Cain (7 page)

General Thompson recounted the latest developments. "We've got a
media frenzy, Ben," he said with an air of gloom. "I know you've been busy, but the reports have been faxed to you on the JCIIS. Have your Com officers briefed you this morning?"

Ben knew it was a violation of procedure, even a serious violation of
procedure during a crisis not to make morning briefings. But he'd been occupied, so he'd delayed it by a half hour. "Not at this time, sir," he replied. "Can you tell me?"

"Cain crossed the Oscura Mountains south of Albuquerque yesterday," Thompson said, revealing no disappointment at Ben's lack of procedure; he obviously understood that complications arose in the field.

"He killed at least seven residents of the Chipeqo Sioux Reservation and the place is in an uproar. They're claiming that 'white men' are covertly invading reservation land, and the local guard is on full alert because we don't want another Wounded Knee." He shook his head, angry. "It's just another very serious complication caused by this ... this
thing.
And it's starting to add up."

"I understand, sir." Ben knew the conversation had just moved out of
Archette s advisory level and into a military mode. Clearly, Thompson was contemplating action and so Ben pressed further. "Are we still moving with an unlimited budget and full recertification?"

"I'm not certain of that," Thompson replied with a hard stare. The
question seemed to disturb him. "But, to tell you the truth, Ben, I don't think we can do it without full recertification for authority and command." He pondered it, finally reaching out to shut down the communications link. "Keep an officer on watch. I'll let you know."

"Communication terminated," Ben said as he flicked off the Defense Secondary Imaging System. Then, rising, he moved through the electronically sealed safe-room, sensing his own hesitation.

He had seen war before, had commanded battalions and regiments almost all his life, and knew death, and sacrifice. But there was something uncanny and disturbing about this mission that felt like ...

Sheep at a slaughter.

***

His thirst was quenched.

Yet it returned, always returned.

He awoke and swore he would suffer no more. With a growl he rose from his rest to see the dead, white-faced priest beside him. And for a moment he stared down, resting on colossal arms before noticing bloodied fang marks in the man's neck.

Father Lanester.

Such a fool, yes, such a fool to think his god would save him. The priest
’s own flesh had been his doom, as it was for all of them. For flesh had its ground, but it was ground that could be taken by force of will, or mind, or the sheer force of flesh itself.

A circle, a travesty forever and ever and more.

Yes, fools, all of them; locked in this world not knowing where true power resided or how to use it. They died for lack of knowledge, had al-ways died for lack of knowledge.

The Nazarene won the battle, even the war. Had won by superior strength and the strength of a superior realm. Had won because he never surrendered to the temptation and pain though he had bled with it.

Yes, the Nazarene had won.

But vengeance . . .

He smiled over fangs.

Vengeance would be his.

* * *

CHAPT
ER 5

His somberness spoke for him, though the authoritative poise of his sixty-three years spoke far more. His forehead was high with his short white hair sweeping smoothly back from a thin, pale face, the face of a man who had spent his entire life in the intimate closure of dark confessionals and shadowed altars. His solid shoulders were slightly bent and his black frock was immaculately starched and pressed.

Moving slowly, he reached the wooden doors of the cathedral, gravely approaching two uniformed Los Angeles County sheriff
’s deputies, who stepped forward.

"I'm sorry, sir, but you can't—"

"I am Father William Barth," the old man said. "I have been summoned by your captain." And then he moved through the wide double doors, shutting them quietly.

He was sighted immediately by a short man with a large gut, who raised an arm. And Father Barth walked forward, his face calm. The man who approached looked nervous, his face glistening with sweat.

His hand shook slightly as he extended it. The badge prominently displayed upon his belt indicated that he was a captain with the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department.

Father Barth shook the hand as introductions were made. His voice was serene and deep. "What has happened, Captain Wescott?"

"I don't know how to tell you this, Father, but ... uh ..."

"Please speak. I am old
, but I am not delicate. Has there been a desecration? Has one of the Church been injured?" After a moment Wescott shook his head: "No. No one is injured, Father. We've got a murder."

In a heartbeat Father Barth's face was severe. "Who?"

"It's Father Lanester. He's in the rectory. He's been ... uh ..."

"Please, take me to him."

"It's too late for Last Rites, Father." Wescott was galvanized to significant fluency with the request. "And I don't think that you want to see the crime scene. It's the most, and forgive me for saying this, Father, the most horrific crime scene I've ever seen in twenty-eight years on the force. Believe me, it's more gruesome than anything you've ever—"

"You'd be surprised at what I've seen in my lifetime, Captain. Now, please take me to the body of Father Lanester."

Wescott hesitated. "All right, Father, I'll take you to the scene. I called you here for some questions, but you might be able to tell us even more if you see the body. But, please be aware, this is going to be unpleasant. Even our uniform guys got sick when they arrived."

"Who discovered the body?"

"Two of the young nuns from the convent. Sister Theresa and Sister Michelle."

Father Barth bent his head, immediately concerned. "I see. And what prompted Sister Theresa and Sister Michelle to search for Father Lanester in the rectory?"

"They were sent to look for him because he didn't arrive to supervise morning mass. They found him ... or what was left of him ... in his room. They're in pretty bad shape – hysterical and in shock. We're trying to calm them down but we've been unsuccessful." Wescott looked shocked himself. "But, then, anybody would be hysterical after finding the ... uh ..."

"Where is the Mother Superior?"

"I don't know, Father. I haven't thought to ask about—"

Barth turned sharply to a young Hispanic altar boy standing close to the side. Barely twelve years old, the boy was holding both hands tigh
tly in front of his chest. "Miguel, come here."

Instan
tly the boy ran forward as if he felt safer beside the old priest. He was trembling and nervous as Barth wrapped a long arm around his shoulders. "Can you find the Mother Superior, Miguel? I believe she is busy at the hospital supervising morning prayers."

"Yes, Father!" he said, trembling. "I know I can!"

"Good, child, then find her quickly!" Father Barth gently slapped him on the back to hustle him away before he turned back to Wescott, his face becoming severe and grim.

"Now, Captain, please take me to my son."

***

Cries of two hysterical young nuns met Father Barth as he mounted the third-story steps to Father Lanester's room. As he came past the corner he saw them sitting in chairs, weeping uncontrollably, nervously moving rosary beads and crucifixes in trembling hands.

Ambulance personnel were trying without success to calm the two nuns, who appeared almost identical with dark skin and olive eyes swollen with tears. Hands were raised over their faces and plainclothes police officers stood behind the EMTs, waiting to ask questions.

Father Barth took a moment to try to soothe their nerves but realized quickly he would not succeed, so he patted their shoulders gen
tly, concerned at the shock evident in their cries.

"It's this way, Father," said Captain Wescott. "They're about to remove ... what's left of the body. You might want to take a look at it before they do."

Steadily, Father William Barth turned his head. "Yes, of course." He moved for the door.

"Watch your step, Father."

The old man stared down. "Why?"

"Because ... well
... you'll see."

With a dark frown, the priest entered the room.

***

"We just received A-Classification orders on the Defense Imaging System," Ben said. "We've got a standing green light and an unlimited budget. And the Corps has recertified you, Sol. Back to your former rank of
Lieutenant Colonel, with no time loss. They're giving you one hour to sign or decline."

Soloman
made an expression, a smile or frown. "The JCS is requiring full recertification?"

"Yeah, Sol. They want a light colonel running this show since we're using fully armed gunships. They're not going to set
tle for an independent operative. So, you're either completely in or completely out. But if you do come in, you'll have full authority and command, just like the old days. My guys will take your orders just like the SEALs or your super-grunts."

"Who's running the show?"

"Bull Thompson. The old man."

"Does the JCS retain jurisdiction?"

"Yeah, the JCS. But there's ..." Ben hesitated. "There's a few goons involved – the CIA, NSA. They said security was compromised so they had some kinda jurisdictional interest. They didn't get all the cards, but they're on the Trinity Council as advisers."

"Who's the point man for the CIA?"

Ben was up-front; old times behind it.

"Archette," he said
.

Leaning back,
Soloman was silent.

Then he saw again the blood-drenched moment when he had come to take the life of the CIA psychiatrist, again beheld Ben squared off before him, intent to defend the life of the man most responsible for the death of
Soloman's wife and child ...

***

The storm-torn night roared with vengeance.

Soloman
staggered forward in blood, having traveled so far to finish the life of the man who, according to the dying gasp of the last terrorist, had compromised the location of his family. And Soloman had believed the words; had believed them because no man suffering the kind of hideous pain Soloman had inflicted could have lied.

He had narrowly threaded his way through Customs and New York police to track the revered Dr. Winston Archette, gen
tleman, scholar, Deputy Director of Covert Operations for the Central Intelligence Agency, and traitor, to his retreat on Martha's Vineyard. Then Soloman had crawled slowly and painfully through the tight CIA perimeter for half a night, defeating security with the assistance of a thundering rainstorm to enter, dying on his feet, the back of the cottage.

To find Ben waiting for him.

The general didn't even have a gun, had chosen not to wear one. No, his trust and friendship had been his only weapon, and Soloman would never forget the conversation.

"Get out of the way, Ben," he said, staring darkly at the professor's cringing form, bleeding slowly onto the wooden floor. "I mean it," he added. "I'll kill you if I have to."

"No," Ben responded flatly. "It's over, Sol. You did 'em all."

"Not this one."

Soloman remembered how he went light in the moment, swaying as he lifted the Colt. But Ben didn't move, stood solidly in front of the trembling shape. "Think about it, Ben!" Soloman fought for consciousness. "If Archette isn't guilty, how did he know I was coming for him?"

"There'll be an investigation," Ben responded firmly. "But you can't just kill him, Sol. It'd be murder, and you're not a murderer. You got the rest of 'em. Screw 'em. They deserved it. But Archette works for us and you've got to have proof before you take him 'round the corner. That's just the way it is." He paused. "I can't back down from this."

They stood in silence before Ben added, "You can kill me if you want, Sol. I ain't gonna raise a weapon against you. But if you back down, I guarantee you that Archette will stand trial. And you can believe me on that: I guarantee it."

Remembering the scene,
Soloman grunted.

A trial.

What a joke.

It had been a mockery with un
-certifiable testimony from double agents, triple-agents, shades of secret alliances and betrayals that laid such a convoluted network of lies that not even a military tribunal combined with a Senate Intelligence Subcommittee hearing could discover anything except that Soloman had, indeed, vengefully sanctioned every member of the elite terrorist team that had murdered his family.

In the end, the truth had been buried with his wife and child, and Archette walked cleanly away but for the tarnish of
Soloman's accusations, which carried little weight inside the agency.

Butcher, they'd called him.

But he was no butcher. He had avenged what was sacred, had known from the first that, if it ever happened, he would avenge them. And now it had all come home again, and he felt it again. Maybe, he thought, things just had a way of coming around, of bringing you back home.

After a moment he shook his head, his mind returning to the desert.
He had sought something there for so many years in the silent dark that would close the memories and ghosts and regrets. And now he'd been brought back to what haunted him . .. most of all.

Make a decision.

Soloman bowed his head.

"Tell them I'm in," he said.

"It's done."

Suddenly the door opened and Maggie Milton entered, looking far better than she had on the previous night
. Her hair was fresh and she appeared striking in a businesslike black pants suit. She nodded cordially as she came close and sat down, opening a file.

"Good morning, Maggie,"
Soloman said pleasantly. "You look refreshed."

"I am," she smiled. "Shall we get started?"

"Let's," he said.

It took most of the day for Maggie to explain fully the complex alterations she'd made to Cain's body.
Soloman compared the endless scientific data with Cain's extensive military 201 file, searching to find any clue that might enable him to anticipate Cain's next move, to discover some small weakness. But he found nothing because there was simply nothing there. And, even as he sat there, dozens of agents were busy in the field, checking Cain's comrades and contacts. As Soloman had predicted, Cain had made no contact with any of them. It was infinitely frustrating, and at day's end all three were fatigued at finding nothing.

Shaking his head angrily,
Soloman leaned back from the table, eyes dry. Then he began replaying the video in his mind, again and again seeing a dead man brought to life by this strange, occult experiment, once more walking the world of the living to—
Di liberatus
!

I
WILL BE FREE
!

Soloman
shot to his feet, staring.

"Damn!" Ben hurled a file aside. "What is it?"

Soloman focused on Maggie, then his watch.

"What is it, Sol!" Ben staggered.

Soloman leaned hard over the conference table, unable to contain the intensity of his voice as he asked, "Maggie, in this mutated form, what is Cain's anticipated life period?"

"It's unknown." She seemed to catch something in his tone, became vaguely alarmed. "Maybe a few years. But his DNA is suffering too much damage, so it won't be longer than that."

"You're certain?"

"Yes. As certain as I can be. According to enzyme tests, Cain's DNA can only hold the HyMar in check for three years. Then there will be a backflow that will be too much for him to counter."

But Soloman knew something else was there. It had come to him again and again as he had watched Cain on the screen, a thought driven into him by that roaring white threat:
I will be free
!

"This is very important, Maggie," he continued, watching her for the faintest flicker of doubt. "Could the blood of the donor that was used to alter the DNA code of the original Marburg virus be used to reinstate the machine language for Cain's mutated DNA, thereby correcting his genetic imbalance? Could the original donor's blood be used to negate any further mutation of the HyMar virus?"