What if the Vatican had in its possession dead bodies of Vampires? what if the Vatican had historical records of these killers in their secret “Library” for centuries? What if the Jesuit Order was formed to be the official liaisons to and protectors of the Vampire race? Why would the Vatican be a party to such an arrangement? What does the Vatican know that we don’t?
FUNERALS AND THE ASHES OF MY LIFE
It’s nine AM and I’m sitting on the bowling-alley sized deck of Hill Grove staring out over Long Island Sound. I’ve had three cups of coffee and my head is still pounding. Too much scotch does that to you. Pleasure craft and a few commercial trawlers pass by heading out into the Atlantic. Tuna, shark and marlin are waiting to fill the big boat’s nets. There’s money to be made and life goes on.
I’ve got a coffee pot on the table in front of me. A ceramic black urn is to the right of a cream server and a plate of assorted muffins.
In the urn is what’s left of my wife. A small label at its base shows her name in a wispy script…..Jeanette Denson Croft.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Her father, Andrew Denson, is gone. Presumeably his ashes have been interred next to his wife’s back in Jersey. I don’t ask. I’m just numb gawking at this small object of pottery that supposed to mean something to me. A container that is begging me me to find it a resting place somewhere.
Don’t get me wrong – it was very kind of Sarkisian and company to have taken care of these arrangements during my……..well, less “lucid” past few days. I’ve been hitting the liquor cabinet here pretty hard. But I’m pretty much a rudderless ship at this point. I’m living like a beggar in somebody else’s house and mooching his food and clothes.
I’m a bum – pure and simple. Where the Hell is my plan “B”?
Katrina’s gone missing. I guess she’s got family business to take care of, too. Her only brother’s dead……. Valet “Aoowgoost” tells me she should be back sometime late tonight.
What do I do with these ashes? She didn’t belong to any church. Forget formality. Jeanette was never a joiner or conformist. She’d adopt a contrary opinion just to have an argument with somebody……A real pisser.
She liked nature and hiking……she was quite the hippie.
Maybe…..watching those boats out on the Sound gives me an idea.
Montauk bluff – the cliffs by the lighthouse. It’s beautiful. It’s sufficiently solemn. And mostly deserted. Why not? You could travel the whole East Coast of the USA and not find a more picturesque locale.
I’m so lost in thought that I don’t see Doc Sarkisian rolling his wheelchair towards me. Always the good-natured little professor, decked out in his English tweeds and bow tie.
“Good morning, Jon”. He beams as much positive energy as the morning sunshine.
Sarkisian positions himself next to my chair and hands me two small cigarette-size bixes.
“The heavier one contains new cartridges for the gun you’ll be carrying from now on. New enemies require new loads……..”
I open the box with my hung-over, fumbly hands and out falls a few bullets with a wierd black glass-like tip.
“What are they?” I ask.
“It’s a special metallic Sodium and energetic Sulphur round – designed to seriously screw up a Vampire’s metabolism………One of our gate guards was murdered a few days ago. His HK 416 was found down the road minus its magazine. The guard was found minus his head. We still havn’t found it. They clearly wanted the bullets. Vampires are getting bolder……”
“Does it work?” I ask as I slowly rotate a bullet up near my glasses and study its craftsmanship. The seams are nearly invisible. The casing looks to be stainless steel – but its back primer cap is oversized, fashioned out of some fuse material I’ve never seen before. Traditionally something that explodes on hammer impact is used – a combustible compound like lead styphnate. That small explosion “primes” the bigger charge inside the bullet to explode and push the hard projectile out towards the target. This primer looks like a small electrical detonator or a piezoelectric effect crystal that responds to hammer contact. Wow. This beauty screams out “high-tech, high-pressure” load.
Sarkisian shakes his head emphatically. “Yes…..they work just fine – to disable Vampires. Until we get a magic weapon that turns them off like a light switch, this is the best we got…..”
“I doubt my ’59 Colt .38 snub nose can handle this….”
“No – I wouldn’t load a wheelgun made in 1959 with it…..You’ll get one our Glock 19s. Nine millimeter, of course”.
Sarkisian clearly prefers the idea of me hanging a Glock on my belt. Honestly, I do too now after seeing this new load. Sometimes new stuff is necessary. Old lead bullets weren’t designed to do battle against Vampires. Whatever these freaks are, I want some kind of edge when comes time to bring on the heat. And fifteen rounds in a magazine is comforting. Fifteen chances to hit a bulls-eye.
“I agree. A Glock with these loads is the way to go……..thanks…….for everything……” I’m sincerely grateful. I don’t know what the Hell I’d do if I didn’t have Sarkisian backing me up.
“By the way” I ask. “Can I borrow a car? I want to head up to the Lighthouse bluffs and make peace with my wife’s ashes….”
“Of course, Jon! That’s just what the doctor ordered!”
Doc seems genuinely happy to get rid of me. “Hack’s Porsche may be a bit too obvious, though – calling too much attention to yourself. Take one of the Ford Explorers in the driveway. They’re cop-grade Security vehicles and nobody will pay much attention to one leaving the front gate. Key fobs are on the breakfront in the main hallway. We’ve also had them hardened a bit – bullet proof doors and glass. Take a Glock with the new loads. We’ll have a team follow at a discrete distance……just in case.”
Sarkisian then hands me the other small box.
“Those are ashes from your house….nothing but ashes were left. Even your law licenses and Law School Diploma are gone. Perhaps you want to make a clean sweep of your ashes ritual at the lighthouse…..commend all of them into the Atlantic Ocean and let its gales erase your past in one heroic, grief-consuming moment. Then start anew. How deliciously dramatic!”
It’s a good idea. I’ve got to move on.
“Thanks again, Doc. I’ll head out around noon”. I gently touch his shoulder and grab my coffee mug. I need a shower and some fresh clothes. And a jacket to hide that Glock.
Sarkisian turns away from me and grabs for his wheels – then I see him shudder. He grimaces. Bad. Real bad. His smile drops like a stone and in its place is a face contorted in pain. His right hand slips from his wheelchair wheel and he slumps to the right. He’s suddenly sweating profusely. He turns towards me…….his eyes are rolling backwards.
“Doc…..Doc……you ok?” It’s all I can think of saying. I grab the wheelchair handgrips and push him into the house as fast as I can.
He’s mumbling…..slurring his usually unfailingly crisp words. Drool is soaking his chin.
“Don’t make a fuss over me, Jon! Please!” He waves his arms, trying in vain to calm me down. I yell out for August the Valet at the top of my lungs. I keep yelling his name with each hurried step I take.
Sarkisian keeps mashing up his words….his voice is tired and his breathing is strained. He’s starting to shake. I can see that he appreciates my help but is desperately looking for his Valet. He’s in a panic and too fatigued to help himself. I wheel him to the kitchen table. Valet August runs towards us from the main hallway, a look of deep concern on his face.
“I vill take thinks frum here…..” He says as he leans over to study Sarkisian’s face. He reaches into his sport coat pocket and then quickly grasps Doc’s right index finger. August has a small black object in his hand – a blood sugar testor.
“Ahhrrrummp…..Ya! Ya! Das is nicht gut….” August reaches in his other pocket and produces an insulin pen. He adjusts its dosage and then gently bends Sarkisian forward so he can remove the man’s tweed jacket open his shirt sleeve. One swift movement of August’s practiced hands later, Sarkisian starts looking more normal. His sweating stops and a more healthy color returns to his face.
“Thank you, Jon…… and Auggie…..” Sarkisian says. He’s smiling again, trying to talk – although his breathing is still shallow.
“As you can see, I’m a diabetic. I also suffer from chronic rheumatoid arthritis and renal issues. I’m afraid that damp, cold seasons on Long Island Sound haven’t exactly helped my physical condition…..
Shall we discuss it all after your Lighthouse adventures? There’s a few things I’d like to discuss with you. Important things. How about we get together for dinner when Katrina arrives….please say yes, Jon”.
I’m glad he’s back to his old self. Crisis averted. I’ve no idea what sort of important things he wants to disscuss but let it all go for the time being.
“Sounds good.” I say. “See you then”.
I grab a shower and some clean clothes and feel like a million bucks. Sure enough, there’s a new black Ford Explorer law enforcement vehicle waiting in the driveway. Key fob is on the breakfront – next to a bag containing Jeanette’s ashes and what remains of my house in Tabernacle, NJ. Good ole’ Valet “Aowgoost” has taken care of everything. I see now how this guy is worth his weight in gold.
Before I get into the Explorer I make a diversion down the side driveway to the Hill Grove Estate Garage.
As I walk the manicured, perfectly-sized pebble driveway surface and see the structure before me, I can’t help thinking that this garage is bigger than my house in Jersey was. And it’s built like a fortress.
The building architecture identical to the main house – stone and beams. Green steel roof. Four wooden garage door sets that each open outward the old-fashioned way on big-ass wrought-iron hinges. It smells like a horse barn – which it probably once was. I hazard a guess and pull open the doors for the second garage in line…….and there it is.
A butter-yellow 1997 Porsche 911 Turbo S with New York vanity tags that just say “HACK”.
It’s a beauty. I enter the garage and walk around the car, gently touching it’s freshly-waxed finish…..caressing it like you would a woman. I didn’t see any Porsche keys on the breakfront in the house……I guess these are in a special cupboard somewhere. It’s got new Pirelli tires all around and a small, tasteful “Hamptons Porsche Club” sticker on its rear window. The vehicle is “Concours” condition. It’s almost too beautiful to drive.
I just stand there, silently admiring the Porsche for another few minutes. It’s sensual – but in a savage feline way. This is a predator, a big cat you’d hunt on safari. It’s a high-risk beast that’s quick and deadly.
Righteous…….You’re the man, Hack.
Hakan Olsen-Nyberg. NordTurVerein royalty. Thank God we became pals……..I’d have been shit outta’ luck if you didn’t show up in my life.
May the All-Father Odin keep you safe, my Viking brother.
I secure the garage and load the ashes of my life into the Ford Explorer. The front main gate attendant stops me and hands me what looks like a pager. He’s got a scarred, pock-marked complexion and no-nonsense eyes. He doesn’t want to be friends. He doesn’t want to inquire about my lunch plans. His words are clipped and measured.
“It’s a tracker. Put it in your pocket. IF YOU’RE IN HARMS WAY HIT THE RED BUTTON IN THE MIDDLE. We’ll take it from there…….be vigilent.”
He pivots away like some dour mechanical cyborg. No banter. He might as well have said “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out…” He resumes his stance cradling his HK416 long gun. A wooden soldier.
The gate opens and I head out – left on the main road until I get to Montauk State Highway. I get to the Camp Hero main entrance in about fifteen minutes. It’s a glorious, sunny day and everything looks vibrant. There’s some dark clouds moving in from over the horizon – but for now, everything is peachy.
The main entrance roadway gives way to “Montauk Point Visitor Access” and I follow it until I see signs for “Lighthouse Parking”. I have my pick of parking spaces. The lot is empty. Perfect.
I carry what’s left of Jeanette and my life in New Jersey to the edge of the rocky bluffs just beyond the base of the Montauk Lighthouse. The building is a lot bigger up close than I expect. In fact, it’s massive. It towers above me as I try to cook up something spiritual to say. The place is deserted, so I can relax and do this “saying goodbye” thing right.
I stare out over the darkening horizon, pondering Jeanette and happier times. Her and me traipsing through the Sonoran and Mohave deserts in Arizona photographing Indian rock glyphs…….wandering for hours through the arroyos and ravines in the Superstition Mountains, looking for the Lost Dutchman Mine…….Her smile. Her laugh. Drinking cans of beer while we waded barefoot in the shallow river rapids up Sedona way. Snuggling under blankets in the back of a pickup truck on cold desert nights staring for hours at those blazing stars – so close you could reach up and grab them. Drivin’ all the way up Groom Lake Road in Rachel, Nevada – and waving to those “Cammo Dudes” behind the fence at Area 51.
Then we come back to Jersey – and it all goes South. Straight down the shitter….. The Garden State and our respective “family responsibilities” grind us down and sucks the life – the joy – out of us both. I guess you might say……..it’s complex. But it’s not. We drifted apart. That’s it. And some asshole killed her.
Those days out West was the only time in my life I felt truly happy. There the future was something magical me and my special girl looked forward to and planned for in each other’s arms. Now it’s all gone. Another lifetime…..a thousand years ago, it seems. Too bad we didn’t end on a better note.
About three o’clock in the morning last night I decided not to go back to Jersey. Maybe I’ll hit Hack up for a loan…..head out West. Lose myself in those deserts again. Let the heat bake all this shit out of me. Drink Mezcal and smoke weed. Get another Triumph bike and ride…..into oblivion.
The sun is beating down on me but the sharp winds coming off the Atlantic Ocean are ramping up, whipping me left and right like I’m some kind of rag doll. I’m shivering and glad I wore a light leather jacket. Those dark clouds are gonna’ make landfall sooner than I figured. Looks like what my uncle Pete used to call a “Montauk Clipper”……a get-the-boat-back-to-shore kind of weather event. A quick onset storm that hits hard, pisses on your fishing plans and moves on.
Since nobody’s around, I talk out loud, facing into the wind – trying real hard to say how I feel. It’s odd. I spend a huge chunk of my life as a Prosecutor talking to juries, judges, witnesses and police officers. Now it comes time for me to say what’s in my heart – and I can’t. But this weather’s going to Hell real quick – and I gotta move things along.
“Jeanette – I thank God for the time we had together. I’ll try to find who did this to you and make them pay……thanks for everything, buddy.”
The top of the urn pops off easily – and the now gale force winds take care of the rest. The small contents of the vessel disappear in the great beyond of sea, surf and rocks. I smash the urn into a thousand pieces on the rocks below me.
I tear open the cigarette-box sized cardboard container of Tabernacle, NJ house ashes – and they disappear in a split second, too. The wind Gods have made my job easy and painless today.
Time to go.
I head back to the parking area where I left the Ford Explorer with my hands in my jacket pockets…..head down, mentally chewing on what I’ve just done. Kicking at the gravel on the path I’m walking on. I’m thinking on the finality of it all. The depth of the changes encompassed in my actions today are mind-numbing. My chest aches like I got heartburn. Then I realize that I’m crying.
Guess it’s complex after all.
As if on cue the skies darken and Atlantic Ocean thunderclouds move in from over the horizon. Thunder rumbles and distant lightening splits the overhead gloom. The park streetlights flicker on and off. It’s typical Montauk – all Hell’s gonna break loose. Better hit the road.
I’m so lost in my thoughts that I barely hear the sound of gravel being displaced behind me. I stop – still facing forward – and listen. No sound from behind. Shit.
I slowly turn and look down the path where I just came from.
There’s a guy about twenty feet away. Wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses – Wayfarer Classics, the same ones I wear. Black hair – comed straight back like a helmet. He’s tall…..approximately 6 foot 6 inches……He’s built like a rugby player – broad shoulders, narrow waist and powerful legs. He’s got a knee-length, buttoned leather jacket on – black – with a white dress shirt poking out up front. Exposed black chest hair. Some kind of tacky gold neck chain and amulet like a rapper. Real swarthy. His pants are leather, too. Highly polished, obviously expensive ankle-boots sized proportionate to the rest of him……his hands look….huge.
He slowly approaches. He’s got a yellowish pallid complexion. His face is aquiline, sharp featured……he’s got a tight-trimmed black goatee…..his mouth is narrow with pronounced lumps behind his lips on the left and right sides. The sky is dark and menacing – but he’s still rockin’ those Ray Ban’s.
Gypsy King Charlie Manson here don’t look like he came for the ashes ceremony. In fact, he looks flat-out psycho. I’ve heard all the stories about weird shit going down at Camp Hero…..and this buckaroo looks seriously nutzoid.
Without hesitating, I press the button on the small pager thing the front gate guard gave me.
Nothing happens……Well, now. That’s disappointing……..
Big boy keeps coming for another ten feet or so, then stops within spitting distance. Somehow I’m thinkin’ drawing my Glock right now might not be a bad idea – but I hesitate.
He holds out an envelope. I don’t move. His big hand hangs in front of him for a few seconds then drops to his side, still clutching his white paperwork.
“My name is Lorcan. I am a lawyer. This is a document transferring all your right, title and interest in the URL of your website to…..another party. Kindly sign it in the presence of a Notary Public and mail it back to me in the envelope provided. Understand?”
His voice is gravelly. No warmth whatsoever. He ain’t askin’ – he’s tellin’. Transfer the URL or else…….….
I want to say something witty, like: “What’s up with the pissy complexion, there Longshanks – waitin’ on a liver transplant?”
But I reconsider. My stomach is already in my throat – and this goon can break me in half like a twig…….
Then I see it. Wow…..how freekin’ awesome is that???
“Listen, Buddy….” I dig deep for my best Mike Hammer come-back and poker face.
“I don’t know who the Hell you are…….but my website URL ain’t for sale. Take your papers and hit the bricks”.
Lorcan makes a weak attempt to smile.
“You know I can make you…” He growls.
I’m thinkin’ No Shit Sherlock……but I double-down on fake bravado.
“Look down that hook nose of yours and peruse the front of your coat, there Counsellor Lorcan……….” I say.
Now I’m almost pissing my pants. I know what this guy is.
“Those red dots dancing on your leather garment are – let’s see now – about six high powered rifles chambered in a sweet new bullet we’ve engineered, specially designed for your…..kind. Savvy? Now….let’s just go our own separate ways, shall we?”
I see his head dip and glimpse the red dot display. It’s unmistakable. Laser sights. Multiple laser points from multiple weapons.
Cranking up whatever balls I got left, I turn my back on Lorcan. I walk slowly straining my ears over the disintegrating weather to hear if he’s coming after me on the gravel path. I reach under my jacket to get my hand on my Glock and flip the trigger safety off……In the few seconds it takes me to reach the Explorer, I turn and see he’s gone.
I tear out of the Lighthouse parking area and head to Montauk Parkway. Overhead I see an enormous Chinook Helicopter escorted by four Black Hawks dropping down over Camp Hero.
At this particular moment, I really don’t care why.
I make it back to the Hill Grove Compound in record time. As I pull into the gate there’s two chevron groupings of five F-16s each screaming overhead, obviously saturating the sky over that big “Decomissioned” Air Force base I just drove away from. First a huge Chinook and Black Hawk gun ships. Now a shit-load of F-16s that look armed to the teeth………something is happening. Now that I’m back, maybe I’ll ask Doc.
Then the gate guard – that same Special Forces hard-ass that gave me the pager when I was leaving earlier – does something strange……..
He closes the gate behind me – and salutes me. Standing at attention. Yup………attention.
He then adds, “Have a good day, Sir”.
What the Hell is going on?
Copyright, 2023 Jon Croft
Credit to Wikipedia for the Montauk graphic
joncroft52@yahoo.com
