The Keys of Solomon (10 page)

Sam considered his options and only three came readily to mind. The first, calling 911, was really out of the question. Come hell or high water, he would honor the man's request that Sam not call for an ambulance or the police. That left two obvious and disturbing choices: wait for the man to regain consciousness before cutting out, or simply walk out the door without a backward glance. While neither option appealed to him, the mere thought of the latter left him feeling dirty and, oddly enough, disloyal.
Okay, that settles it. I'm in. Until tomorrow, anyway.
Sam kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the sofa. Despite the evening's traumatic resurrection of old fears, his last thought before sleep was pleasant.
At least I don't have to set the alarm for that 8:15 World Lit class.

*   *   *

The storm had moved out of the area, and the soft light of morning filtered in through the window sheers. Sam propped up on an elbow and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. When he opened them, Falco was sitting across the room, watching quietly. The coveralls were gone, and he was wearing a tight-fitting T-shirt and jeans. He held a cell phone in his lap.

Sam covered his mouth and yawned, then said, “What time is it?”

“A few minutes past seven.”

The man's voice was soft and quiet. It made Sam nervous.

“Good to see you sitting up, Mr. Falco. Before I go, I'd like you to explain what you meant about my sister. You said she was in danger.”

In place of an answer, a thin smile appeared on Falco's lips, and Sam felt his inner alarms stirring. He swung his feet off the sofa and reached for his sneakers, while Falco watched intently. When Sam was finished with his shoes, he stood and walked toward the door.
Time to bluff again.

“I see. You don't know anything about my sister, do you? You just heard that ass-ugly mountain call out her name. Well, it's a bullshit tactic, but I guess I can't blame a guy for trying, huh?”

As Sam turned the doorknob, Falco pointed toward the sofa.

“Oh, I know all about your sister, Sam. I know about your father, your mother, and even about your grandmother, Nanna. And I wasn't stalling when I said Kat was in danger. Now, have a seat and we'll talk.”

Falco's words left a queasy feeling in the pit of Sam's stomach. For the man to mention Kat and his parents was one thing. It was quite another to bring his long-deceased Nanna into the conversation.

Cautiously, Sam returned to the sofa, then made a show of checking his watch. “You've got five minutes to explain, pal. After that, I'm outta here.”

Falco's eyes narrowed for a brief second, and Sam was certain he had touched a nerve. Perhaps Falco wasn't accustomed to having people talk to him in that manner.
Too fucking bad
, thought Sam.
I've been at this game too long to be intimidated or ordered around by another mystery dude.

“Fix yourself a cup of hot chocolate, Sam. What I'm about to tell you will go down easier with some Swiss Miss.”

Swiss Miss?
Sam eyed the plastic sack on the kitchen counter.
Lucky guess or what?
Still, he had four minutes left and Falco's suggestion sounded like a good idea.

Sam mixed two cups of Swiss Miss, then fished a bottle of Tylenol from the plastic sack. He popped the cap, dumped two of the capsules into his palm, and handed them to Falco, along with a cup of the Swiss Miss. “Cheers.”

The man popped the pills into his mouth, then looked into the cup, and gave the contents a gentle swirl. “This isn't the kind with the mini-marshmallows?”

The comment took Sam by surprise.
Well ain't that something? Never would have figured him for a Swiss Miss connoisseur.

“The store was out of the good stuff. Drink up.”

Falco nursed the chocolate for a couple of minutes before setting the cup aside. Despite Sam's earlier declaration that he would give the man five minutes, he waited patiently. Finally, Falco spoke.

“Good stuff. Thank you. Now, let's get down to business. I wasn't bluffing, Sam. You can't go after your sister. Not now. If you do, you'll only lead the Enemy to her. And your mother.”

“And what enemy is that, Mr. Falco?”

“Don't play me, kid. You know damn well what I'm talking about. In fact, until last night, I thought you were one of them. My superiors still believe you are.”

The words cut Sam like a knife. He stood up. “With all due respect, Mr. Falco, fuck you sideways!”

Falco smiled wanly. “Don't take offense, Sam. We've been fighting these bastards a long time, and we've learned to be … careful in choosing our friends.” The man shifted in his seat.

Sam edged toward the door. “I don't know who you are, or who this ‘we' might be, but I can tell you all a little something about fighting the Enemy myself. And funny thing. I don't recall seeing your smug ass lending a hand when—”

“When you fought them beneath the grounds of the sanatorium?” finished Falco. “Oh, we know about that. We know about a great many things. We've observed the Offspring for longer than you can imagine.”

“Observed?”
The word sounded vulgar and despicable when Sam said it. “Were you
observing
while I ran for my life all the way from Arizona to Tennessee? Or maybe you were
observing
when that little prick of a deputy shot Mark Pierce? Oh, wait! I know! You were
observing
when Michael Collier stepped through that goddamned gate and saved all of our sorry asses! Yeah, that must be it. Well, pal, I'm so sorry I missed out on all that
observing,
dude, but I was too busy staying alive!”

At some point during the rant, Sam had stopped retreating toward the door. Instead he had advanced across the living room and now stood with fists clenched only a few feet from the much bigger man.

Falco's stoic demeanor remained unchanged. “Yes, that, and more. We also observed your showdown with the demon lord and his underlings. That was quite a trick you pulled down there. We had the old tunnel under surveillance for several months prior to your arrival. In fact, I lost a close friend down there. A man who, much like Michael Collier, gave his life in order to gather information.”

At that, Sam found his tongue again. “Gather information. Observation. Passive bullshit! You think you can compare
that
to the sacrifice Michael made? Mike saved a goddamned planet!”

Falco's expression softened. “Did he, Sam? Tell me about it. All of it.” When Sam didn't reply, Falco added, “I'm going to be straight with you. If for no other reason, because you saved my life. I may have been off my feet, but I watched you stand down Little Stevie, and I heard most of the exchange between you two. Most important, I heard him say he had been hunting you, and that … changes things.”

“Yeah? And I watched you walk away from your dead buddy like it was just another day at the office. What makes you think I want anything to do with you and your other pals? Who
are
you guys anyway? You can't be government. Maybe you're part of some wacko religious cult. That might explain a lot.”

“I'll explain in a moment who ‘we' are. And as for abandoning my former partner, if that's the way you feel, why did you bring me down from the rooftop? Why did you stay here last night, knowing that that Little Stevie character could return to finish what he started?”

“That's a damn good question, Mr. Falco, and to tell you the truth, I don't have an answer. Considering the way you left your partner behind, I'm beginning to wonder if you were worth the effort!” He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. The other man had been beyond help, and Sam knew it. Sam also knew that his anger had nothing to do with Falco abandoning his friend. It did, however, have everything to do with Sam leaving Michael Collier in the belly of that mountain, two years earlier.

Falco's expression hardened, and for a moment Sam thought the man might actually struggle up from the chair and beat the shit out of him. Looking at the man's bulging muscles beneath the T-shirt, Sam had no doubt that even in a weakened condition Falco could make short work of him.
He's not as tall as Mike, but he's put together like a linebacker on a steady diet of steroids.
Sam noticed something else, as well. The grips of a handgun jutted from the waist of Falco's jeans. Yet Sam refused to blink during the stare-down.
And his eyes. They bore right through you, like a pair of blue drill bits.

For several protracted seconds, the two glared at each other from across the room. Finally, Falco reached for his cup and took another sip, his eyes never leaving the boy. “Sit down, Sam. I'm going to come clean with you. Tell you everything. In doing so, I'm breaking a sacred confidence and it could very well cost me my life.”

More dramatic bullshit. Jesus, why can't people just say something without all the verbal condiments?
“Sounds serious, so why take the chance? Why not just let me be on my way?”

“I have a couple of reasons. First and foremost, I owe you. You saved my life last night, at great risk to your own. And that may be one of the all-time great ironies.”

Puzzled, Sam asked, “How so?”

Falco finished off the chocolate and set the cup aside. “Because you're the reason I'm in Arizona, boy. I came here to kill you.”

Sam stared open-mouthed at Falco for a moment, trying to digest what he had just heard. “Maybe you want to run that by me again. Is that supposed to be some kind of joke? Because—”

Falco cut him off. “No joke, Sam. Let me start from the beginning. First, have you ever heard of the Knights Templar?” Sam answered with a dumb nod of his head. “Good. Now, listen closely and don't interrupt. If you have questions, hold them until I finish. Afterward, I'll try to answer them as best I can. This story goes back several hundred years to the time of the Crusades and I would need a couple of years to tell you the entire history of my Order. For now, we'll stick to the abbreviated version.

“During one of the Crusades, a Knight by the name of Hugues de Payens requested permission to establish an order of warrior monks in Jerusalem. He would call this group The Poor Knights of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon. He would task them with guarding the pilgrim's way from Europe into Jerusalem. Permission was granted, and eventually de Payens and his small band of brethren were given space inside Jerusalem's al-Aqs â Mosque for use as headquarters.”

“Crusades, knights, and mosques. Fascinating stuff, Mr. Falco, but what's this got to do—”

“Patience, Sam. It won't take long for the picture to come into focus. Many contemporary historians and religious scholars believe that temple is also the fabled Temple of Solomon, and that at the time of the Crusades, it sat atop a vast storehouse of treasures and religious antiquities.”

“Yeah, yeah, I read
The Da Vinci Code
. What's your point?”

“Only this: Those historians and scholars weren't all wrong. By following documents and maps recovered during the First Crusade, de Payens's Templars secretly excavated beneath the mosque, and found the treasure rooms of Solomon. I won't attempt to describe the massive wealth they found except to say entire countries could be bought and sold for less. However, the most important finds had little to do with gold and silver. The Templars recovered a number of scrolls and tablets that contained astounding secrets and revelations. Prophecies, if you will. Not the least of which were the locations of the Veils, or Eyes of God.”

Sam held up a hand and said, “Whoa, stop. You said ‘Veils' and ‘Eyes.' Plural.”

Falco nodded. “I'm afraid so. The scrolls led to the discovery of nine such portals, all mirror images of one another. To date, we've located six, scattered all across the globe. We're still searching for another three. What's more, one of the scrolls went on to explain that all of the portals are interconnected, that whatever affects one, affects all.”

Sam sat down on the sofa, leaned back, and closed his eyes. He had often wondered how the Veil came to be in such an obscure place as Abbotsville. Or even in the United States for that matter. He had also wondered if there had been other such gates. However, neither Uriel nor Joriel had mentioned the existence of other Veils, and eventually, Sam had dismissed the whole thing. Now, however … According to Falco and his ancient documents, this meant there were at least nine such portals. Which also meant the demons had at least that many points of entry into this world.
Dear God
.

“Are—are the other Veils still operational?”

“Sorry, Sam,” said Falco, “but I think you understand why I won't answer that. Information regarding the Veils is held in close confidence. The short of it is that the Templars were eventually disbanded and outlawed. Many were executed. Others fled France and established new lives, yet they never forgot the prophecies and portents contained in the scrolls. Several surviving members of the original Templars passed the knowledge down through their bloodlines. Eventually, a new order was founded, the Watchers. Their intent was, and is, to watch for signs of the coming of Legion and the End of Days, a time preceding the Great Tribulation by some few months or years. It is our hope that we can salvage much of humanity before the Rapture and Great Tribulation period.”

Sam leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. “Religious fanatics! Thought so. But why hunt me? If you and your pals have as much intel as you claim, then you know damn well the Veil in Abbotsville was broken and had to be closed. You know I'm not the bad guy!”

Falco shrugged. “Maybe. My superiors aren't so sure you didn't damage that Veil in the first place. You see, several of the scrolls and older tablets also make mention of a future event that foretells the End of Days. This event is heralded by the damaging of the Veils. In fact, prophecy maintains that the ancestors of angelic entities and humans, or Offspring, play a prominent part in mankind's final downfall.”