Knock Three Times

13. The Chain of the Living Damned

                THE BLISTERING CALIFORNIA SUN seemed to scold everything it touched, and the elderly man was grateful to reach the inside of the building, letting out a great sigh of relief when he felt the cool air-conditioned interior of the facility graze his sagging flesh. Every joint seared with pain as he stepped through the halls of the hospital in Bakersfield. A final call for redemption had been requested, a patient clinging to life in the intensive care ward, asking for the final rites. This man, however, required the attention of a special priest, not just any available.

    As the clop of the old man's heels turned a corner, it seemed the priest needed no direction to the dying man's room, as though he had been there before, although he had never stepped foot in the facility until that very moment. He had seen his mission in a vision, as if he had already completed it, but what awaited him would be nothing like he had been shown.

    The man of the cloth had only read the file on this particular subject, the infamous name of note to any who lay eyes upon it. This was no ordinary call for last rites, but a unique case which required experienced hands, or so, that's what Cardinal Merrill had insisted when he dusted off his old priest attire, and sported the white collar that had been collecting dust in his top drawer for the better part of thirty years.

    Merrill would usually wear his Cardinal cassock with pride, but the purpose of this visit demanded his presence remain under the radar, his intentions as concealed as possible. He had not performed last rites on a prisoner for many years, as the task was well below his rank. This case was special, however, and his presence served a darker purpose.

    Reaching the reception counter, a security guard quickly padded him down, and then flipped through the Bible he held in his left hand, searching him for any tools that could aid a prisoner's escape.

    'Your name, Father?'

    'I hardly find it necessary.' Merrill replied with a tone of arrogance, his wrinkled eyes indifferent.

    'It's a matter of public record, I'm afraid.' the receptionist insisted. 'Nobody gets through these doors without identifying themselves, most certainly with such a high profile prisoner, you understand.'

    'Certainly.' He replied, his lip curling with disgust, as though merely standing in their presence was beneath him.

    The Cardinal reached into his back pocket and handed over his passport through a small gap in the plated glass. As the woman recorded the information in the security log book, she reached for a visitor's badge.

    'Father . . . Theron,' she raised her brow. 'Thank you for your co-operation.' 

    He slipped the forged passport back in his pocket, and clipped the badge to his belt.

    'Down the hall to the left—'

    'I'm well aware of where I'm going.' he turned his back to the hospital security staff, sneering with the thought of mere employees ordering him around, or demanding anything from him.

    The waiting room had been abandoned when he entered, no sign of nurses or doctors within the general area, but he knew straight away he had located the correct room, as the highly recognizable patient was handcuffed to the hospital bed. He thought it rather odd there were no security personnel guarding the door, but then again, there seemed few coincidences in his line of work, and the dark entity which pulled at his strings was well co-ordinated.

    'It's about time you got here, Padre.' stated the dying man, his voice barely strong enough to function. A southern accent was barely recognizable with the frailty of his voice.