“Man, you sure know how to buzz up interest,” Andy said. “Really looking forward to this department taking off.”
He patted my desk and ambled away. While it was a great thing to know I was making waves doing the job I was paid for, it was still a cold comfort. Someone had just sent me a bloody organ. That was something stalkers or crazy people did.
My scoop sense was telling me this: the only thing to do now was find Eddie. Eddie would know what was going on. Maybe.
It was the only hope I had left.
* * *
The Cathedral stood at the center of Night Market, a byzantine thing tall as a castle, with parapets and gargoyles adorning abutted outcroppings. The belfry jutted up into the sky, marking a harsh interrupt with the rest of the skyline, and in contrast with the main worship room’s dome. A small sign nearby, in the parking lot, called it Hartsome Cathedral of St. Hubertus. A few other cars were sitting out front, most in sub-standard condition.
Stealth was my only real option here, if I was after infiltration alone. But I couldn’t help it. I had some genuine interest in the building. The architecture alone was worth the trip out here. I snapped a few pictures of the overhangs, the domed roof, the gilded windows, and then put my camera up in my bag.
The front doors opened with a screeching of ancient hinges, and I found myself wrapped in a smallish enclosed lobby. Red velvet and dark stone walls greeted me on every side—a crucifix as tall as a man hung from an overhead fixture, the figure of the tormented Messiah hanging there in all of his pain and beauty. I snapped more pictures even now and jumped when a hand grabbed my shoulder.
“Welcome,” a man’s accented voice said. “I take it you are a tourist?”
I turned. The man before me was an older man, clad in what I assumed were priest’s vestments. There was an overwhelming energy of classical charm to him. He looked like the kind of fellow that would show off his taxidermy collection while puffing on a pipe and calling you ‘old boy’ or ‘old gal.’ He had iron-gray hair in a hard part, tanned skin, an aquiline nose, and piercing hazel eyes that seemed to stare straight through me.
I gulped and inhaled. Maybe it was the fire that Eddie had lit inside me, but I found myself powerfully attracted to this man for some reason. He just felt comfortable. Familiar. And wasn’t that a trip?
Crushing on a priest now, I thought. Get a grip, girl.
“Ah, hello,” I said. “Not a tourist. Just a—umm.” If I revealed why I was really here… “Look, I’m a journalist,” I said eventually. “I’m investigating local Chicago landmarks, and I wanted to take a few pictures of this place, maybe put a bug in your ear about some history on this place.”
“Ah,” the man said. “A pleasure, madam. And what was your name again?”
“Ah. Tamara.” Fuck. She’s gonna hate me if she hears about this…
He quirked an eyebrow at me, then smiled.
“Ah. You may call me Brother Aleister. Hartshome Cathedral is not what you would refer to as a traditionally Catholic institution, but I have had more than my fair share of religious education throughout the years, and I serve as the… ah, how to put it… High Priest, perhaps, or perhaps spiritual advisor for my flock.”
“I see,” I said. “Do you guys give tours?”
He smiled broadly. He seemed devoid of all malice, and yet… I could not help but think of steel doors sliding closed, padlocks smoothly oiled, locked, and chained…
“Of course. Come, we’ll talk as we walk. Are you a Catholic, Tamara?”
“Oh, uh. No. My family was Southern Baptist. Dad was a Pastor. I am a… seeker. I think.”
“You look for the truth, despite the institution?”
“That sounds better than I would put it, but yes.”
“All beings have a yearning for faith, I think,” he said. “All beings need hope. My hope is that opening the doors to Hartshome again, after so long, will give back to the community. Tell me, Tamara, are you at all familiar with Saint Hubertus?”
“Not at all.”
We were passing through the lobby again. Brother Aleister looked up at the crucifix on the ceiling, eyes trained, and deliberately crossed himself as he slowly passed by. His fists unfurled as he crossed the gap, and he breathed in deeply, wiping off his forehead as we continued.
“Hubertus was called the Apostle of the Ardennes. He was a very interesting man, born into nobility, and blessed from birth with good luck and happy tidings. That is, of course, until the darkness crept into his life. His wife and child died. Stricken with grief and rage, Hubertus took to the forests in the pursuit of satisfying his thirst for revenge on the wildlife there. Fortunately for him, Hubertus found himself face to face with a Hart.”
“Like a bleeding heart?” I thought about my desk this morning…
“No, like a deer. A stag, to be specific, and when the stag turned and faced him, there was said to be a crucifix Hubertus witnessed, hanging in the center of its antlers. All bathed in white light this Hart was, glowing as if lit from some divine radiance. And then the Stag opened its mouth and proclaimed the innocence of it and its brethren, and in the voice of the Lord, Hubertus was told to cease his violence on the innocent, for fear of eternal damnation. Shaken by this revelation, Hubertus took to a nearby Abbey, where he engaged in religious training, and thereafter developed a system of ethical hunting. Only the sick or the old or those who would benefit by being free from their pain.”
“And why pick that Saint for a Cathedral?”
