Chapter 18
The flight was tumultuous. At one point, the pilot said that the atmospheric conditions and severity of turbulence were extremely unusual for the type of weather they were flying through in the jet-route air corridor. The skies were clear, no reported wind direction changes. With no reports of disturbance from any aircraft in the area, ground control stations were worried about the sanity of the crew.
On autopilot, the aircraft lurched and jerked unpredictably. When the pilot manually handled the controls, when he adjusted the yoke or rudder in one direction, it jolted out of his hands or opposed his foot actions on the rudder petals as if someone were attempting to wrestle control of the plane from him. The resistance to the controls seemed internal to the cockpit. The pilot thought the plane was possessed. His copilot anxiously worked the navigation systems to ensure they stayed on the proper course setting in relation to the navigation aids while also working the radio communications to find a different altitude or route with less turbulence.
“God damn it,” the pilot muttered, forcibly fighting the controls. “Are you sure no one else is experiencing anything at this altitude?” he queried of his copilot.
“No one is reporting any type of turbulence at all. I almost think ATC is thinking we’re making this shit up,” the copilot responded while the plane continued to be buffeted.
“Damn, is God pissed at someone on this flight?”
“Or maybe just the opposite, I saw a nun and priest boarding. Maybe something or someone is pissed at them.”
“Well whatever it is, it feels like someone or something is trying to push us out of the sky. Try to request a new altitude.”
Descending to the newly directed altitude, the plane unexpectedly dropped twice and the negative-g sensation overwhelmed most passengers with motion sickness. Michael thought he would throw up, only being able to drift into sleep during the last hour of the flight. Father Hernandez slept through most of the long flight. Sister Justine read a devotional. She was unencumbered by the violent turbulence. With the rough landing, Michael was jarred awake from his semi deep sleep. As the plane bounced a couple times once it hit the runway, he thought the pilot could easily receive credit for two landings.
Disembarking from the plane and awaiting their luggage at the carousel, the three remained quiet among the throngs of voices of other passengers, family and friends, and airport personnel throughout the baggage claim area. The three were all tired. Father Hernandez focused on returning to his parish, wondering if the deacons maintained proper order during his absence. Michael forced himself to at least think of what had happened over the last couple of days, especially the incident with the dogs. Rummaging through some of his thoughts while jogging the prior evening, Stephen Williams had come to mind; there was still an excellent opportunity to talk to an actual witness to an event. Everything they had gotten out of the earlier discussion with Stephen was superficial. Michael’s craving to find the truth was ignited.
“We need to talk to Stephen again,” Michael noted to his two companions.
The demeanor of the two showed they both thought Michael was kidding. Father Hernandez decided to respond first. “Very funny Mr. Saunders. We just need to get back, freshen up, and report back to Bishop Grielle first.”
A wave of annoyance surged through Michael’s soul. Bishop Grielle was one man he didn't want to meet throughout the entire investigation. “I'd rather take a wire brush and scrape my skin raw than talk to that snake,” Michael remarked.
“Is that necessary?” Sister Justine injected.
Michael’s luggage floated by in his peripheral vision. “Damn it,” he said jumping between a little girl and her mother, not excusing himself. Grabbing the baggage and putting it down by Sister Justine and Father Hernandez, he continued, “Look, I don't know why, but something is really telling me we need to talk to Stephen again. Maybe he forgot something and we can jog his memory.”
“Well I just want to get back to my residence, freshen up, and brief what we experienced. Then I want to get back to my sheep,” Father Hernandez appealed.
“Your sheep?” Michael noted sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “I thought you two wanted to find out the truth of what happened?”
“The reality from what we've already found out is that we don't know why it’s happening. We just need to accept that. We're no closer now than the first time you two started this investigation,” Father Hernandez responded.
“Yeah, but I don't think we're done yet either,” Michael noted, rolling his luggage away from the crowd toward the automatic doors leading outside.
Father Hernandez and Sister Justine captured their luggage from the conveyor system and departed to the curbside, catching up with Michael, who was attempting to hail a cab.
“Michael, what are you doing?” Sister Justine asked, confusion evident on her face.
“Catching a cab.”
“Why? The car is in short-term parking.”
“I know where the car is. I'm not going with you guys.”
Father Hernandez interposed, “Look, we're not going to talk to Stephen Williams.”
“You're right. We're not, but I am.”
“We need to return and discuss what we came across so far with the Bishop.”
Michael cringed, the ire evident on his face. “I’m not going to talk to that weasel, at least not now.”
Sister Justine attempted to pacify the situation. “Look, we don't even know where he is.”
A taxi pulled up to the curb with Michael opening the door showing his two companions the seriousness of his intentions.
Sister Justine gave up any further attempts to convince him to see the underwriter of their trip. “Fine, we'll try to find Stephen Williams and talk to him. Then we’ll go see the Bishop,” she qualified.
Ready to step into the taxi after throwing his luggage in the rear seat, Michael replaced the irate expression on his face flashing a quick grin towards Sister Justine. He dismissed the taxi after pulling out his garment bag and small suitcase and heard cursing from the driver, who had to go around the terminal again to wait at the end of the long livery line at the airport entrance.
“So, how do we locate Stephen Williams?” Father Hernandez asked, irritated that their plans changed.
“I know who’d probably know,” Sister Justine answered. She pulled out her smartphone, typed in a text message, and returned the phone to her coat pocket. She snatched her luggage, urging her companions to head out to the car. “I hope they're not busy.”
“Who?” Michael asked.
“The cops who were with us when this all started.”
“You think they'll know?”
“Why not? I'm sure they would want to keep tabs on him since he's still probably, if not their prime witness, their prime suspect depending on what they found out while we were gone.”
Michael and Father Hernandez both thought it was a resourceful way to find Stephen. As they arrived at the car, her Gregorian Chant ringtone announced an incoming text message. Reading it, Sister Justine smiled. “I got the address. But they want to talk to us about the incident that occurred just before we left for Mexico.”
After getting in the car and on the way to Stephen's residence, with Father Hernandez driving, Sister Justine promptly called the office of Detectives Green and Matthews. Detective Matthews answered. Both men in the car listened patiently to one side of the conversation, unable to ascertain any intelligible information from Sister Justine's comments. When she was finished, she explained: “Well I don't know if you both remember the televised incident at the Crestview Funeral Home,” she started. “Detective Matthews mentioned that the deceased individual was thought to have died because of a heart attack after they completed the autopsy. However, the next day as they were prepping the body for delivery to a mortician, the eyes were dissolved and the tongue withered and blackened.”
“You gotta be kidding
me, from a heart attack?” Michael stated rhetorically.
“And he was the only victim?” Father Hernandez asked, making sure he kept his eyes on the road.
“In reference to dying, yes, but quite a few of the attendees suffered from severe sunburn. At first they thought it was just mild cases but later it became second- or third-degree burns for quite a few of them.”
“Ouch. Hell, anything else?” Michael wondered aloud.
“Michael, your language,” Sister Justine responded, thinking Father Hernandez may not have appreciated the mild expletive. “In response to your answer, yes, the detectives said that a couple of children claimed the angel called itself Gishmael.”
They all remained quiet for several minutes as they drove, pondering the name.
“Gishmael?” Father Hernandez commented first, “We'll have to research that name to see if it shows up in any of the catalogs of angels.”
“I don’t think you'll find it in any of the traditional religious journals or guides covering angels, boy toy,” Michael interposed.
“And why not?”
“Remember, more than half of the reference guides are fictional or have no rational basis because they’re based on mythology, lore, or other religions without any basis of veracity. During my time researching angels, I came across historical accounts that were fictionalized like the apocryphal Enochian book,” Michael explained.
“I still think it’s worth researching to see if anything might be found out from the name of the angels.”
“Well, do what you need to do, boy toy, it’s just that another important question to ask is how come only the children heard the angel’s name?” Michael speculated. Father Hernandez sensed the question was rhetorical.
“Sounds like you already know the answer,” Father Hernandez responded.
“No, but it’s interesting. Makes me think of the book of Daniel, I believe Chapter 10, where only Daniel could see and communicate with the mysterious visitor. No one else around saw him. Of course, his traveling companions did run away. It shows a pattern that these angels may sometimes single out a person who to communicate with.”
“I didn’t realize you’d still remember so much from your days at seminary Mr. Saunders.”
“Uhhh, I do teach religious studies, which includes the Bible padre,” Michael noted derisively. “I still do my research.”
“Did the detectives mention anything else about Crestview?” Father Hernandez asked Sister Justine, refocusing the discussion.
“No, but they did mention they’re no longer actively working the case. They thought somehow I would’ve known.”
“Why?”
“They found out someone high up in the Church was making a strong plea to limit the official police investigation and declare it an unexplained supernatural event.”
“You think the Cardinal could’ve done that? I mean, does he have that much clout in the police department?” Father Hernandez ventured. “How can someone call off an entire police investigation?”
“You’d be surprised what the Cardinal is capable of doing, especially if the police chief or members of his staff are extremely devout Catholics,” Michael jibed.
Sister Justine could sense the formation of another verbal head-butting competition. As she thought about their planned visit, she realized they would be arriving unannounced, which offered the opportunity to change the direction of the conversation. “Maybe we should call Stephen Williams to let him know we're on our way over.”
“And give him a chance to refuse us? I don't think so,” Michael responded.
“Sister Justine is right; we should at least show some courtesy and call ahead,” Father Hernandez pressed, adding his two cents.
“There's a better chance he'll talk to us if we just show up. If we call ahead, he just may say no. Then we’re screwed.”
“Sister, please call the police detectives and get the number for Mr. Williams. We'll call and announce our request to talk him,” Father Hernandez said sternly and politely.
On the way to his house, Sister Justine was unable to turn on her smartphone; the battery died. She thought it strange because she was able to charge it at the airport just before the final leg of their flight back, turning off the phone for most of the trip. Father Hernandez gave her his phone to use, but his device displayed zero bars until they drove up in front of Stephen's home.