Father O’Reilly sat with a corpse in a stall in a bathroom that echoed of silence and smelled of industrial cleaner rethinking his relationship with Jack. Not the association itself but taking such a servile role. Why couldn’t the cop dispose of his own bodies?
The priest waited impatiently. Midnight was late for him, for most museums as well. This was a special case, an extreme situation. The poetic justice of the refuse disposal soothed him. The fact that unlike most museums this one employed no guards set him at ease as well.
When the museum closed he waited an extra half-hour for the employees to clear out. He gripped the corpse under the armpits and dragged it from the bathroom. A beatific smile crossed his face as he looked around. The wing of the wax museum dedicated to religious figures surrounded him. It made his soul sing, one of the reasons he chose that particular rest room. Another being that it was the least visited section.
The museum radiated out from the dark chambers. In the center that house of horrors held the greatest attraction. Other exhibits radiated out like the spokes of wheel. Each section connected to an appropriate portion of murder’s row. The third reason his hiding place was appropriate. Father O’Reilly dragged the body into the inky shadows.
Like many Catholics before him, those from a different time, O’Reilly dragged a heretic’s limp body into Torquemada’s chamber. He let the body slump on the floor and shuddered. This point in the history of his faith sat like original sin on the priest’s conscience and soul. Still, it served his purposes well enough. Oh, he thought, how many men, well intentioned or not, damned themselves with such thoughts?
He shuddered violently and hardened his heart. His eyes cast about for the piece he needed. The dead, glassy eyes of the exhibit leered back at him. He imagined himself the main course at a cannibal super hosted by the Manson family with those terrible eyes bearing down on him, demanding a confession. Amongst these monsters he found what he needed.
Retrieving the body once more the priest dragged it to the iron maiden. He positions the corpse so one of the spikes rested its tip against the bullet wound in the body. Then Father O’Reilly slammed the device closed. He uttered a prayer of thanks for attention to detail, that only the figures were made of wax, and escaped this secular shrine to the past.
Jack should be happy and they could move forward with stopping this prophecy. He stopped at the first door, almost perishing of a heart attack. He saw the heads of the inquisitors, had they turned? Were they watching him? He could swear he saw wings on Torquemada himself. Then words came to him on the wind, whispering. He heard the other tortures welcoming the corpse home, as one of their own. Father O’Reilly screamed and fled hastily; unaware of the signs he did not know he had just witnessed the third.
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