THE JUDAS HIT Read online

  THE JUDAS HIT

  W.D. Gagliani

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  Tarkus Press

  Copyright © 2018 by W.D. Gagliani

  First E-Book Edition, September 2018

  Cover by Robin Ludwig Design, Inc.

  www.gobookcoverdesign.com

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author, and all authors.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  This ebook is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  Tarkus Press

  PO Box 214

  Oak Creek, WI 53154

  Other Books by W.D. Gagliani

  Wolf’s Trap

  Wolf’s Gambit

  Wolf’s Bluff

  Wolf’s Edge

  Wolf’s Cut

  Wolf’s Blind

  Wolf’s Deal (novella)

  Savage Nights

  The Great Belzoni and the Gait of Anubis (novella)

  Killer Lake (with David Benton)

  Shadowplays (stories)

  Mysteries & Mayhem (stories, with David Benton)

  www.wdgagliani.com

  www.facebook.com/wdgagliani

  @WDGagliani

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  Dedication

  For my mother and Janis, always my pillars of love and support,

  and in memory of my father.

  Acknowledgments

  Dave Benton and Guy Howe, for beta reading, sundry support,

  encouragement, and—more importantly—friendship.

  Fellow authors, colleagues, and (most of all) friends: Jim Argendeli, John Everson, Gary Jonas, Chris Larsen, Jonathan Maberry, Brian Pinkerton,

  Tamara Thorne, Chris Welch.

  And

  In memory of

  Keith Emerson, Greg Lake, Chris Squire, John Wetton, Edgar Froese,

  Tarkus, Lucky Man, Onward Through the Night,

  Only Time Will Tell, Living in Eternity

  You are all immortal…

  

  THE JUDAS HIT

  W.D. Gagliani

  PROLOGUE

  When he opened his eyes he was immediately blinded by the hot glow of an arc light. It was hanging overhead and the intense brightness hurt his pupils.

  “Ah, you’re awake. Everyone, the electrician is awake.”

  The female voice was off to the left but the speaker was hidden within the blinding halo.

  “Wha—” His mouth was dry.

  “We just have a few questions, then you can sleep.”

  He swallowed painfully. His tongue seemed swollen like a lump of gristle, and scratchy. “I—I don’t know…”

  “That’s all right, you’ll tell us what you do know. You’ll tell us what you saw, and who else saw it. And then you’ll be free.”

  His head throbbed and his limbs ached. He tried to move, but…was he strapped down? Yes, he was strapped down onto the hard surface. He struggled in vain, breathing faster. The light penetrated his closed lids. It hurt and he tried to turn away, but two cold hands encased in rubber held his head in place. He felt other hands gripping his wrists, holding down his arms.

  Panic started to overtake every other emotion.

  “Let’s begin,” said the voice behind the light. The woman sounded eager.

  The high-pitched whirr of an electric drill drowned out the screaming. They were his screams.

  

  Every morning when I open my eyes, I feel the rope around my neck. I feel the hot air around me and my short drop through it, the dirt below me rising up to meet my body. Nearby, thirty scattered silver coins wink at me in the sun. The noose tightens as the short length of rope straightens. There’s a jerk and I feel my neck just begin to snap…and then I am awake, remembering how it felt the first time and the thousands of times since. And I remember the brief exchange that took place during the same moment I sought the solace of a quick end, the strange voice in my head giving me a second chance but asking so much, requiring so much from me, that even though I was already regretting my hasty decision I still hesitated accepting what was offered.

  But I did accept it.

  Every morning when I open my eyes I am reminded—I am forced to remember—the terms and conditions of the Deal, the gifts and the curses, the responsibilities and the expectations. I am reminded that even though I will be paid, as I was on that day centuries ago, I also owe more than I can ever repay.

  And every morning when I open my eyes I reach out and find the willing flesh of whoever “she” is who slept in my bed that night, and when I awaken her desire and she in turn sates mine, I also remember that maybe, just maybe this isn’t a bad gig after all.

  Simon Pound

  

  Chapter 1

  Midtown Manhattan

  New York City

  Workmen had unearthed the vile statue at the bottom of the trench they were digging to install the escalator mechanism in the center court of the future Westview Mall.

  The mall was still mostly an open-air construction site, but this inner portion had a concrete roof over its perimeter. Only workmen were present. Almost before the 42-year-old electrician had enough time to recover from the shock of seeing what he had pulled out of the ground, a phone call had been placed.

  Before that phone call was concluded, a second call referred to the found object in circumspect detail and that call led to a flurry of activity in a plain brick office building in the center of Rome. Before long, encrypted email was dispatched and further calls were made on secure lines.

  Simon Pound took one of those long-distance calls, interrupting a particularly difficult effort on his part. Difficult, but eminently rewarding, for the redhead sitting beside him at the bar had swiveled part-way toward him since he’d asked for his usual drink with its unusual components. Her eyelashes were unnaturally long and she fluttered them at him, smiling as if she were about to ask him something. She was intrigued, and he planned his next move. Perhaps a subtle eyebrow raise?

  He plucked the buzzing phone from his pocket and watched regretfully as the redhead’s attention wandered away again. His momentum was lost.

  Sighing, he swiped the screen.

  “Simon,” said the voice, without preamble or greeting. “You’d better get over to Queens, but first take a look at this.”

  Even while formulating a curt response, he received a text with an attachment.

  Simon opened it, then whistled softly.

  The photograph showed a ten-inch crucifix of the sort one might find in any Catholic household, hanging over a bed or in a common room, except it had a solid base. Arranged on a background of crushed red velvet, the cross and its base were fashioned of what appeared to be solid gold, and the Christ figure carved out of a dark wood, maybe ebony.

  None of those details made this crucifix special. What made it entirely different from any that might have hung in a pious dwelling was the oversized black phallus that grew from Christ's loins, and the grotesque, twisted smile the artist had carved onto Christ’s usually tortured face. Scale in the photo was supplied by a ruler.

 
Simon sensed the redhead’s attention had wandered back. Her glance was edging toward his phone.

  He clicked off the offensive image. His eyes sought out the woman’s and he smiled widely. She tilted her head and smiled back, not sure what she had seen.

  “So, maybe they’re back,” he said into the phone. “Or it’s someone new.”

  The redhead frowned and turned away again. Regretfully so did he.

  “It would appear,” said the voice vaguely, but with finality.

  Simon set down the phone and steepled his hands as his special Manhattan arrived. He stared into the smoky heart of the drink. He picked up the phone again. “Very well,” he whispered after a few moments. “I’ll reopen that particular wound.”

  “The usual recompense has already been transferred to your various accounts.”

  Lord, it’s harder to accept blood money when the blood may be your own.

  “You were certain I’d agree?”

  “To be honest, yes. Unfinished business.”

  And you own me.

  “I’ll text you the address.”

  “Very well.”

  Beside him, the barstool was empty.

  Simon reached for his untouched drink. He swore.

  Chapter 2

  Westview Mall Construction Site

  Queens, New York

  He pulled the dark Mustang Fastback close to the barricades. Stretching his long legs felt good, and after a moment to sniff the chill air he headed for the nearest gap. A perimeter cop rushed up to intercept, but he flicked a laminated New York City Metro card at the guy’s face.

  “I’m on the job,” he said. “Let me through.” His eyes sought out the young cop’s and their gazes locked.

  The kid’s pupils widened. “Sure, go on in.” The cop stepped out of the way. “Sir.” He smiled nervously, just slightly dazed.

  Simon Pound squeezed between barriers. He didn’t have to do that, but he always enjoyed it.

  “Make damn sure no one tows my car,” he called out over his shoulder.

  “No sir! I mean, yes sir!” The cop puffed out his chest. It wasn’t every day he was given a task by an Assistant Director of the FBI. “She’s a sweet ride, sir.”

  “That she is,” Pound muttered. “That she is.” He entered the construction site at the open fence.

  He dropped the Metro card into his pocket. Sophomoric, he thought. He had to work on his attitude. But sometimes it was the small pleasures that made it all bearable.

  The trail of uniforms and higher-up cops—he could tell those by the mid-cost suits they wore—led to the small crowd gathered near the corner of the grimy yard.

  The dead man had been tortured at length, and Simon made a half-hearted sign of the cross with his right hand. A throwaway gesture, but he knew it would be expected.

  “Tough one, Father,” said the cop in charge, a lanky detective wearing a greasy Giants jacket. He bowed his head, as if praying, but his eyes surveyed the priest over the mangled body. “He did not go well, or quietly, this one.”

  Simon was amused, but hid it. Cops were always sizing you up. As if you could be the murderer, come back for one last look.

  “’Tis a terrible thing,” Simon muttered, maybe adding a dash too much brogue. “I was just drivin’ past. Didn’t expect to find anythin’ like this.”

  “No, indeed, Father.”

  Simon had to admit, it looked like it had been a particularly brutal session.

  Even though he was strapped with nylon cord to the concrete, they’d nailed the guy to the floor with six-inch spikes through feet and hands. Possibly that had come first, but it was hard to tell. They had used a hand-drill on his shins, knees, wrists, elbows, ears, and finally his eyes. Both eye sockets had been turned into bowls of dark jelly. Lines of bloody tears tracked down the marbled cheeks.

  But even after that he had been decapitated with an expertly sharpened axe. The head was lying face-up nearby. Under it was a wide congealing pool of blood and splatter in all directions. The mouth was a bloody cavern.

  Had he talked?

  Simon glanced up to find the cop in the Giants jacket eyeing him.

  Now he wished he hadn’t worn the collar. Sometimes the ruse allowed him to avoid cheap sleight of hand, but not always.

  Why was the guy killed here? Simon knew this was where the statue was dug up—he could feel its evil aura in his bones and in the nerves of his fingers and toes. He could feel its influence radiating out from its burial place even though it was gone. But where was it? And why had this innocent worker been killed? Just because he had seen it, or seen who took it or where it went? Or did someone else want to know? Was that why he’d been tortured?

  Simon hummed a tuneless melody and let his senses tell him part of the story.

  “What exactly brings you here, Father? He one of your flock?” said the Giants fan, his cop instincts perhaps kicking in to overcome the power of the collar. “What’s your angle? Who called you?”

  It’s two groups, maybe. One group made it disappear, but the other group wants it too. Could be.

  Although his masters had also been known to employ such extreme interrogation techniques in the past, it was never done in public. Times had changed. This sort of thing was frowned upon, even in his department.

  Usually.

  For this item, though, maybe the rules were different.

  He thought back to the voice on the phone. How much more did Martin know that he hadn’t disclosed?

  The cop was waiting, fidgeting. Simon produced his sardonic priestly smile and pushed. “I was called by God, detective. I was just driving past and saw the coroner’s van and the officers, and I thought I’d come in and see if I could be of some aid or comfort.” He paused and tilted his head. “It appears it’s too late for him, and you’ve seen your share so you’ll be fine.”

  The cop chuckled as he paced closer. “Lieutenant Vandenberg,” he said, extending his hand. Simon took it and they shook amicably.

  “Pound,” he said. “Father Simon to most.”

  “Yeah? What parish, Father?”

  Nice try.

  “Between parishes, Lieutenant.”

  “Ah yes. Please, call me Jerry.”

  “Between parishes and on archdiocese business at the moment, Jerry.” He paused. “You can check, if you’d like.”

  Vandenberg waved a hand. “Nah. Come on, no need for that.”

  Simon knew the cop would check. Fortunately everything in his identity kit matched perfectly, and the rest he could finesse himself. All it took was a little push and what he needed would appear in the cop’s mind.

  Unless…maybe he’s slightly immune.

  “Hell, if you can’t trust a priest these days,” Vandenberg was saying.

  Simon chuckled.

  Hell, indeed.

  Chapter 3

  Near Westview Mall Construction Site

  Queens, New York

  The uniformed cop was still hanging around Simon’s Dark Highland Green Mustang, eyes full of lust but also possessiveness, having been ordered to protect it.

  “Ah, there you are, Officer,” Simon said as he stepped up, flashing his Metro card again to reinforce the other’s perception of him as an FBI agent. He didn’t want the priestly collar to muddy the waters. It couldn’t, as long as he pushed out to the cop. “Thank you for keeping an eye out.”

  “You’re welcome, sir,” said the cop, his eyes still registering only the nonexistent federal ID.

  Simon had the old-school key fob out when the cop stepped closer. “I gotta ask, sir. Is this the 2008 Bullitt reissue model? I didn’t realize it was so perfect.”

  Occasionally Simon yearned for a connection. Anyone would, given his history. Or so he told himself whenever he had one of these lapses.

  He chuckled. “No, officer, it’s not the 2008 reissue. This is the actual Bullitt pony car. The car Steve McQueen drove in the movie. Well, one of the two. The other was wrecked.”

  The cop’s
smile turned to a grimace. “No need to lie to me, uh, sir.”

  “No lie, officer.” Simon sighed, knowing he shouldn’t have let himself feel the need to come clean. “Note the lack of designating markings, the slight ding on the dash where Steve smacked his fist more than once, and also note that the paint job is starting to fade after all these years. If it was a ringer, I’d have it perfect.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” the cop said, but he was walking away, disappointed.

  No sense trying to convince him. Simon had the bill of sale in the glove box. There were so many zeroes on it, the cop’s eyes would have exploded.

  “Ah, well,” he muttered. Sometimes things went south no matter what you did.

  “Hold on a minute, Father!”

  Simon turned. It was the cop, Vandenberg, maybe pulling a Columbo.

  “One more thing…”

  He was, Simon thought. He really was doing just that. The cop walked up and glanced at the Mustang, then back at Simon.

  “I was thinking it’s awful strange that a parish priest, even one between assignments, would manage to talk his way into a fresh crime scene, and then not be terribly shocked at the blood and guts. Well, blood and head in this case.” Vandenberg had reached him by now and his hand hovered near the waistband of his open Giants jacket.

  “Unfortunately I’ve seen worse in my time, Jerry.” Simon shook his head. “I have seen much worse, and sometimes by the time I’m called in, it’s too late for someone.”

  Simon pushed only slightly. An image: the famous black and white poster for a 1973 movie. Vandenberg’s eyes widened and Simon knew he was seeing it too, as if his own mind had called up the image.