Cain (13 page)

Strolling about the kitchen, he took his time to make a martini, searching for something else to do, leaving them alone.

***

"That's fascinating," Maggie said, grateful for a respite. "You know, I never figured you to be so scholarly, Sol. I mean, I knew you were smart. That was obvious. I just thought of you more as a soldier."

Soloman shrugged. "Well, you know, I'm a soldier. And I think." He laughed. "I guess I'm just a grunt who likes to read."

"Oh, you're more than that."

Her eyes gleamed with amusement as he suddenly shifted, uncomfortable. "You're sort of like the classical warrior-philosopher, you know? Like Lancelot, you’ve got this highly developed code of honor, but you can be vicious when you have to be. And deep down you're really a sensitive person. Sort of like you live in the best of both worlds."

"Or the worst."

She regarded him in silence. "Do you get burned out?"

He smiled. "Sometimes."

"Do you trust anyone?"

Soloman
didn't answer; she didn't blink.

"Yeah," he said finally. "There's been a few I trusted
– a few that I trusted a lot." His jaw tightened, control solidifying in seconds. "But trust can be pretty dangerous, too."

She knew, but asked, "Why's that?"

He smiled half-sad, half-bitter. "Everybody's got the story. The clock strikes and nothing happens. The bell tolls and you're the one to answer." His pause was long. "Trust is something we have to do, to live."

Something in the way he stated the words, so plain and simple, caused
her an intuitive impulse of pain. Her green eyes narrowed and she thought of asking him about the moment on the Huey; it was in her mouth and face, borne from the center of her body, but she held back.

No, she knew it would be too early.

She bit her lip, silent.

Soloman
was gazing patiently at a corner of the kitchen as Ben came around it five seconds later, a king-sized martini in his hand. His face was void of pleasant thought as he sat down in a recliner, sipping. After a time he shook his head, as if amazed.

"The executive branch is scrambling big-time to put a halfway credible spin on the deaths of eight federal agents," he growled. "Not an easy thing, mind you, even for those liars. And the President, in turn, is putting serious heat on the Joint Chiefs before someone leaks that we were stupid enough to create a freakin' Frankenstein or Dracula or whatever the hell this thing is." He looked at
Soloman. "They want an ending, buddy. And they want it now."

Soloman
's aspect hardened almost imperceptibly at first but became more and more visible with a gathering will. He pondered it a long time and finally shook his head, rising to walk to the darkness of a leaded window.

The three-inch
thick glass mercifully silenced the roar of an oncoming north wind that bent shadowed woods. In the distance, under the dome of a dark moon, the towering cliff edges of the national forest              were littered with wind-torn trees.

When they'd arrived at the safe
-house, Soloman had been vaguely surprised at the crisp cleanness of the air. Compared to the dead-air heat of Los Angeles that seemed to hover even in winter, his place was like paradise, a radical contrast in so short a distance. Nor, at this elevation, was the dust chalky as it was in the city. It still lifted at footfalls but was also heavier, thicker, and more solid. It was a good place to be at peace.

Enough. He shook his head.

Concentrate on what you have to do ...

With a frown he turned his mind to tactics.

"All we need," he said, "is a break. We need to be able to anticipate where Cain is going so we can set up non-collateral countermeasures for free fire. Because we'll never beat him in a standup fight. He's too fast and too strong." He turned to Ben. "Are the FBI guys checking all murders in the greater Los Angeles area for anything that resembles Cain's methods?"

Ben:
"Yeah. They're on it.
Been
on it."

"Nothing?"

"Well, Sol, there's a ton of casualties. A bunch of dead bodies with the blood drained but no clues of where he's going."

"They know to contact us, right?"

"Yeah. They're gonna get with us on the imaging system as soon as they have something. And they will. They're pissed. They want this guy as bad as we do."

"I figure."
Soloman turned away again. "Maggie, how long before Cain recovers from what I did to him?"

Her eyes narrowed. "You haven't told me how badly you injured him, Sol. First you need to tell me what you did. Where'd you hit him?"

Soloman again recalled the horrific face-to-face standoff. "I hit him point-blank in the chest with twelve rounds of double-ought buck. It staggered him, did a lot of damage. He tried to come at me but the rounds held him back. Then I put thirteen .45-caliber rounds into his face and chest and the last shot sent him off the ledge and into the current."

She was analytical. "Then you did a lot of superficial damage. The serratus magnus and intercostals, and probably even the axillary thoracics, were severed by the shotgun. But the coracoid process, the internal fascia located behind the chest muscles in the thorax, is fully sheathed in a curved niobium-titanium plate. It's virtually impenetrable, so it would have protected every organ between the clavicle and eighth rib. And unless your facial shots penetrated an occipital, the titanium skull
-plates would have defeated the pistol. I think it's safe to say that he's pretty badly hurt, but he'll heal back fast."

"Why is that?"

"Because all the injuries are to large, fast-healing muscle groups," she answered. "I told you before, Sol, Cain can survive almost any kind of conventional small-arms fire. But ..." She paused as if to allow Soloman a small measure of victory. "He's still going to have a lot of tissue damage – a lot of muscle damage, and he's going to need more human DNA so that HyMar can heal his wounds without sending the unstable DNA into a backflow that will destroy his system. He'll have to kill about a dozen people to acquire sufficient ribosomes for molecular synthesis and white-cell replacement."

She stared, blinked sadly.

"The killing in this is just starting, Sol."

***

Marcelle didn't move as he stared at the hideous pictures of the scene in Father Lanester's chamber. The color photographs were so graphic that they seemed surreal, easily surpassing horror to become almost sterile.

Enough blood, Marcelle thought, and blood becomes meaningless.

He didn't even try to appreciate the immense strength required to literally tear the priest limb from limb and then drive his bones with such vicious force into stone walls. He only knew that whatever had done this was strong beyond belief and far beyond the reach of man.

And yet he didn't want to become distracted by the fear of it, so he concentrated on the words that had been written in blood across the four walls of the room, words that held ancient and fully frightening meanings that were all but lost to time.

Because he was almost as much a man of psychology as of the Church, he was still somewhat reluctant to believe without reservation that this was the work of demonic possession. And the accumulated fear and horror interred within his soul from past encounters made him even more reluctant to accept the horror of another exorcism.

But then there was the desert...

He knew that shadowed hour held a fear he had evaded for long years, drowning the memory in academic discipline and intellectual coldness.

And even now he could not fully contemplate what might have occurred
when he broke the seal on that cursed tomb. But he could never lose the suspicion.

Skeletal eyes burning in darkness . . .

Golem
. . .

Marcelle shut his eyes, jaw tightening.

I WILL BE FREE
!

He released a tired sigh and concentrated, focusing again on the situation. From hard Jesuit training he knew that three of the five criteria
used to define demonic possession were fulfilled.

There was superhuman strength, an inexplicable command of ancient
languages, and knowledge of things that should not have been known—primarily the location and existence of the Secret Archives. Other qualifying signs included telekinesis and the ability to communicate with the dead. Those had not yet been demonstrated, but enough was present, for certain, to warrant an exorcism. Still, though, there was something that disturbed him about the writing – something he couldn't place.

As he bent over the photographs he remembered the words of his mentor, Anton Aveling, the man who had taught him the reality of spiritual warfare: "When a person is convinced that he is possessed by the devil," Aveling had said so often, "then you can be sure that there is no devil. The devil, when he is there, does everything possible to mask his presence."

Marcelle knew it all at once.

There was too much to understand; yes, far, far too much. The words too easily revealed themselves, leaving nothing hidden. It was as if the
creature was challenging him and Marcelle knew from experience that a demonic force would avoid a confrontation with an exorcist at any cost.

An exorcism was a conflict that neither antagonist sought because by nature it was a grueling ordeal, testing the endurance of the possessed, the exorcist, and even the demon itself.

No, an exorcism was not something the devil invited, as it seemed to be doing now, so this was something different. With a frown Marcelle pondered it, becoming more and more certain that this was no ordinary act of possession. No, this was something far different, something ...

More sinister.

Together the words scrawled in blood upon the walls had different shades of the same meaning. But Marcelle realized that all of them were meant to signify a single image, an image heated and deepened level by level to plummet into a black and terrible abyss.

Moving soundlessly from the darkness, Father Barth entered the shadowed room. And behind him, emerging from the portal, framed by the light of the fireplace, Marcelle saw another figure dressed in imperial white and priestly purple with an ecclesiastical cloak descending from his shoulders. Immediately Marcelle recognized the tall balding figure and rose to walk quickly forward, falling to one knee to kiss the ring of the Jesuit Superior General Father Anton Aveling.

"Arise, old friend," said the eighty-year-old Aveling with a slight bow. "I bring encouragement from Rome."

Marcelle nodded gravely as he rose, stepping back so that the superior priest could seat himself in an opulent red leather chair positioned in front of Father Barth.

Barth himself sat back solemnly behind the desk, hands in view. And last, as protocol demanded, Marcelle sat opposite Aveling to feel the powerful impact of the old man's steady gray eyes.

"As I said," Aveling continued in a sligh
tly fatigued voice, "I bring encouragement from the Dome of Michelangelo, Marcelle. Words of greeting from our brother, the Archbishop of Rome."

Marcelle nodded at once, pausing. "I am humbled, Father, that the Archbishop would consider me worthy of a personal message, especially one delivered by so noble an emissary."

There was no pause as the older priest spoke with a smile of familiarity and friendship. "There is much appreciation, my son, for your courage in taking on this investigation. I know that there are few more qualified to deal with the terrible task which may be before us."

Marcelle was silent.

"Have you something to say, Marcelle?" the old man asked gently, with a becoming smile. "You have never hesitated to deliver your august mind to my understanding. Just as you have never been short for courage. Or even sheer determination."

Marcelle did not look up as he spoke. "How can I be of assistance to you, Superior General? It has always been my sacred mission to serve, as you know from my actions, and not my words."

For a time, the aged priest stared. "We have entered an evil time, Marcelle," he said finally. "A time when those of us who dare must standalone on this battlefield. You, a man who battled to exorcise the demonRaphael from an innocent woman, a revered member of
Eradicare In Carne
, know that we have no surety that the Church will outlive us. We have no certainty, even, that those who have held up our arms for four hundred years will agree with what we must do. Yet, in the end, we have no choice. For this is the hour of darkness when we must enter the dangerous arena of what is ultimately good and ultimately evil. It is not a task fit for man, but for God. But it is a burden man must bear if we are to eradicate this evil from the world. It is a battle which must be fought in secret, and yet it must be fought, and with no one but our brotherhood to mark our graves should we fall in the fight. Our toil must be in secret, and our blood shed in darkness with only God as our reward. But from this battle, as you know from the past, there can be no withdrawal. The present, if we are to survive at all, must mirror the oncoming final conflict between God and Satan."