upward. Atop the steeple was a simple cross, as
anyone might expect. The cross had no power against him, nor the Messenger. But
just below the cross, something jutted. Carlton stared, sickness boiling up.
A gold statue
stood there: an angel with a trumpet.
The Archangel
Gabriel, the messenger of God.
Carlton
snarled at the figure, hurled some invective in a language that had never been
spoken on Earth. The profanity fired into the air loud as a cannon shot. Birds
lifted off from trees en masse. Carlton wasn't sure but it seemed that even the
statue itself rocked at its base.
The hands
controlling his hands gripped the wheel. The foot controlling his foot stomped
the accelerator. Carlton and the Messenger sped away.
The vision of
the Messenger's nemesis left Carlton feeling crazed and depressed-but mostly
crazed. It would all work out for the best, though he knew that.
It would help
him deliver the message more effectively. His mentor's rage was being shared
with Carlton, it was becoming part of him. The Messenger's heart beat in synchronicity
with Carlton's heart. The Messenger's lust was now Carlton's lust. Carlton and
the Messenger were now essentially one.
The sedate private school
and its plush grounds shimmered in the sun. There was an opened gate access but
no guard, no one to sign in with. The sign read:
THE SEATON
SCHOOL FOR CHRISTIAN GIRLS.
A Cement
fountain gently gushed at the center of the entrance court.
Nice place.
A hush seemed
to spread across the grounds when he drove the LLV through the gate. Carlton
drove past the administration building and St. Agnes Hall, which was the main
classroom facility. A few moments later he was parking in front of the long,
front-pillared dormitory building.
"Why,
hello!" the nun at the front desk greeted him.
Carlton
smiled.
Sister Katrice
was not a clichéd nun; in other words she wasn't elderly, bowed, and wrinkled.
Instead the woman in the habit who smiled back at Carlton was attractive and
vibrant, mid-thirties, a pretty face.
Carlton's
smile deepened as he approached with his package. "Behold the Messenger,"
he said jovially.
Sister
Katrice's brow furrowed. "Pardon me? Oh, you mean you have a package for
us."
"Yep. It
didn't get out on the first run so I brought it over."
The nun seemed
excited, something to break up what must be a very dull post. "Who's it
from?"
It's from the
deepest crevice of hell, the Messenger's voice creaked in Carlton's heart, and
Carlton himself would've loved to say that but instead he simply looked at the
return address and said, "Let's see. Local address, no name, same zip
code. Whoever sent it didn't really need Express Mail. Still would've been same
day. Oh, well."
Then he chuckled.
"The post office needs the money anyway."
Sister Katrice
grabbed a pen. "Do I need to sign for it?"
"Actually,
yes. There's a return-receipt request." He pulled off the tab and gave it
to her.
"I wonder
what it is," she said with enthusiasm, scribbling her name.
"Hmm,
look at that." Carlton looked at the edge of the box. The flap was unsealed.
"It must...must've come open so let's see." He stuck his hand into
the box.
Sister Katrice
was frowning but she didn't say anything. From the box Carlton withdrew a
carpenter's hammer. It was a quality one: a fiberglass handle, anodized
stainless steel head, one end flat, the other beveled.
Sister Katrice
squinted at it. "A hammer?"
Carlton hefted
it in his hand. "Sure looks like a hammer to me."
"Why on
earth would someone send us a hammer?"
"Here's
why," he told her.
And that was
just the beginning of a glorious day.
II
Jane was too
perturbed. When Steve Higgins left her office, she sat there a moment and just
shook her head. Yes, the situation was curious, but there could be many
explanations.
Next thing she
knew she was up and out of her office, trotting out to the parking lot.
"Chief Higgins! Wait!"
He'd already
gotten into his patrol car, and rolled down the window. He
anyone might expect. The cross had no power against him, nor the Messenger. But
just below the cross, something jutted. Carlton stared, sickness boiling up.
A gold statue
stood there: an angel with a trumpet.
The Archangel
Gabriel, the messenger of God.
Carlton
snarled at the figure, hurled some invective in a language that had never been
spoken on Earth. The profanity fired into the air loud as a cannon shot. Birds
lifted off from trees en masse. Carlton wasn't sure but it seemed that even the
statue itself rocked at its base.
The hands
controlling his hands gripped the wheel. The foot controlling his foot stomped
the accelerator. Carlton and the Messenger sped away.
The vision of
the Messenger's nemesis left Carlton feeling crazed and depressed-but mostly
crazed. It would all work out for the best, though he knew that.
It would help
him deliver the message more effectively. His mentor's rage was being shared
with Carlton, it was becoming part of him. The Messenger's heart beat in synchronicity
with Carlton's heart. The Messenger's lust was now Carlton's lust. Carlton and
the Messenger were now essentially one.
The sedate private school
and its plush grounds shimmered in the sun. There was an opened gate access but
no guard, no one to sign in with. The sign read:
THE SEATON
SCHOOL FOR CHRISTIAN GIRLS.
A Cement
fountain gently gushed at the center of the entrance court.
Nice place.
A hush seemed
to spread across the grounds when he drove the LLV through the gate. Carlton
drove past the administration building and St. Agnes Hall, which was the main
classroom facility. A few moments later he was parking in front of the long,
front-pillared dormitory building.
"Why,
hello!" the nun at the front desk greeted him.
Carlton
smiled.
Sister Katrice
was not a clichéd nun; in other words she wasn't elderly, bowed, and wrinkled.
Instead the woman in the habit who smiled back at Carlton was attractive and
vibrant, mid-thirties, a pretty face.
Carlton's
smile deepened as he approached with his package. "Behold the Messenger,"
he said jovially.
Sister
Katrice's brow furrowed. "Pardon me? Oh, you mean you have a package for
us."
"Yep. It
didn't get out on the first run so I brought it over."
The nun seemed
excited, something to break up what must be a very dull post. "Who's it
from?"
It's from the
deepest crevice of hell, the Messenger's voice creaked in Carlton's heart, and
Carlton himself would've loved to say that but instead he simply looked at the
return address and said, "Let's see. Local address, no name, same zip
code. Whoever sent it didn't really need Express Mail. Still would've been same
day. Oh, well."
Then he chuckled.
"The post office needs the money anyway."
Sister Katrice
grabbed a pen. "Do I need to sign for it?"
"Actually,
yes. There's a return-receipt request." He pulled off the tab and gave it
to her.
"I wonder
what it is," she said with enthusiasm, scribbling her name.
"Hmm,
look at that." Carlton looked at the edge of the box. The flap was unsealed.
"It must...must've come open so let's see." He stuck his hand into
the box.
Sister Katrice
was frowning but she didn't say anything. From the box Carlton withdrew a
carpenter's hammer. It was a quality one: a fiberglass handle, anodized
stainless steel head, one end flat, the other beveled.
Sister Katrice
squinted at it. "A hammer?"
Carlton hefted
it in his hand. "Sure looks like a hammer to me."
"Why on
earth would someone send us a hammer?"
"Here's
why," he told her.
And that was
just the beginning of a glorious day.
II
Jane was too
perturbed. When Steve Higgins left her office, she sat there a moment and just
shook her head. Yes, the situation was curious, but there could be many
explanations.
Next thing she
knew she was up and out of her office, trotting out to the parking lot.
"Chief Higgins! Wait!"
He'd already
gotten into his patrol car, and rolled down the window. He
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