The Martyr’s Curse. Scott Mariani
by the time they got to him and were experimenting with variations.
Ben walked on. His head was spinning and he wanted to wake up from the nightmare.
It was beyond imagining. Who had done this? What had happened here?
Ben wasn’t a pathologist. But he’d seen a lot of death in his time. Enough to know that a human body loses approximately 1.5° centigrade per hour after death until it reaches the ambient temperature around it. The colder the environment, the faster the cooling. It was a pleasantly warm morning for the time of year, by Alpine standards, maybe eighteen degrees. Living human body temperature was nearly twenty degrees warmer, at thirty-seven point five. Which would mean a rough maximum of thirteen hours for the corpses’ temperature to drop to the same level as the air. Allowing for the lower temperature of the early morning and therefore a faster rate of cooling, probably less than that. Say, ten hours. But the bodies felt a little warmer than ambient temperature. They were still cooling, not yet stabilised. Without a thermometer it was impossible to gauge accurately, but Ben estimated that the attack had taken place about five hours ago. That gave plenty of time for rigor mortis to set in, which generally happened sometime after the first couple of hours.
Ben looked at his watch. It was coming on for 9.30 a.m. At an educated guess, the slaughter had happened around half past four in the morning. Just before dawn. A time when the monks had wrapped up their final night-time prayers and would be slowly returning to their cells to take some rest before the day began again.
I should have been here, he was thinking over and over.
If he hadn’t been delayed, he would have been. If he hadn’t been drinking himself stupid in some bar with a bunch of strangers. The truck would have been ready for him to collect and drive home. He’d have got back yesterday afternoon. He’d have been here, with his friends, when the attack happened. He might have been able to do something to stop this.
But he hadn’t. And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to change that sorry fact.
He spent the next twenty minutes checking inside each and every one of the monks’ cells. Most were empty. Some weren’t. He found no survivors. Then he checked the Father Master of Novices’ quarters, and the prior’s. The two monks were nowhere to be found.
Until Ben moved on and ran to the church.
A thin white-haired body lay sprawled on the church steps. His robe had ridden up his legs as he’d fallen. The blood pool had trickled down three of the stone steps before it had begun to congeal.
Ben recognised him and said, ‘Oh, no.’
It was Père Jacques, the Father Master of Novices. The palm of one outflung hand blown through by a gunshot; the same shot that had hit him above the left eyebrow as he’d tried to shield himself from the bullet. The nine-millimetre round had exited the crown of his skull and made all the usual ugly ravages on its way out. Ben didn’t want to have to look too closely, but then something drew his eye and made him bend to scrutinise the gruesome mess in more detail.
Among all the blood, something appeared to be sticking out of the centre of the monk’s forehead. It took him a moment or two to understand what he was seeing; then he reached down and gently grasped the small foreign object between finger and thumb. It came away easily, because it was only lightly stuck to the skin by a crust of dried blood that had formed around it. It was just over an inch long, cylindrical, maybe quarter of an inch thick. It shone the same colour as the spent cartridge cases that littered the ground, but it was softer than brass between his fingertips, and weighed almost nothing.
It was a cigarette butt. A very particular and distinct type, a brand Ben had come across before. The shiny foil filter was emblazoned with a minuscule Russian imperial eagle, emblem of the Czars. The filter was pinched and crumpled from the pressure of stubbing it out. The smoked end was blackened, crushed and trailing bits of unburned tobacco soaked with blood. Ben flicked the thing away in disgust. It had left a small circular burn mark on the dead monk’s brow.
To shoot a defenceless man in the head was one thing. To stub your cigarette out on him when he was down, that was another. The ultimate insult added to the ultimate injury.
Bastards.
Ben made himself remain calm. He stepped around the blood and walked inside the open door of the church. The cool interior smelled of incense and death. The mosaic stone floor laid centuries ago by master masons was smeared with more blood.
There were thirteen bodies inside the church. Either they must have congregated in here when the shooting began or they’d still been at prayer when the attackers hit.
One of the bodies was Père Antoine’s.
The old prior was as dead as the rest. The final expression frozen on the octogenarian’s face was one of serene calm. He looked almost beatific. As if he’d met his end in the quiet certainty that he was going to meet his maker, that this life was just one small stage in the journey and there was nothing to fear in leaving it behind.
That didn’t make it any easier for Ben to deal with. He crouched over the prior for a long moment, remembering their conversations and their chess games and the old man’s kindness to him.
He said out loud, ‘I’m going to find who did this.’
Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. Ben was pretty certain that would have been Père Antoine’s reply. Or words to that effect. He’d have counselled Ben to leave it be. To find within himself the strength to walk away and resist the growing urge that was firing up his veins and making his hands shake and his heart pound and his breathing heave with anger. To go with God, walk the path of peace. Or as Jesus had said, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be sons of your Father in heaven.
Ben wished he had that strength. He wasn’t the man Père Antoine had been. He wasn’t Jesus either. Not by a long shot. And the path of peace was no longer his to walk.
He stood up and left the church. Headed slowly back down the bloody steps. He made his way through the arch that led into the shady cloister and found three more bodies spread out on the stone floor.
Including one in particular who shouldn’t have been there at all.
The man was no monk, that was for sure. He was from the outside, but he was no ordinary outsider either. It seemed strange to see anyone here not clad in monastic garb, and even stranger to see a man in black combat trousers, black high-leg military boots, black multi-pocket tactical vest, black ski mask, shooters’ gloves and utility belt. Then again, under the circumstances, maybe not so strange.
The dead man had been packing some sort of semi-automatic pistol before someone had disarmed him and left him with an empty holster. Presumably, the same somebody who had shot him twice in the head with the same nine-millimetre ammunition that had been used to dispatch the other victims. The empty shell cases were lying nearby. His eyes were open and glazed in the holes of the ski mask.
Ben touched three fingers to the guy’s neck and held them there for a moment before he whipped off the ski mask and looked at his face. The guy was somewhere in his mid-thirties, white, dark-haired, not ugly, not handsome, not a memorable face, but one Ben wouldn’t be forgetting for a long time. It wasn’t a monk who’d shot him. Aside from the obvious reason why that couldn’t be the case, Ben could think of an even more compelling one. This guy had been alive much more recently than any of the monastery’s dead residents. He wasn’t quite warm to the touch, but he was in a considerably fresher state than they were. Ben grabbed the black-clad right arm and wagged it from side to side and up and down and then let it flop limply to the guy’s side. No sign of rigor mortis yet. The shoulder and elbow joints were loose and flexible. The blood on his face and all down the front of his combat vest was still wet, barely tacky. He’d been dead for well under two hours. Maybe even less than one.