“Last rites,” he said, gently patting her on the shoulder, as he kept moving.
The Pirates House was on Broad Street with a passage in the back that led directly onto the edge of the Savannah River.
Reverend Michael pushed inside the restaurant through the throngs of people till he reached the main room and the handwritten pages of Treasure Island that were encased on the wall. He shone the black light on the case and saw the sign of the Ionic cross.
“No,” he gasped and felt the blood drain from his face.
There were too many people standing around drinking, right in the entrance to the passageway. He pushed out the front door again and shoved people aside trying to get to the river’s edge.
“Hey, old man, what the hell?” said a young man dressed in green running shorts and a t-shirt, still wearing his number from the Shamrock Shuffle that was ending over on River Street.
Reverend Michael quickly scanned the crowd for the Watcher but there were too many people. He scrambled to the back of the restaurant and found the older entrance to the tunnel blocked by empty boxes. He pushed them over and pried the door open as a splinter dug deep into the skin of his hand.
The narrow opening was barely wide enough and he squeezed through and into the wider tunnel.
The hard soles of his shoes sank into the soft sand that covered the floor of the tunnel as he raced the last few blocks toward the river. As he grew closer he heard a commotion and a woman suddenly cry out.
He reached the end of the tunnel and looked out at the two men who had her pinned against the sixteen-foot sailboat. She had almost made it. Reverend Michael let the knife drop down again as he started to cross the narrow road behind Magnolia Spa to make a run at them. Perhaps he could distract them long enough for the Keeper to slide into the river. The swift moving current would quickly carry her away and other boats were awaiting her at different points along the river. He was certain this would be the last act of his vow.
“Never again,” hissed Carol Schaeffer before there was a crunch and her neck was snapped. Reverend Michael doubled over as he pulled back into the shadows and pressed his body against the interior of the tunnel. He fought the bile rising in his throat as tears came down his cheeks.
“My God,” he cried out, “We have failed,” he said quietly, tasting the tears on his lips.
“Oh, but failure is really a personal inventory, don’t you think?”
“George Clemente,” Reverend Michael hissed, as he pressed his back harder against the wall to keep from falling over. “They let you loose on the world again.” He felt his throat tighten as he tried to get out the words.
The Watcher sneered. He was holding the Reverend’s old copy of the 1928 Book of Common Prayer.
“How’s the hand?” asked the Watcher. He was tapping the Reverend’s prayer book gently against his chest.
“None the worse. Management must really be trembling to unleash a jackal like you in their midst.”
“More of a promotion, really. World events have changed and the times call for people like me with a unique ability to focus.”
“There are more of you,” said the priest, trying to cover the feeling of panic creeping up his spine.
“Oh yes, spread across the world.”
“Much like the plague.”
The Watcher stepped closer and Reverend Michael felt himself involuntarily flinch as the Watcher let out a laugh that resembled a low grumble.
“I prefer to have closure in everything, don’t you? No matter how long it takes.”
“For once we agree,” said Reverend Michael and lunged at the Watcher, grabbing him around the throat, digging his thumbs deep into the Watcher’s windpipe. He could feel the delicate muscles begin to shred. The Watcher grabbed his hands and squeezed as hard as he could till the pain became almost unbearable for the minister and he let go, just a little.
The Watcher boxed his ears and pulled away, as he shoved the priest to the ground. Reverend Michael felt his ribs crack as the tip of the Watcher’s boot made contact, pushing into his side, over and over again. He curled up in a ball and prayed for God’s mercy until he could see his chance.
His arm darted out and caught the Watcher’s foot in mid-air pulling him off balance. Reverend Michael kept lifting the foot as Clemente fell backward. His back landed hard against the old Georgia clay bricks, the wind knocked out of him.
Reverend Michael got to his feet as quickly as he could. Easy now, deep breaths. The last thing he needed was to throw up or pass out. The knife slid forward till the handle was securely in his hand. He dropped to his knees next to the Watcher and dug in, but only the tip was able to puncture the skin. The Watcher grabbed his wrist just in time and was quickly regaining his strength.