In the name of the Father

Chapter 1 - the Father and the once holy Man

Chapter 1 – the Father and the once holy Man

“Hey, Grimaldi,” he growled from the back of his throat, his voice rasped with a shiver that was chilling, “I think I saw something,” he continued, speaking very close to my right ear, huffing wisps of glacial air which did nothing but intensify the titillating cool of the breeze, “Keep an eye out. Intel said he boarded this ferry,” he ended his cold sermon unceremoniously because the climate was numbing his speech. I thought I saw his lips whiten with death before he stuck a tongue out to moisten them. He swallowed hard and it made me feel like he gulped daggers as he winced at the action. His face contorted into a look of discomfort as he grated his teeth against the dried and flaked creases of his lips. Indeed Gerard wasn’t used to the cold. He was a proud American, a native Texan who exalted the sun like it was liquid gold. He sniffed and crinkled his nose to stifle a sneeze. It was a hard battle, the coldness won. He looked like Rudolph without the antlers and Bambi legs. He’s a stocky character with a chunky body to match, yet he shrivels in very low temperature. My throat hitched at the irony. I suppressed laughter, but humor won.

Unlike him I was used to the cold. I got used to it ever since my wife died of cancer a few weeks ago. Her case was terminal so we had to give her up. I felt so numb at the time for I was beside her during her last moments. The sight of life leaving her frail body felt like an out-of-body experience to me. I felt her pain, her anguish, and her regrets … but that was just me because those emotions never touched her face. Death hugged her and she embraced it wholeheartedly. She didn’t even cry. She was strong and unfazed. Losing someone might seem normal to most people, yet it’s a haunting milestone to those who got to experience and see it first-hand. My wife and I didn’t have the best relationship. It was more of a union bred out of companionship rather than affection. It was a partnership that brought a child between us. God knows I tried all those years, but I simply couldn’t be what she wanted me to be. It just wasn’t me. I knew myself and who and what I was. I wouldn’t call what we had as love. It felt like an obligation, a contract. She gave me one last look before the spirit fled her eyes. Her gaze communicated forgiveness. And as her pulse flatlined I realized and understood what it felt like to be truly cold.

Since then my veins have turned into filaments of icicles, while my blood the unforgiving waters of the North Pole. My heart and the love it held for life froze over into subzero, yet there were still embers from within that surprisingly ebb whenever I thought of her. In my mind’s eye, her death kept me warm. It made me realize how much life I had in me, and that I deserved warmth no matter how cold things became. And so here I was, basking in the coldness of the Parisian air as Gerard, a colleague of mine, kept a watchful eye at the boat we boarded down the River Seine.

“It’s a commuter boat, Ladicroft, not a ferry. And what purpose does he have for taking a public ride? It would mean his exposure, an untimely and indecent one at that,” I chided starkly.

“Don’t get smart with me Jeanne,” he scrunched his eyebrows towards the center and craned his neck a bit, “Look ahead. The ones seated in front. They are confederates of the Pope,” he nodded towards the group who occupied the settees close to the front. They wore matching outfits.

I fixed my gaze onward and saw that he was right. My failure to notice was attributed to the fact that they had their backs against us which made them look like tourists who happened to wear the same ensemble. The sense of urgency I was supposed to have slipped me. I was too caught up in my reverie of Lucille that I forgot about my duty. I cursed inward then changed tack.

“Damn, Gerard. Why didn’t you tell me that detail when we stepped onto this frigging ferry?”

“I thought you said this was a boat?”

“Sshh—just keep an eye out.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Shut up, man.”

We were seated comfortably in a Paris boat tour that was halfway down the Seine River. It was a magnificent view. Cobble archways, cement bridges, and pointy structures were lit by modern light fixtures. The maturity of it all looked incredibly youthful with the exuberant Eiffel Tower protruding from the distance. I then wondered if love could have blossomed had I taken Lucille here. The thought left me immediately and I shrugged it off for I knew it would never happen.

Gerard and I were on a mission. It wasn’t required of me to personally dip my hands in the matter, but I welcomed the assignment that was meant for a younger agent such as him for I wanted to be reminded of the thrill I used to have when I first started in this profession twenty-five years ago. I just wanted to feel alive again and somehow regain whatever it was that kept my blood pumping during those years when I was younger. Also, I heard that Dijon mustard had its origins here. The same name being the bustling city east of France which we were very close to.

“Hey Jeanne, look over there,” he pointed at a merchant who was wearing stripes of white, red, and yellow. He was walking in the middle of the pews towards the back where we were. He had a boxy container secured by a rope around his neck. The sign said ‘hotdogs’. Perfect. Splendid.

He and I were about to sample the French with a touch of the authentic tangy taste of Dijon when our journey met an unexpected embargo. A gunshot broke out in the middle of the boat where most of the passengers were. My survival instincts and military training suddenly rippled through my skin, sending forth stimuli that left me in a daze. Before I could make sense of what was happening, I already was gunning forth with the blueprint of our plan in mind. Gerard and I were on this mission to extract and take into custody a stray hitman, who Intel reported was a threat to the safety of the Vatican confederates. I knew what the man looked like as his face surfaced from the crowd. Time stretched and slowed the more I made haste, giving me the opportunity to jump and tackle the criminal with so much adrenaline and force that Gerard didn’t even get to react.

“Too late,” the crook whispered beneath me with his hand hooked around a key fob that had a green button. His thumb connected and the next thing my senses could process was this blast which detonated from the back going to the front. It was a cataclysmic explosion which broke the base of the ferry into chunks of splintered wood and fiery metal. The mayhem stirred people to a panic as debris flew everywhere and in all directions. There was no need to await my instructions. Gerard knew what to do the minute that first blast ignited from the propeller at the back. He drew out his gun and shot the felon who was about to take the confederates at point-blank range. Gerard got him on the shoulder, but wasn’t completely successful because two of the five priests already sprawled lifeless on the now wrecked flooring of the ferryboat. The remaining three were on their knees, distraught and unmoved. Holy men who wore the cloth didn’t do well with action I thought, but they sure could put their hands together to pray about it.

Gerard urged the remaining passengers to jump the cold water. He and I knew that one big massive explosion would soon follow. If the people weren’t quick on their toes, this event would ignite the kind of death that would showcase a very poor and undesirable statistic in the news.

“Move now! Jump!” I growled at one priest in particular who didn’t join the rest. He looked mortified and was stuck in his genuflect position.

“Jump now! Pray later!” I shouted into his ear, pulling him up from his glued position. His legs shook uncontrollably like there was an earthquake.

I yanked him up like he was my bride then I threw both of us into the river water which I assumed was deep but swimmable. What remained of the boat exploded, its hot fire getting swallowed by the cold waters. I looked around for Gerard and found him waving several meters away from where I floated. He held the unconscious gunman by the collar. He signaled for us to meet in 0800 hours. I nodded my consent that we would reconvene at eight in the morning. And at that moment of triumph I felt like I was twenty-five again, so alive and absolutely kicking.

“G-God! Herrl—yerrlp me!”

The young priest couldn’t swim even if his life depended on it. He was swallowing so much frozen water that it looked like he was having his second baptism, or probably an exorcism. My subconscious rolled its eyes as I swam towards the holy man who apparently wasn’t used to the cold. I held his shivering body close to me then wrapped my left arm around his neck to serve as his lifebuoy. He was shaking like a newborn that just came out of a mother’s womb. If this rescue mission didn’t make me feel like twenty-five again I didn’t know what would. I felt like David Hasselhoff from Baywatch, minus the press charges and the unsanitary drunkard video.

‘Was this fate?’ was what I asked myself as I mulled over the day’s happenings. I wanted fun and adventure, and what I got in return were two dead priests, several wounded fatalities, and a huge explosion that would probably make the world news tonight and for the rest of the week. Add the sobbing priest who didn’t know how to swim, and who appeared to show a dwindling faith in the Lord as he threw his mantle disrespectfully towards the plush burgundy sofa before making his way towards the lavatory. Life had hit him hard, and it nudged him into reality.

The priest and I settled in for the night at a hostel down the English Channel at La Havre, a few blocks from Dijon. The place I chose was a standard inn, yet it felt special because it was situated in Paris, the city of lights and love. The romance, overture, and climate did nothing good to my stomach. To be in a hotel room with another man made me feel strange things in my gut. Intrigue pooled dangerously in my underbelly which then suddenly rose up my chest to capture my heart, making me involuntarily fist my hands into the silky sheets of the single king-sized mattress. A small part of me wanted to examine what the priest looked like for we hadn’t had a quiet moment to share our acquaintances since that eventful catastrophe. Being locked in a room with him did things to my spirit I wasn’t expecting. I felt mischievous and evil, yet I held my ground and desisted from wanting to examine the holy man’s anatomy. I didn’t believe much in God, but I understood that my thoughts and urges were blasphemed and sacrilegious.

Just as I was about to extinguish the fire that erupted from within, his physique suddenly rose and shone under the halogen lighting of the lavatory. He forgot to close the door completely, allowing my eyes to pry through the slit of the doorframe that creaked with its every movement.

Desire rose from my bowels at the sight of his towel pooling around his feet. I knew what I wanted and I only realized this as I was halfway through the door with a gaze of lustful contempt that drank in his naked body. His entirety tensed and froze, yet the interest in his eyes gave him away. There was a flicker that I wanted to explore. I had to know if his body wanted the same.

I took quiet steps forward with hands carefully drumming the edges of the marble vanity. His breath hitched and all I wanted was to inhale the air that escaped him. His eyes were docile gray. He had an innocence that captivated me, drawing me in like a magnet. I wanted him so badly. I knew it was a sin but I didn’t care. I always had my way with men even when I was married to Lucille. Buying happiness was never a problem, but finding a love that lasts was. I have touched so many warm bodies only to throw money in their faces the minute they left. But this one … this one was different. He was something else. He felt pure. He was clean. He was innocent.

“No, please. I can’t—”

There was no time to either think or rationalize. I just acted. I ravished his sultry lips with mine. He tasted young and sweet, a contrast to the taste of earth that was mine. Our tongues tangled into a heated frenzy that bathed our bodies with tumultuous fire. My libido felt turbulent and sharp. It thickened all the muscles in my body that responded to desire. All sense of coherence escaped me and went down the drain. We were in rapture. The contact of having a man pressed tightly against me wasn’t an unfamiliar sensation, but it felt like years of frustration were melting away from my soul, revealing the kind of freedom I always wanted but never found. I felt free.

I scooped him up and made my way towards the bed. I made haste to removing my soiled clothing, wanting desperately to sink myself in his warm body. I knew it was the pinnacle of sins the minute we found release. I cuddled up to him after we made love. My arms were tightly woven around his waist like a vine.

He was so warm the morning we woke. I’d think that he’d run off by now with my hefty wallet but he didn’t. Instead he slept beside me like the angel that he was. I really wanted to make love to him again, so I tried. I felt bad for ruining him last night.

I braved an attempt. My right hand snaked between his thighs. Skin burned as I palmed him going up. He responded by riding my hand. His reaction to my touch was all I needed. It was then I knew that I wanted to take him home. Maybe a change of scenery would help him forget about his religion. I treated the situation with careful tact, wanting him to say yes to an offer that would burn both our souls in hell. I never felt so alive. It was then I knew what love felt like.

“What’s your name?” I whispered close to his ears, coaxing more love from him like how a bee would to a budding sunflower over a dew-laden hill.

“Gray,” his voice was my undoing. It sounded gentle, modest, and silky smooth, “Gray Staudt. What about you, Sir?” I played the sound of his voice in my head, trying to memorize his tone.

I committed his voice to memory, embedding his tone deep inside my head before responding to reveal my well-preserved identification, “Jeanne … Jeanne Grimaldi. And don’t call me sir.”

“Jeanne. What just happened?” His eyes gleaned for the truth that he knew was hard to accept.

“We made love, Gray. We made love,” I kissed the back of his hand with a passion that scorched my soul and his. I wanted more than just this lovely man’s body. I longed for his youth. I dreamed of capturing his spirit. I yearned to stroke his soul. I wanted him to be mine … forever.

‘Was this what the Lord wanted?’ was what I asked myself as I looked at the man who was sleeping on top of me. I tried to pull my body from under Jeanne but I couldn’t. He was just too heavy. I stayed absolutely still, weaving my fingers into his dark locks, admiring how beautiful a man he was, looking all stubbly and American. I watched how he smiled and I knew that he was dreaming about bright nights and dark mornings. I said this because lately he’d been having these nightmares which I attributed to the horrors of what his job is. It was a good thing that he gave up his attempts on pyrotechnics and instead settled for what he was supposed to be doing – reading reports and signing papers. It was a more fitting job description given his age. He’s fifty.

The hands that were vined around my shoulders moved down my back. I found his friction hard to resist. His deft fingers explored and quested everywhere there was warm skin. They found themselves in and around the junction of my inner thighs. My heart pounded, anticipating where his fingers would go as they threatened to part my inner being. I was writhing way too much.

“Hey,” his husky manly voice made my muscles tremble and spasm uncontrollably, “I was just teasing you, baby. Your body’s too quick to respond,” he mumbled with his stubble prickling my sensitized skin. He had the sexiest voice on the planet, making my own head spin off its axis.

“How could it not, Mr. Secretary of Defense.”