Vigilante Angels

Book I: The Priest

A Novel

by

Billy DeCarlo

Wild Lake Press, Inc.

Wilmington, DE

Copyright © 2017 by Billy DeCarlo

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Billy DeCarlo/Wild Lake Press, Inc

P.O. Box 7045, Hackettstown, NJ 07840

billydecarlo.com (blog, newsletter signup)

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Cover by Archangel Ink http://archangelink.com/

Editing by WordVagabond https://wordvagabond.com/

Vigilante Angels Book I: The Priest/ Billy DeCarlo.—1st ed.

ISBN 978-0-997219654

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To all who have suffered.

Whoever receives one such child in my name receives me, but whoever causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him to have a great millstone fastened around his neck and to be drowned in the depth of the sea. Woe to the world for temptations to sin! For it is necessary that temptations come, but woe to the one by whom the temptation comes! And if your hand or your foot causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away. It is better for you to enter life crippled or lame than with two hands or two feet to be thrown into the eternal fire. And if your eye causes you to sin, tear it out and throw it away. It is better for you to enter life with one eye than with two eyes to be thrown into the hell of fire. See that you do not despise one of these little ones. For I tell you that in heaven their angels always see the face of my Father who is in heaven.

― Matthew 18:5-10

Contents

1 The Priest

2 Chemo

3 Cafeteria

4 Sick

5 Almost Out

6 Buster Vela

7 Wyla's Bar

8 A Warning

9 Therapy

10 Remission

11 Thanksgiving

12 A Plan

13 Surveillance

14 Cemetery

15 High on Drugs

16 Decline

17 An Option

18 Chaos

19 Discoveries

20 The Visitation

21 The Suspect

22 Conclusion

A Note to My Readers

Preview: Book II: The Cop

1 The Priest

THE PRIEST SWEPT across the dais with grace, although his heart held malice.

A boy watched from a pew near the front of the otherwise empty church. He pretended to flip through a hymnal and contemplated whether his parents would believe him if he decided to run. He imagined his mother at home preparing dinner, proud that the priest had picked him out of all the other altar boys to perform these extra duties after school. Peering over the book, he wondered how the man could move so silently, almost appearing to float. Are there even legs under those long robes? He edged closer to the aisle.

Going somewhere, my son?

It sounded like the true voice of God. Its deep timbre echoed from the high ceiling and marble walls, surrounding him.

No, Father. He thought his voice sounded meek by comparison—squeaky and scared. He was scared. He tried again, this time in a stronger voice, the more confident one Dad had been coaching him to use. No. This time it sounded better, at least to him. Where are you, Dad?

He looked at the stained-glass figures in the windows above. Their eyes seemed cast down at him in pity. Jesus. Mary. Joseph. He asked for their help. Didn't they stand for goodness?  He thought about the superheroes in his comic books and imagined one sailing through the glass to save him. He wondered whether God was looking down, too. Why doesn’t He do anything?

He watched the priest clean up around the altar. His tall, thin build and long limbs made him look like a praying mantis. The boy’s gaze moved upward, to the massive crucifix on the wall above the priest—Jesus pinned to it with his crown of thorns, eyes closed, blood dripping from wounds on his hands, feet, and abdomen. Fall. Fall on him. Fall on him, Jesus. You’re supposed to be the Savior.

A booming sound startled him as the side door slammed behind Charles, the old black maintenance man. The kids all talked about how Charles had done time in prison. Who knew if it was true? That was the least of his worries right now, anyway.

What else can I do tonight, Father? Charles asked. He looked over toward the boy.

The boy read a look of concern on his face and tried to respond in kind, staring back hopefully. He trusted Charles, who’d only been nice to him in the time they had spent together, and he’d always felt sorry for the priest’s harsh treatment of the man.

Nothing more, Charles, said the God-voice. That will be all for today.

Charles began to leave but hesitated. You sure you don’t want me to sweep up in here?

That will be all, Charles. The priest was polishing a silver chalice, his back to them both.

Charles looked over at the boy again. Can I walk the kid home, then? He done here too?

The priest turned to face them. His ruddy face and red hair seemed to glow under the lights. This time he spoke softly, but his voice commanded an end to the discussion. That will be all, Charles.

All right then. See you tomorrow, Father. He walked up the aisle, patting the boy’s shoulder on the way past, his footsteps echoing. The thick front door creaked as he opened it.

The boy turned to see Charles pause in the doorway as if pondering some other course of action. Their eyes engaged once more, and hope again filled his heart. Charles held the door wide open for a moment, then lowered his head and left. The boy wondered if he could make it before the door locked behind the janitor. He imagined the priest gliding down the aisle at warp speed on those long legs and grabbing him by the collar just as he reached it. It gasped slowly to closure and shut with a soft, final click. The boy turned to face the dais again but found the priest’s robes in his face. There was a swish of satin as a long arm swept up and took hold of his shoulder.

Come along, son. We have work to do in the rectory before you leave.

The boy rose obediently, and as was his custom, the priest placed his hand on the nape of his neck to guide him, his thumb digging into the gap between vertebrae. His hands are always so cold. As they walked by the dais, he gazed at the rows of flickering candles in small red jars, lit for the prayers of others.

2 Chemo

I'M DYING. Tommy leaned back in the padded recliner, and the paper on the headrest crinkled. He worried for a moment that the nurses hadn’t changed it after the last patient, and then realized the absurdity of his concern. Anyway, I’m almost bald now.

The glass faceplate of the infusion console reflected his grizzled face. His Marine flat-top, composed of rigid silver spikes, stood in defiance of the chemo. He looked down at his muscled forearms and strong hands. The thin tubes attached to his right arm contrasted with his aged, tan skin and faded Eagle, Globe and Anchor tattoo. He looked down with pride at the lines of his fit torso through the bright white t-shirt. Not bad for a guy in his sixties.

He considered the irony of the disease that was eating him from the inside. He’d worked his way out of every problem life had presented so far, and for the first time, he wasn’t in control of his fate. Closing his eyes, he tried to silence the noise around him. He was able to drown everything out but the endless ticking of the console. Ademo-carcaroma, whatever they called it. Lung cancer. Fuck. Me.

He thought about his years as a cop—the constant exposure to filth, and the infected scumbags the city had offered up. I was young and indestructible. He thought about the horror of the day the towers fell, and the dense wave of toxins he’d consumed. It had seemed to saturate his every pore. He thought about the people he’d saved, and those he couldn't.

I always believed I’d die heroically. Now, it’ll be pathetic. He thought about the persistent nagging of his wife and son to give up the smokes. I gave up the booze but needed my smokes. Gave them up too late. He thought about how bored he’d become in retirement, and how he’d wished for some kind of adventure. Be careful what you wish for. He continued to dwell on his past selfishness and mistakes until his thoughts morphed into dreams.

A shrill beeping jolted him awake, and he bolted from the recliner with a shout. His vision sharpened; he was unsure where he was. He put his right hand where his sidearm should be and quickly scanned the room. Who are these people? He felt a sharp pain in his arm as the tube that led to it stretched taut. The people in the room were frozen, mouths slightly agape, staring at him. Like mannequins in a department store window.

He looked at the console and the flashing red words ‘air-in-line.’ Calming himself, he sat back down with the others in his pod—his companions in chemotherapy. He looked at the old black across the way, the biddy to his right, and the mousy Jewish guy to his left. They were all sitting in identical recliners, wired to their individual stations in the circular area. Like hostages in an alien abduction movie.

Nurse Carmen hustled over to fix the problem and silence the alarm in her efficient, reassuring manner. It’s alright, Chief, she said. Stand down. I’ve got this under control. Lean back and relax—another half hour and you’re out of here and on your way home.

He eased back into his chair. I was dreaming, Carmen. Dreaming of better times.

The Jew looked over. "This is the better times. You’re just starting treatment. You’ll be good today, but oh boy, wait until tomorrow and the next few days!"

Tommy leaned toward the man with menace. Who’s talking to you? Shut the hell up, Herbie.

The Jew pushed backed into his chair. "Eddie. Eddie Silver. Don’t be mad. There’s no sugar-coating it. We’re all in this together. We have to own it, my therapist says."

The biddy had put her celebrity gossip magazine down, now more interested in the drama a few feet away.

Tommy tried hard to suppress the prejudice that had been burned into him all his life. He saw himself as a better man now. Except sometimes, when I’m angry.

"Silver, huh? You mean Silverstein? Who do you people think you’re fooling with the name changes? What’s next, putting hair on that yama-cap of yours so nobody can see it? Don’t talk about owning anything if you’re faking it. Be who you are. Own that."

The biddy put her finger up, as if about to dispense a pearl of wisdom, until a look from Tommy silenced her.

Yarmulke. It’s a yarmulke, Eddie said quietly in response.

The tall black man regarded Tommy casually and then said in a rumbling, authoritative tone, That’s enough of that. It’s bad enough in here. We’re all getting through it, and we don’t need any bullies. And none of that ‘you people’ stuff.

To hell with them. Tommy turned back to his personal TV. To discourage any further discourse, he unfurled his earbuds and plugged them into the recliner’s audio port. As soon as he did, he saw the biddy and the Jew start yammering at each other and occasionally looking his way. The black gazed at him, unyielding.

He focused on the news: a story about a cop who was in trouble for shooting an unarmed young black kid who wouldn’t follow instructions. The usual civil-rights leaders were getting their fifteen minutes of airtime.

Prejudice, huh? They don’t understand. It’s not prejudice, it’s a survival instinct. When you’re out there surrounded by black kids with guns under their shirts, dying to pop a cap in a cop, it’s survival. They don’t understand—it’s not racism. Experience tells you what to be afraid of, and when to be careful. Prejudice means ‘pre-judge,’ what’s wrong with that? Isn’t it how we’re wired, to survive? They’re not out there on the line every day in a hostile environment like I was.

He thought about his partner, his best friend, shot dead in a bodega while getting them both lunch. Sat on my ass in the car, while Paulie’s getting us sandwiches and getting killed by some lousy son of a bitch.

The next news story rotated through, and the camera zoomed in on the talking head, whose expression was unusually grim.

We’ve received an insider tip that an unnamed area priest has been accused of molesting several youths. We’ve reached out to the archbishop, who, citing church policy, has declined to name the priest in order to protect his reputation.

Unaware of his volume because of the headphones, Tommy said to himself angrily, Reputation? A child molester needs to protect his reputation? The dirty rotten bastard.

He noticed the others staring at him and waved them off. The news had moved on to a story about a financial adviser who’d bilked elderly people out of their life savings. Filthy scum. We’re a plague on this planet, our species.