"Zombies," Molly whispered. "Like in that movie."
Since setting foot in urban America, Molly had developed a love for the cinema, often taking in an afternoon matinee with Dodge in tow. One of the first films they had seen was "White Zombie" with Bela Lugosi.
Hurricane nodded. "That’s exactly it. The lights are on, but no one’s home."
Hobbs considered this. "If they are zombies, then someone will be guiding their hand, a houngan or momba giving them orders."
Hurley didn’t ask his old friend for an explanation of the strange terms. "What’s our plan? How do we get past these guys? They’ll be watching the exits and I don’t think we can all crowd into my car."
"I didn’t drive," confessed Hobbs.
"What about the truck?" Molly exclaimed. "It's the last place they'd expect us to go."
Hobbs threw a questioning glance at Hurley who gave a nod. "They tried to shanghai us onto a truck down on the loading dock. I doubt they left anyone to guard it and even if they did—" He held up one of his enormous pistols.
"And I can drive," piped Molly.
"Like there was ever any question," the priest murmured. "Lead on."
No longer encumbered by the duplicitous Professor Pendleton, the trio moved quickly and stealthily back into the maze of hallways, retracing their steps. Eschewing the flashlight, the two former soldiers used their remarkable night vision and hearing to avoid contact with the roaming mob. The only exception came when they encountered a lone sentry left behind to guard the stairway descending to the storage area, but Hurricane stealthily crept up on the man, rendering him unconscious before he could sound the alarm.
The truck was exactly where they remembered it, as was the body of the guard Hurley had been forced to shoot. Hobbs seemed not to notice, sparing his old friend any questions or recriminations and instead carried his still unmoving captive into the cargo area of the vehicle where he at last laid her down. "I'll stay with her. You two drive."
"Where should we…" Hurricane's inquiry died with a strangled noise as he got his first good look at the burglar. "That's—"
"Yes, it is. There's a lot more going on here than we know. Whoever is behind this knows all about us; knows our habits and haunts and all the other intimate details of our lives. We need to go somewhere they won't think to look." Hobbs steepled his fingers under his chin and closed his eyes meditatively. "There are some secret rooms under the Hibernian Hall at Old Saint Pat's."
"Good enough. We can hole up there until we make contact with Dodge." Hurley steered Molly toward the steps leading down to the street level. It took her only a few minutes to familiarize herself with the truck's controls, after which she turned the engine over and roared off into the night, leaving the museum and all of its madness behind.
Molly had never been to Saint Patrick's Old Cathedral, the seat of the New York archdiocese from 1815 to 1879, but her father gave them all a quick thumbnail sketch of its rather colorful history as they cleared the cobwebs from an old forgotten monk's cell under an adjoining meeting hall.
Situated in Little Italy on the edge of the Bowery, Saint Pat's as the locals called it, was New York's first cathedral and burial ground for several of the city’s noteworthy Catholics. One of the buildings in the compound had served as a hospital during the Revolutionary War and another — the Hibernian Hall under which their current refuge was located — had served as a base of operations for the Ancient Order of Hibernians, a group of laymen who had taken up arms in defense of the cathedral during anti-Papist riots in 1835. Although its glory had been somewhat overshadowed by the construction of the new cathedral bearing the same name, Old Saint Pat’s remained a historic treasure for the city. For the tired trio, plus one prisoner, that covertly entered the property under cover of storm and darkness however, it was not the splendor of the cathedral building that drew them in, but rather its dark forgotten recesses.
The blonde burglar, who had stirred at some point during their cross-town journey, now sat bound and gagged in a chair in a corner of the room. Molly had immediately observed that beneath the stringy mop of flaxen hair and mask of bruises, the woman was exceptionally beautiful and she instantly felt defensive. Curiously, the woman’s sapphire eyes were devoid of any anger toward her captives.
"So who is she?" Molly asked after Hobbs concluded his historical narrative.
The priest stared at the bound woman as if considering how best to answer, but the Hurley chimed in. "That is the infamous ‘Fallen Angel’ cat burglar, also known as Jocasta Palmer."
Hobbs sighed. "Well, they’ve never proved that, but after tonight I’ve little doubt." He quickly outlined the events that had led to his arrival at the museum.
"Okay, so she’s a professional thief, but how is that you two seem to know her so well?" Molly’s tone was unusually confrontational and even she wasn’t quite sure why.
Hurricane chuckled mirthlessly. "Funny thing. It’s been almost fifteen years, but I still remember our last tussle with Miss Palmer like it was yesterday. It left a rather bad taste in my mouth."
It was Hobbs turn to laugh, a crack in his usually dour façade. "Yes, the taste of fish eggs."
"We ran afoul of one of her schemes in Paris. She was trying to snatch a Faberge egg from an exiled Russian nobleman. One thing led to another and we wound up buried in caviar."
Molly gave the blonde woman another long hard look and did some quick arithmetic. "Fifteen years, you said? She must have been a kid at the time. Or does she bathe in the blood of newborns to maintain her youthful appearance?"
Hurley’s laughter was more heartfelt this time. "I think you’ve hit on her secret, girl."
"It doesn’t look as though she remembers it quite as well as you do."
"I wondered about that," Hobbs confessed. "And I think you’ve hit on it, Mol. She’s under the same influence as those poor souls at the museum."
"She’s a zombie?"
"Well, not in the traditional sense, but I think that she and all the others are definitely not in control of their actions. Which begs the question- Who is in control?"
"An operation this sophisticated… Do you think there’s a foreign power behind it all?"
"When you consider the layers of secrecy we’ve built up around our discovery, I’d say it would almost have to be the work of an enemy nation. Still, to have so completely taken control of so many people suggests something…uncanny." Hobbs continued to stare at Jocasta, regarding her as one might an enigmatic sculpture. "I’ll wager she can tell us, if I can find a way to break through."
"We’ll leave you to it then." Hurley abruptly stood. "Come along, Molly girl."
"What?" The priest’s fiery-haired daughter stood also, but she placed her hands on her hips in a defiant posture. "I’m not moving until someone tells me what’s going on."
"Molly, it’s not something I can explain."
"Trust me," Hurricane added, gently offering his hand. "You don’t want to be in here when he does his little trick. It’s not something I care to ever see again."
Molly held her ground a moment longer, but the big man’s admission reached through her bravado. Anything that could rattle Hurley’s cage was something to be avoided at all costs by mere ordinary mortals. "Well, okay. But you better tell me all about it."
Hobbs watched as they exited the cramped room, idly wondering what sort of outrageous tale his old friend would foist on the girl and then took a seat to gather his thoughts. Hurley’s statement had been an outright falsehood; he had never witnessed what Hobbs was about to do. No one had. It was a process that required complete isolation; the presence of another individual in close proximity would have completely thwarted his efforts. That being said, there was very little about the ritual that could be considered theatric — at least outwardly. What happened on the battlefield of the unconscious mind was another story entirely.