A Web for All God's Angels

By Tony Masero

The confused man who walked into Father Langley’s confessional that afternoon brought more than his sins. He carried a case holding the most terrible of secrets. In his shadow tread a team of assassins charged with destroying all who discover the contents. It is up to the priest’s handyman, Mordecai, a trained and disenchanted death dealer but the kind of soldier the cleric needs right now to find a resolution.
But there is an evil presence in the world beyond those known by the players and whilst Father Langley and Mordecai fight their own battle, another unseen and more esoteric war is going on between the forces of Good and Evil.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tony Masero
• Release date: Jun 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215538364

Tony Masero

It’s not such a big step from pictures to writing.And that’s how it started out for me. I’ve illustrated more Western book covers than I care to mention and been doing it for a long time. No hardship, I hasten to add, I love the genre and have since a kid, although originally I made my name painting the cover art for other people, now at least, I manage to create covers for my own books.A long-term closet writer, only comparatively recently, with a family grown and the availability of self-publishing have I managed to be able to write and get my stories out there.As I did when illustrating, research counts a lot and has inspired many of my Westerns and Thrillers to have a basis in historical fact or at least weave their tale around the seeds of factual content.Having such a visual background, mostly it’s a matter of describing the pictures I see in my head and translating them to the written page. I guess that’s why one of my early four-star reviewers described the book like a ‘Western movie, fast paced and full of action.’I enjoy writing them; I hope folks enjoy reading the results.

Book preview

Chapter Two

The eight sturdy men were gathered in a large, brightly lit school sports hall hired for the evening.

The sign on the door read; `Male Dance and Expression, Advanced Class, Subscribed Members Only´.

The men greeted each other and muttered inconsequentials with wary familiarity. They knew each other well, both inside and out. Superbly fit men. Not of any particular age group but all muscled and strong. They were as variously dressed as their ages and tastes allowed. Some calmly in subdued designer clothes, others laden in golden chains and wearing brightly coloured nylon tracksuits. Those with uncovered arms displayed bold and savage tattoos etched in black ink. All of them stood and moved with the confidence of their physical power. Regular workouts in prison gymnasiums had ensured that.

Eric entered carrying nothing more than a slender pink coloured card folder. Right, people! he called. Rehearsal time. Gather round.

A stark man, if that was how to describe his gender, as he fitted no known natural profile in reality. A man of indeterminate age, with a shaved head and bony features exposed by the tight skin drawn over his skull. Teeth were missing on the upper right portion of his jaw and when he spoke or rarely laughed the black gap there was exposed.

From an early age, Eric had suffered the most appalling physical and mental abuse and now in later years he sought, not to generously correct the imbalance of his own experience but rather to cause his suffering to be spread amongst those that did nothing to save him during his childhood.

Specifically, his enmity was imposed indiscriminately on the world at large. He was a homosexual and spoke with a lisping high voice but that was as far as any femininity in his character reached. He was of a different species and his eyes told of it. Flat and lifeless grey. A landscape full of lost mists and solitary horizons, as empty as the soul that lurked forgotten in some dark corner of his being.

A creature of magnificent physique, his gaunt features rested over an athlete’s body. Not in the vein of any pumped-up poser but rather of a lean and strong animal, that moved with all the grace that only such fitness could demonstrate. He was mobile, flexible and full of tensile strength.

He has buggered five of the eight men now gathering around him. They had accepted his carnal advances with the indifference of beasts of the field. Partly because that is the low level to which their mentalities barely reached. They were no more than thugs with collective limited expectations that aspired to little more than the most basic of human needs and desires. The other portion of their acceptance rested in the fact that they needed direction and that is what Eric supplied, for he had a single and determined mind that moved purposefully and with absolute resolution towards the end of any goal.

The remaining three were the closest to Eric and exempt from his advances. Not from any sense of respect between them but rather that they had sufficient brainpower to set them apart from the rest. Eric sensed instinctively that any such move on his part would eventually lead to their distancing, a thing he could not afford. They were his ablest lieutenants but shared little of his life. No more than sharp-witted creatures able to disseminate Eric´s commands to the lower ranks of his crew.

Okay, Eric ordered. Spread out. We are beginning the hunt.

The men did as he commanded and separated around the hall. Crouching and weaving in the style of hunters seeking a prey. They moved and slid amongst each other silently, parodying a search with no show of disdain or embarrassment for the exercise that they had often practiced in the past. It was the simplest form of communication. The manner in which Eric briefed even the densest mind amongst his followers.

Rodney! Eric called suddenly. You´re not hunting, are you?

Rodney paused. Or rather froze and looked about bewildered. A bestial looking block of a man in a skimpy black vest, his body covered with downy hair. He had a fat mindless wife whom he pumped with bovine regularity and she in turn produced offspring as frequently as a sow produced litters. To date he had ten children and another on the way.

We know what happens to the hunter that is spotted, don´t we? Eric lisped in his high-pitched voice.

The others circled at the cue and gathered around Rodney menacingly. They simulated striking him with daggers and weapons. Eric moved over to face the recalcitrant Rodney he raised a mock shotgun. Grinned coldly and poomph, Rodney was no more.

Lie down, you stupid bugger. You´re dead.

Rodney glared back at Eric a slight snarl curling his lip. He did not like being singled out.

Lie down! Eric stared hard at the man from beneath lowered brows, his empty eyes pinpoints of dangerous orange light in the shadow. Rodney weaved a moment indecisively, and then plonked himself down in a cross-legged heap on the floor. He sat hunched like a sullen statue. A small child in the playground who had lost the game. Satisfied, Eric backed away and circled a finger in the air.

The hunt continued around the hall until Eric was satisfied they had got the picture. Finally he signalled a halt, and then he gathered them to a tactical blackboard set against one wall amongst polished wooden wall bars. He began to draw with chalk on the board. A simple rendition of the figure of a man. A man in a suit and carrying an attaché case. Stick figures gathered around the man, they circled him, closing in.

There he is boys, said Eric, turning to his gathered crew. That is the one. What do we do when we get this close? There was a collective grunt. A wave of stabbing hands. No, no, shouted Eric. None of that. We do this.... he raised both arms and enfolded an imaginary prey. They imitated his gesture. Take and hold. Then what? asked Eric.

Arms are opened, offered. Right, smiled Eric. Right. They brought their victim to him.

Eric delved in his folder and pulled out an A4 blown up colour portrait photograph. It was obviously taken from a passport photo and bore all the awkward blurring and static posing of such images. A glazed man looked out, fair-haired, open and narrow featured, a slight marring on the cheek barely visible in the bleaching of the harsh flashlight glare.

Here he is. This is our mark. Imprint it, dears. Put his face right inside here, Eric nubbed his naked skull with a probing forefinger. Look at him close. We want to feel his presence. You know, the more you look the closer he gets.

Eric set the image up to rest before them against the blackboard chalk tray, where it began to curl slowly at the corners in the heat of the strong overhead lights.

Chapter Three

Father Langley laid down the one small cheroot he promised himself a day, it was set out on the table beside him and next to it an amber glass of sherry. An abstemious man normally he allowed himself these few indulgences on a Saturday evening after confession with an hour or so of television permitted before more onerous parish duties were called upon. The ring of the doorbell brought a cynical curse rising to his lips.

As usual, the timing was perfect.

Mordecai Miller would get it.

At one time the church carried two priests to attend to a busy parish but as God moved further away from the modern needs of the congregation so the collected funds diminished as well. The much-publicised scandals involving errant clerics left the use of a female housekeeper as a thing of the past. Father Langley had found himself without sufficient cash to maintain the large church building or supply himself with any domestic aid within his presbytery. Until Mordecai came along, that is.

Mordecai Miller, when Father Langley first met him three years ago was a sullen homeless man. A large man with cropped dark hair cut straight across his forehead and a propensity for dark thoughts within to match. Father Langley then in a more saintly Christian mode had fed the man and offered him fresh clothing from his own wardrobe.

Mordecai had hovered over the following weeks. Ever-present at some corner of the church property. Slowly he had integrated himself. First as a cleaner, sweeping up the confetti after a wedding or working the bare muddy patch of presbytery garden.

Eventually in despair at the housework that called continually on Father Langley´s precious time he had offered Mordecai a more permanent situation. Bed and board in return for labour. Surprisingly the silent man had worked out quite well, showing an amazing ability to cook and no difficulties at all with the menial tasks of housekeeping. If Father Langley thanked God for anything it was the presence of this quiet factotum. Their relationship had developed into a comfortable friendship over the years, each maintaining his role with satisfaction.

The priest knew little of Mordecai´s origins or the dark cause of his marginalisation. He had tried at first to get Mordecai to open up but other than one rare admition that he had seen a great deal of military service there was nothing more that Mordecai would say. Eventually Father Langley had given up and allowed the man his privacy. He wondered sometimes at Mordecai´s state of mental health though, the man´s protracted moments of silence and his gloomy demeanour. And yet when he watched Mordecai at work in the garden, which now flourished with banks of glorious blooms, he saw a reverend gentility present in every soft touch the large hands mustered. It both humbled and amazed Father Langley.

There´s a man here, Tom, said Mordecai poking his head around the door of the living room. His accent held a hint of Irish brogue and his voice was as soft as his outlook was dark. Says you spoke earlier.

Ah, yes, Mordy Father Langley remembered the man in the confessional. Let him in, will you.

The man entered cautiously; looking about himself nervously with darting eyes although it was obvious they were actually taking little in. Father Langley registered the appearance of lost dismay and sought to make him welcome.

Please, he said. Come in. Sit. Would you care for some sherry?

The man smiled slowly. I didn´t know priest´s drank.

Father Langley shrugged. Oh well, you know. Water to wine, he joked, feeling the need to put the fellow at ease by showing he can undermine the more serious edicts of the church as well as the next man.

I won´t though, thank you. The man sat uncomfortably on the edge of an armchair, his attaché case held upright on his lap in front of him. It appeared to Father Langley as if the case was itself a necessary part of the man´s existence as he clung to it with such apparent fervour.

I´m Tom Langley, he said reaching out a hand. The man took the hand with practiced ease and shook it with just the right amount of pressure to indicate his position and status as a professional person.

Peter Ashley, the man offered in reply.

Father Langley sat again, drawing his armchair around to face Ashley. Do you mind? he asked, taking up his cheroot. Ashley shook his head and Father Langley lit the cigar and puffed contentedly for a moment. In that moment he studied the man before him, still dressed in the expensive grey suit and wearing shoes that are obviously hand made. There was a tension about his posture and Father Langley was conscious of the general air of fear the man emitted.

Now then, he said. Would you like to continue where we left off earlier or is there something else you would want to discuss?

Ashley fiddled with the handle of his attaché case. It was an executive black leather case, hard and rectangular with brass trim and a combination lock.

I have a favour to ask, said Ashley.

Father Langley raised questioning eyebrows.

I wonder if you could hold something for me. Hold it in safe keeping, as it were?

What is it?

Ashley raised the attaché case. It would not be for long, a few days at most.

Father Langley drew a thin line of smoke in the air with his cheroot. I´m not sure if that´s possible. I deal in lost souls and not lost luggage here. I would need to know the contents even if it were possible and going by our earlier conversation I think that is unlikely.

I assure you there is nothing amiss inside. Merely information of a technical nature, that is all. The thing is that I am responsible for them and I fear there is a problem with my company. I need to reassure myself that everything is alright there and would be happier if these things are in safe hands in the meantime.

May I ask what sort of problem you have with your company?

Ashley sighed loudly; realising he needed to expose more than he cared. Basically it is this. I work with a small organisation that produces technical data advising on sustainable resources. We deal with large international organisations and many foreign governments. Once this data is collected we present our findings to the various clients and they act accordingly. My research in this case took me to another European country, which for the moment must remain nameless, on my return with the source findings, he tapped the attaché case meaningfully. I find, for one reason or another, I am unable to contact my superiors. Some have left the company, two of them having had fatal accidents and another just disappearing without trace.

Father Langley frowned, A disturbing occurrence.

And one that I consider ominous. You see the country in question is applying for a rather large grant from both the World Bank and European Community to initiate the resources in question. There is a great deal of money involved. It may well be that something in my findings has put this grant in jeopardy. You grasp what I am getting at?

That perhaps some unscrupulous elements within your clients government would prefer that this information never reached the public domain, Father Langley ventured.

Ashley nodded. Exactly.

Father Langley puffed into the cloud of tobacco smoke already hovering before him. But why me, surely a bank is a safer bet than a poor priest in a parish church?

Ashley chewed his lip, his eyes going vacant for a moment. You are a catholic priest and this concerns a largely catholic country. I just felt that you might feel some more responsibility towards this than an indifferent banker.

Father Langley looked doubtful. Rather a thin reason, wouldn´t you say?

Ashley sagged visibly; he looked down at his polished shoes. Shuffled them one against the other, clicking the toes together.

I think I am being followed, he confessed quietly.

Over the years Father Langley had experienced many mental cases knocking on his door. Those distressed souls ravaged by ancient psychological demons that are now subdued by the applied bandage of modern medical names and he began to think that this man Ashley is perhaps one such, a pathological liar with paranoid tendencies.

Look, Mr Ashley, he said. I think all this is rather outside my domain. I´m sorry but if it were a matter of spiritual aid then I would be glad to oblige but this is all a situation rather more complicated than I care to involve myself in. I think you had better look elsewhere for help. If you are fearful of some sort of physical harm coming your way, then perhaps the police are a wiser bet.

Ashley was quickly on his feet at the negative outcome. I´m sorry, he said. I just hoped you might help, perhaps it was too presumptuous of me. There was no reprimand in his voice only a tone of decisive appraisal. The businessman was speaking now; it was a deal undone, better to just move on.

Father Langley rose to his feet and spread his hands apologetically. I pray you will resolve everything safely and to your satisfaction.

When he had gone, Father Langley sat again, the stub of his cheroot the remains of an unsatisfactory pleasure now. He crushed the thing out in the ashtray and swallowed his sherry in one mouthful. Folding his hands before him he sat in silence and pondered on the lost creatures that wander the world and continue to call unsuccessfully at his door. His sense of ineptness enfolded him in a depressing blanket that drained all the energy from him.

Chapter Four

The room was darkened.

Not that she could see anything anyway as there was a cloth fastened tightly around her eyes. They had left her alone now. Bound tightly to the chair, she listened, her ears sharpened by blindness. There was a sense of space. A large house. A hooting owl in the distance implied that they were in the countryside and it was night.

She was shivering with fear and confusion. Her involuntary movements rustled a large plastic sheet placed beneath the chair and the sound only increased her terror.

How long had it been? The sedation had kept her going in and out, she could not remember. Although now for the first time her head felt clear. It ached but at least she could rationalise. Must have been here a while though, at least that is what her stomach was telling her. She was extremely hungry.

Caroline Warren was a diminutive twenty-eight years old. An attractive career conscious brunette, a university graduate with honours and a string of technical qualifications. Small in stature but filled with an excess of energy she was a rising star in the company. The new executive car and apartment had filled Caroline with a liberating sense of self worth. She was riding on a cresting wave of success.... then this!

A short walk. Just crossing the road to her apartment building after parking the car. She had been tired; she remembered that, it had been a long day. Streetlamps bathed the street in that awful sickly yellow colour and cast dark shadows under the lime trees