Thread: Unholy Conspiracy (Quix and Xana)

Welcome, Child. Father Damien Thorne, having heard the unfamiliar female voice, departed his office to join Father Donahue, and greeted the new arrival from the entrance-way of the room his compatriot led her to. The girl immediately glanced up, and her eyes widened when she noted the woolen cassock he wore, unlike the civilian clothing Thorne directed his inferiors to attire themselves in. Both to remind them of their place, and the residents of his status as the man of God in the institution. Hello. The response was barely audible. What's your name? Jana. Still a whisper. The man approached, and the young woman flinched when his hand met her shoulder and squeezed. Welcome, Jana. Tell me, how did you find us Father O'Brien sent me. I know of Father O'Brien. A good man. Is anyone else aware you came to us to seek help? No. The girl's voice trembled. He'd kill me if he found me, I ran away. Thorne could barely contain his smile. Don't worry, this facility is a secret, as is the identity of our guests. No-one will know you're here. And that was true. The three-story safe-house, built on the back of community donations, and a small portion of the billions of dollars held in trust by the Catholic Church, was located in a generic Boston suburb, not listed in any directories, and completely anonymous to the general public. It contained twenty-four rooms, each furnished with a double-bed, two side tables, a lamp perched on top of one, and a King-James bible on the other, with a solid wooden crucifix and painting of the Last supper hung on opposing walls. Every girl was assigned her own quarters, ostensibly for privacy and comfort, but in reality, to allow uninterrupted visitations for those shepherds who sought out the comfort of their flock. Damien's hand drifted down to rub her back, and though his action was outwardly comforting, a gleam of darker intentions was evident in his eyes when they met his colleagues. Why don't we let her settle in. The second Priest nodded in agreement, and accompanied his superior to the entrance, before Thorne stopped to peer back at Jana. If you require assistance, my office is down the Hall to the left, or you can ask any of the staff. In the morning, after prayer, I'll walk you through the rules and expectations of your stay at this Facility. I assume you are Devout? Yes, Father. Good. The isolation of the girl immediately after entering was deliberate, as was the fact that Thorne had removed her handbag, presumably containing the girl's identification and cell-phone, and held it in his hand. Her possessions would be locked in his office safe, and returned at Damien's discretion. Very pretty when she's cleaned up, and young. I know just the man who'll enjoy her. He clapped Donahue on the shoulder once he'd shut the door behind them. Of course, I'll need to test the girl's devotion before I offer her for sale. Now, I have some paperwork to finish up, whilst you resume your duties. The amused tone left no doubt that he hadn't missed Aisha entering Donahue's office, or what those duties entailed. However, the man had finished with Aisha for the time being, though it was fun to taunt her a touch when he returned, by asking where they'd left off. As if she'd forgotten. He stared for few seconds, with a questioning brow raised, then when she refused to meet his eyes, slipped a hand into the pocket of his trousers, and withdrew a sachet filled with white powder. As the good book says, praise the Lord, and the Lord will provide. The sachet flew from his fingers and landed on the floor at her feet, simultaneously as Donahue stepped around her. Don't forget to kneel for him tonight, and do not speak of my generosity to anyone, otherwise he will surely display his wrath. Falling down into the seat behind his desk, the portly priest mocked the unfortunate woman, and his own vows. As will Father Thorne. Give thanks that we took you in, rather than left you out on the streets to rot. ------------------------------------------------------------------------- Jeffrey O'Donnelll had built his reputation on hard work and determination. At first glance, he didn't appear to be a man to be reckoned with 6 foot, two tall, thin and bespectacled, with an open, friendly face, and mussed brown hair, with a tinge of red, due to his Irish Heritage, but the investigative reporter was one of the most feared men in the city. In the past two years, he'd exposed corruption and racism in the police force, resulting in felony charges for eight of Boston's finest, and brought down the mayor. Currently working on a story involving kick-backs from private developers to Massachusetts state politicians in exchange for the awarding of tenders, he'd arrived at the Boston Herald offices at 8am, and hadn't moved from his desk for the entire day. Except for the purchase of more coffee, and subsequent trips to the bathroom. It was on his return from one of the latter that O'Donnell noted the red voice-mail light blinking on his phone. He pressed the button to listen, and scratched the details into his notebook before the call abruptly ended. Subsequently slumping back into his chair, the man's expression displayed no emotion or particular interest. Messages such as that were a dime-a-dozen, and generally resulted in nothing but a waste of his time, however, he'd undoubtedly attend the ten o'clock appointment. There was always the remote possibility of striking gold.