpet so rich, that walking on it seemed a sin.

  Robert glanced over at Donavon and Alison. They were still making goo-goo eyes after ten years of marriage. Seeing his old friend so happy amazed Robert, especially since ten years earlier, while they were working a CIA surveillance assignment in Bohn, Germany, Donavon swore off the lifetime confinement of matrimony, saying he’d rather roll around naked in broken glass.

  “After service there are a few people we need to meet,” Alison whispered to Donavon, who took a deep breath and bit his lower lip. He looked over at Robert. S ave me.

  Marry one of Chicago’s treasures, and that’s the price you pay, thought Robert, wanting to laugh.

  Melodic Latin phrases from a male falsetto echoed throughout the sanctuary, and Robert watched his godson, Samuel Napier, lead a priest, three other altar boys and an altar girl down the center aisle.

  Samuel, draped in a white satin vestment, along with the other altar adolescents, looked deadly serious holding an elaborate silver and gold cross stretched out in front of him toward the sky. They marched toward the altar at a pace more fit for a funeral procession than a spiritual celebration.

  One look at Samuel and Robert was sure that he had grown more than the inch and a half Donovan mentioned. The dirty-brown haired boy’s shoulders were starting to broaden, and Robert could already imagine the ten year old birthday boy playing linebacker or center field.

  After readings from the book of Isaiah, and several more from Matthew, John and Luke, Robert listened to the priest, Father Charles Tolbert, launch into an additional series of chants, and a sleeping pill of a sermon that Robert vaguely surmised as an exultation to pray for one’s enemies and those that hate you. The need to yawn was almost more than he could bear, and water welled up in his eyes as he fought back the urge.

  Samuel and one of the other altar boys, a portly, jovial kid with fiery red hair, freckles and friendly eyes, set up the altar for communion.

  When Samuel turned to resume his position on the far left of the altar, Robert noticed that he flinched slightly as he passed Father Tolbert. M ust be a little nervous, thought Robert, remembering Alison’s earlier comment that it was Samuel’s first time setting the communion table.

  After communion, more prayer, benediction, and then dismissal, Samuel, cross held high, led the evangelical parade back down the aisle and disappeared through ivory painted, gold encrusted double doors. Ten minutes later, Robert milled around outside in front of the Church with most of the congregation, watching them chat, laugh, and wish each other well.

  Chicago’s summer season, in full motion, sported a dark overcast sky, blowing crisp air, but not too cold. The notorious wind, for which the city was well-known, toyed with parishioners’ hats and coats for sport, all subtle precursors to the harsh winter that always followed four or five months later.

  Robert watched Donavon and Alison work the crowd like seasoned veterans. Alison flashed a smile that could disarm the most hardened heart, and Donavon, standing slightly be
hind her, put on a stellar performance worthy of an Oscar. It was like watching a President and the first husband campaign.

  “Uncle Robert! Uncle Robert!” yelled Samuel.

  Robert looked over his shoulder and spied his godson in full sprint, arms pumping, face bright and excited. A foot or two away, Samuel leapt through the air into Robert’s arms and wrapped his legs around him, almost sending his godfather backwards to the ground.

  “Well hello, birthday boy! I’m happy to see you too!” Samuel thanked Robert but didn’t release his grip. When Robert finally pried him loose and lowered him to the ground, he took a step back.

  “Let’s have a look at you,” he said, hands on his chin, as if inspecting every inch of the boy.

  “I’ve grown two whole inches,” said Samuel, beaming with pride.

  “I see that,” said Robert. “You’ll tower over me soon.” At this, Samuel’s smile broadened and his back straightened. He took Robert’s hand and led him over to his mother and father.

  “Well, I see you’ve found your favorite playmate,” said Alison, kissing her son on the cheek.

  “Yes,” added Donavon. “Now we won’t get an ounce of sleep over the next few days.”

  “Oh, like you won’t enjoy it yourself,” chided Alison. “I’ll have to find a place to stay for the next two days, the way you three carry on.”

  “We’re not that bad,” Robert joked, knowing that they were.

  When he visited Samuel, the kid inside of him shook loose, and he loved it. It was like reclaiming something he’d lost in his own youth, the day his father was murdered.

  “Where’s Aunt Nikki?” asked Samuel.

  “She’s going to meet us at the restaurant,” answered Robert. “She said to tell you she wouldn’t miss your birthday for the world.” Nikki Thorne, Robert’s partner and best friend, was a Baptist, as much as he was a Catholic. Thorne passed on morning mass, opting instead to visit an old friend, which Robert knew without asking meant a visit to Nelson Reynolds, a detective on Chicago’s police force, and an old flame.