William Bolton - Jesuit, Circa 2000 AD.pdf - William Bolton - widez2

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Jesuit (Circa 2000 AD)

by William Bolton

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Cyber-Pulp

www.Cyber-Pulp.com

Mystery

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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original

purchaser. Duplication or distribution of this work by email, floppy disk,

network, paper print out, or any other method is a violation of international

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*CONTENTS*

NOTE: Each section is preceded by a line of the pattern CH000, CH001,

etc. You may use your reader's search function to locate section.

CH000 *Acknowledgements.*

CH001 *PROLOGUE*

CH002 *CHAPTER ONE*

CH003 *CHAPTER TWO*

CH004 *CHAPTER THREE.*

CH005 *CHAPTER FOUR.*

CH006 *CHAPTER FIVE.*

CH007 *CHAPTER SIX*

CH008 *CHAPTER SEVEN*

CH009 *CHAPTER EIGHT*

CH010 *CHAPTER NINE.*

CH011 *CHAPTER TEN*

CH012 *CHAPTER ELEVEN*

CH013 *CHAPTER TWELVE*

CH014 *CHAPTER THIRTEEN*

CH015 *CHAPTER FOURTEEN*

CH016 *CHAPTER FIFTEEN*

CH017 *CHAPTER SIXTEEN*

CH018 *CHAPTER SEVENTEEN*

CH019 *CHAPTER EIGHTEEN*

CH020 *CHAPTER NINETEEN*

CH021 *CHAPTER TWENTY*

CH022 *CHAPTER TWENTY ONE*

CH023 *CHAPTER TWENTY TWO*

CH024 *CHAPTER TWENTY THREE*

CH025 *CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR*

CH026 *CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE*

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The characters in this book are entirely fictitious and not based in

any way on any person, living or dead. Any resemblance to any person, living

or dead, is purely coincidental and should not be regarded as any person's

real character or activities.

Some of the place names are real but the events depicted in this book

do not imply that any such action or occurrence took place there.

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No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,

or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, electrostatic,

magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without

permission, in writing from the publishers and/or the author.

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CH000

*Acknowledgements.*

As always, I must first thank my wife, Jean, for her ever-enduring

patience as I wrote this novel. I spent many daily hours working on it and

hogging the phone line with my PC, leaving her to sit alone.

I must also thank Karen for proofreading, pointing out my mistakes and

giving me the benefit of her honest opinions.

The continuing support of my e-book publisher, Mikel Classen, is fully

appreciated and I can recommend his Website at netbound books.com , where many

excellent novels by amateur and established writers can be found.

Thank you all.

William Bolton

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CH001

*PROLOGUE*

The first body to be found is that of a pretty ten-year-old girl.

The way she died is a mystery, the bloodstream being full of Opium.

The girl has not been sexually assaulted and there are no signs of a

struggle.

Detective Inspector Graham Sampler of the Metropolitan Police force has

the task of solving the case, which becomes even more bizarre as further

murders are committed and these are not confined to children.

During the lengthy investigation, he crosses paths with a mysterious

Jesuit priest, Brother Ignatious Saviour. Brother Saviour is a truly

remarkable man who has suffered hardship and terror in the jungles of the

Amazon and who is now on a holy mission commissioned by the Pontiff.

He exerts strange and baffling powers and his influence on the

investigation brings Sampler to a decision he has to reach -- the most awful

and horrifying decision a person can be called upon to make.

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CH002

*CHAPTER ONE*

Even at the tender age of ten, it was obvious to all who saw her that

Kylie Johnson would grow into a beautiful woman. To those who knew her, a

beautiful disposition would be added to the accolade.

The girl's healthy, dark hair cascaded around a pear shaped face in

gently waving pincers ending just below the chin. The lips were already

becoming full, the teeth perfectly white and even.

Kylie's eyes, an enchanting cornflower blue, stared unblinkingly at the

clear, early summer sky as an occasional cotton-wool cloud eased its way

sleepily across the expanse, reflecting in the glass-like iris.

She was positioned on her back in the warm grass of the meadow, white

daises and yellow buttercups swaying in haphazard patterns in the whisper of a

breeze. The red of an occasional poppy could also be noticed oscillating in

its delicate majesty. A short distance from the town of Watford, in

Hertfordshire, it seemed a million miles away from the rush and bustle of any

township.

One of Kylie's legs was outstretched, whilst the other bent at the knee

causing the dress to fall back and expose the full extent of her flawless

thigh.

Kylie had always loved this dress; it was her favorite. It fitted to

her blossoming frame, ending an inch above the knee. The white of the dress

was patterned with scores of butterflies; blue, red, purple, yellow, brown.

The small blue was the one she liked best -- a Common Blue

(Polyommatus Icarus). She didn't know its common name, let alone the Latin.

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Didn't need to, enough that it was pretty and she liked it.

As if to compliment the design, a real-life, Green Veined White

(Oragala Daps), settled on the dress, its wings opening and closing in neutral

mode, the antennae probing all directions.

As Kylie lay in the pleasant June warmth, an ugly, squat bluebottle fly

buzzed by. It first zigzagged over her head to a point a few feet beyond and

then returned as though retrieving something mislaid. Landing next to Kylie's

left eye, the ugly insect began to check its surroundings for any possible

danger. Being satisfied, it walked jerkily over to the sweet wetness of the

human eyeball. Another pause and then it walked onto the beautiful eye. Kylie

didn't bother to brush it away.

Dead people do not brush away flies.

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CH003

*CHAPTER TWO*

Detective Inspector Graham Sampler was feeling irritable. Before

setting out for work this morning, he had grumbled at his wife, Bethany, for,

of all things, the milk on his Shredded Wheat being too cool! In all their

nine years of marriage, he had never complained about anything she did for

him; she would have had every right to tell him to do it himself in future.

The complaint was petty, he knew, and pettiness was not one of his

vices. It was this case. It was getting to him.

The death of a young girl, the _murder_ of a young girl, was deeply

worrying. Ten years old with her life in front of her and, by all accounts, a

happy, friendly child, always anxious to please. Her parents adored her and

her schoolteachers delighted in her.

Even at that age, she had been an attraction to many boys, from the age

of eight at the lower end to sixteen at the top of the scale. She had been a

very pretty child.

Her prettiness was of no consequence to the investigation; a murder

requires the fullest, most thorough enquiry no matter who the victim or what

the status. But a child? That did evoke strong emotions amongst any

investigating officer, no matter how professional he or she may be.

Sampler was a father himself. He had a son, Nathaniel, aged five, who

was attending primary school and showing all the cockiness and worldly

knowledge befitting a person so mature. Nathaniel wanted to be a policeman

like his dad, when he grew up. Or was it a Fireman ... or a Doctor ... or, yet

still, was it an Action Man? It depended largely on what television program he

was interested in at the time.

So, as a parent, Sampler could sympathize with the emotions the dead

girl's family were experiencing. He quietly vowed to solve this particular

crime, come what may.

Sampler had been pushed into a role, by a high-powered police "think

tank," of investigating the more puzzling murders wherever they may occur

within a sixty-mile radius of London. Lack of resources in general in the

police force, meant that local police teams had difficulty in spending

sufficient time on solving serious crimes in their area, leaving too many

unsolved and thus causing unrest among the public. All credit should be

allowed for the many that were solved, given the restricted resources, but Joe

Public was not the most tolerant.

It had therefore been decided that a designated Detective Inspector of

proven quality from the Metropolitan Police Force at Scotland Yard, should be

appointed to take on such cases and have the authority to select a small team

of men, not more than four, to assist. Sampler had been the one chosen and he

had decided to choose just one assistant, the very able Detective Sergeant

Clive Miller. The present case had been immediately identified as one that

would drain the valuable finances allotted to the local force.

The autopsy had produced little of value, although DNA samples had been

found and analyzed, from a single stray hair that had been discovered on the

dress and shown not to belong to Kylie. There was nothing unusual in the DNA

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strands; a common strain that could be matched -- if the killer was ever

apprehended and tested.

A large amount of opium had been found in the victim's bloodstream and

it was ascertained that that was the cause of death. How did it get there? No

one believed the child had administered it to herself, and there were no

traces at all on the body.

A thorough examination had been carried out but the only punctures

found had been those administered by vaccination prior to a recent holiday

with her parents, to South Africa.

Even signs of a struggle had been missing from the scene. Signs of

activity were evident by flattened grass around the body, showing that two

people had been there at the time but nothing to show a fight had taken place.

Everything seemed to be in neat order, as if the victim had willingly complied

with her attacker. Normally in such crimes, particles of human hair, skin, or

blood even, could be discovered under the fingernails but not in this case.

The one hair on the dress may yet prove vital but it had led to no known

criminal. The whole thing was a complete puzzle.

Sampler read and re-read the statements obtained from parents,

teachers, friends, relatives and the local priest, Father Cobb.

He could find nothing that offered help. Most confirmed the general

opinion of the tragic victim and no one had a bad word to say about her. Her

school friends were all very fond of her and, unusually, there appeared to be

no jealousy harbored by any.

Relatives, especially males, had been closely interviewed and privately

investigated. Apart from the occasional petty theft or motor offences, all

were clean. None had a sexual history, nor were there any signs of illegal

pornography hidden away. Searches had been permitted to all their homes,

garden sheds, garages and places of work but they had yielded nothing. Sampler

had much to do.

The deep misery that pervaded the home of Hugo and Philippa Johnson was

a living thing; like a thick fog, to be swept aside if movement was required.

A week had passed since Kylie's funeral and the home was a shell

without her bubbly presence. The couple had blamed themselves, unreasonably,

for allowing Kylie to go out on that day. She had wanted to go into the nearby

meadow to enjoy the sunshine and pick some wild flowers. Just because this was

a nice, quiet village where crime was rarely a factor, they felt their guard

should still have been raised. How often was it reported in the Nationals that

this child, or that child, had been abducted and found some time later,

horribly murdered? It was never one's own child that was in danger, always

someone else's. Everyone felt deep sympathy for the parents and the victim but

still, it wasn't in one's own family.

Hugo and Philippa never blamed each other, at least, and they would

come to realize that no blame could be attached to them as a unit.

The funeral, through the anguish and upset, was quite beautiful. The

vicar, Reverend Michael Gutteridge, had pronounced such lovely, meaningful

words, attempting to give hope and some understanding of God's will. The

strains of "Morning Has Broken," had floated softly over the congregation,

causing men and women alike, to sob. Kylie's uncle, Hugo's brother, had read

out with breaking voice, the emotional words of "Steps." The sobbing then

became more prolonged and audible.

When Philippa threw a single red rose onto her daughter's coffin, she

had felt like leaping on top of it and letting the gravediggers cover her too.

She had wanted to bury Kylie in the dress she wore on that fateful day but the

police would not release it. It had become a piece of evidence. Instead, she

had been buried in her school uniform with the addition of an enamel butterfly

brooch attached to a lapel. It was a small blue butterfly, a Polyommatus

Icarus -Common Blue. And Kylie would now never know the Latin name.

After the service, the vicar had suggested they have a visit from a

person who had just arrived in the village. The man was a Jesuit priest,

Brother Saviour, and he came highly recommended by the nearby Catholic clergy.

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Although the Johnsons were of the Church of England faith, in these days of

closer liaison, the vicar had no hesitation in extending the hand of

friendship and he thought it might be a good idea that the couple accepts the

visit.

* * * *

Brother Saviour was due at any time now. Philippa had had her misgivings and

wasn't really in the right frame of mind for religious instruction, especially

from a man who represented teachings that were alien to her. More than once,

she had picked up the phone to ask Reverend Gutteridge to cancel the

appointment, but each time she had wavered and put the phone down again.

A knock at the door jolted her from the miserable thoughts once more

beginning to take over and she rose from her chair to answer it. Her husband,

Hugo, moved ahead, forcing his way through the invisible fog and grasped the

door handle.

The cottage, in which the couple lived, was in a small rural area and

was one of several similar buildings all placed in haphazard fashion, roughly

fifty yards apart from each other. The picture they depicted was of a typical

English village, with their thickly thatched roofs, white or pale-blue painted

fronts, covered in various varieties of Ivy, Clematis and such, and surrounded

by spacious gardens clad in dozens of colorful flowers. Each was enclosed in

either a timber paling fence or a small brick wall, again painted in the color

of the house frontage.

The only concession to modernization had been the introduction of

double-glazing in larger than the original windows. The frames, though, were

constructed from solid timber to give a traditional appearance.

Hugo opened the door and, for an instant, became rooted to the spot.

The man who stood inside the thatched porch transmitted a feeling of awe; not

dread, but humility, as if it were God Himself standing there.

It took several seconds for Hugo to find his voice. "You will be

Brother Saviour," he said reverently, his knees automatically starting to

bend. He recovered quickly, hoping the slight movement had not been noticed.

"Come in."

"Thank you, my son," said the figure in an evenly modulated voice, as

he stepped past Hugo and into the small passage. He walked confidently into

the front room as though he was familiar with the house, yet this being his

first visit. Hugo followed at a respectful distance.

As he breezed in, Philippa took a step forward to greet the stranger.

She stopped in her tracks, seeing the fog of depression literally evaporate as

though it were a tangible thing. Her mouth drooped and her eyes widened. God

had just entered! Instinctively, she dropped to her knees before him, her head

bowed and her hands clasped as in prayer.

Brother Saviour put a hand on her head and spoke softly. "Please,

Philippa, stand up." He placed his hands beneath her elbows to assist. "No

need for formality. I come to you as a friend; to help; to bring God with me.

Please. Stand."

Philippa got to her feet, instantly feeling rather foolish. Hugo came

alongside and placed an arm around her shoulders. They both stepped back from

the priest, still somewhat in awe of him. The man was not at all as they had

expected. They were envisioning a monk-like figure, late in life, clothed in a

brown, woolen habit, full of seriousness and religion.

This man, however, was around 36 years of age, just over six feet in

height, average build, suntanned of appearance, clean shaven with startling

blue eyes; eyes that showed humor, excitement and kindness. The mouth, in

contrast, was a little thin and made one think that a cruel streak could be

hidden somewhere in there.

Surprisingly, he was dressed in modern gear: an expensive-looking

cotton tee-shirt, light gray in color with a small 'Sacred Heart' motif high

on the left breast, a fawn shade of cotton trousers, and wearing Reebok

trainers! Even so, through all the modern appearance, the aura of God exuded

from him. It was uncanny.

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