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Out in the dim light of the church proper, written on several pews, written in blood that shone black in the spare light, were the words "There is NO GOD."
"Do you know how long I have waited for you?"
That voice floated from the darkness pregnant with menace. An Irish brogue so thick the words were barely understandable. A man's deep baritone. I didn't jump or twitch or scream. I was firmly in combat mode, training that ended over twenty years ago kicking to the fore in a rush of muscle memory. My switches flipped and I felt frosty, cold enough that I fancied the juices in my eyes froze solid.
"Come out, come out wherever you are," I sang, mind clicking along like a clock.
"A priest with a sense of humor," said the voice. "I like that, I do."
"Who are you?"
What answered me was a sort of high-pitched warble, a fluctuation of tones that grated on my nerves. The man was giggling.
When the voice once again emerged, it was filled with a strange sort of hilarity. "Me? I'm the one having fun!"
"Come on out. Let's have fun together." Drip, drip. Fun. Eviscerating Father Paul and hanging his corpse in an obscene parody of crucifixion was fun for this guy. I was sorely tempted to put a few rounds into his skull the second he showed his face.
But that's not the kind of guy I am. Not anymore.
Deep breaths, stay frosty, be the machine, no emotions. "Come out, Sicarius." I flicked my eyes to Father Paul, whose dull, lifeless hazel eyes gazed fearfully at the blood-drenched carpeting. "Come out, Atheist."
"Awww … who's been telling tales?" came the mocking voice in a parody of a child's whine. "Been watching the telly?"
"You've been making a splash in Chicago," I replied, trying but unable to get a fix on the source of the voice. The only thing I saw were shadows and the twin rows of pews stretching toward the front door. It was a wide-open space, but there were plenty of places to hide. "A serial killer who targets priests, hangs them upside down from the cross and writes 'There is no God' in blood on the pews. Tends to grab the attention of my sort."
"It's good to be famous, isn't it? Be that as it may, I'm glad you know what I am, who I answer to, although it takes away from a clever monologue I've been developing." Giggle.
"Who's the new boss, Mr. Atheist?" Any intel was good intel. Providing I survived. "Who pulls your strings?"
"We all have strings, giggle, little priest. Rome pulls yours."
There you are. My gun rose as if it had a will of its own. There, fourth pew from the front, where the shadows were deep. Come on.
