The Scorpion's Tale (37 page)

Steven suddenly opened his eyes and realized
that a man was standing over him, shaking his leg. He was tall with
black, shoulder-length hair and jet black eyes. He was dressed in a
black robe, but without a priest’s white collar. He had a kind,
friendly face. The priest extended a ceramic mug toward Steven,
filled with a dark, steaming liquid. As Steven took the mug, he
noticed the priest’s wristwatch, momentarily exposed under his
robes. It was unusually simple, yet elegant, with a jade face and
black Roman numerals. Steven had never seen a watch quite like
it.

“I believe you consumed too much of our
wine,” the priest said.

Steven took the mug and held it under his
nose. The aroma hinted of coffee and other unusual scents. Steven
lifted the drink to his lips and took a sip.

“It is coffee made from local beans,” the
priest added. “It’s some of the finest in the world and the best
known antidote for the effects of our wine.”

“Thank you,” Steven said, as he slowly tried
to sit up on the cot. His head was throbbing and it was
uncomfortable to sit straight up. The man sat down in a small
wooden chair across from Steven.

“You have certainly come a long way for an
audience.”

Steven tried to prop himself up against the
wall and took another sip of his drink. He was still feeling
light-headed and was having difficulty focusing.

“You will feel better if you close your eyes.
Our wine is deceptively strong, but your hosts did not wish to deny
you your fill. I would have stopped you at two glasses. We can
still talk while your eyes are closed. You will feel better
shortly.”

Steven’s eyes were still heavy.

“I am Pierre Mateuse. I know that Joaquin
Ordonez sent you to me. What is it you wish to discuss?”

Steven liked the man’s voice. It was deep and
soothing, and Steven felt an immediate connection. “I want you to
help me find James so I can kill him.”

“That is an unusual request to a man of God!”
Pierre Mateuse exclaimed, raising an eyebrow. “Joaquin told me
James murdered your family.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“Tell me about your family.”

“Why is that important?”

Pierre Mateuse sat back in his chair and
considered Steven’s question. “It is important because James and I
were very close friends. More like brothers. You have come asking
me to be complicit in your damnation. I have a right to know more
about you.”

Steven proceeded to tell the priest about his
childhood growing up in New York, and about his wife and daughter.
He recounted the story of their murders and the journey he had made
to find the Scorpion. All the while, the priest listened with great
interest.

“I am sorry for you. Do you know you remind
me of James?”

Steven frowned as he finished his drink. “So
I’ve been told.”

Pierre Mateuse stood and replaced Steven’s
empty mug with a fresh one. “Keep drinking and you’ll soon feel
better. James also had a loved one who died violently. He has
wasted most of his life living with loneliness and hatred, and
seeking revenge against the world for the loss of his young
fiancée.”

“What happened?”

“James was returning from a London theatre
one evening and took a shortcut through a deserted alley, when he
heard muffled screams. He ran towards the sound and saw two men
assaulting a young woman in the alley. As James described it, ‘in
that split second the woman’s eyes pled with him for salvation.’
His initial urge was to keep walking, but he could not resist
helping her. As James ran to her aid, one of the muggers came at
him with a knife. James grabbed the man’s wrist, twisted it, and
then plunged the knife into the assailant’s chest. The second man
ran away. Her name was Christine, a beautiful English woman who he
worshipped from the moment they met.”

“How romantic,” Steven mocked.

“It was the happiest I had ever seen him.
James became a new man. He vowed to change his life and work for
Christine’s father, a very successful businessman. James believed
he could leave his past behind, have a family with Christine, and
watch their children grow.”

“Tell me about her death.”

The priest sighed deeply. “James and
Christine were a month shy of their wedding day and the families
were gathering at one of London’s finest restaurants to celebrate
his twenty-first birthday.”

“He was only twenty-one when he vowed to
change his life’s work?”

The priest nodded. “Yes, he was twenty-one
going on fifty. She was nineteen. Unbeknownst to James, Christine’s
father was the head of a London crime syndicate and had set in
motion a course of events that would change James’ life
forever.”

Steven looked puzzled. His temples were
throbbing. “I don’t understand.”

“Days earlier, Christine’s father
orchestrated the elimination of a captain of a rival syndicate.
Retaliation against Christine’s father was swift and brutal. James
and Joaquin had been living and working together in London, and
were already at the restaurant waiting for Christine to
arrive.”

“Were you there too?”

“No.”

Steven nodded, striving to maintain his
focus, which now was blurring even more.

“As Joaquin presented James with his birthday
present, a hand-crafted saber and a Samurai sword, made by two
different master craftsmen, one of Christine’s father’s men burst
through the doors, urgently instructing James and Joaquin to
follow. When they arrived at Christine’s house, they were blinded
by the flashing lights of the constabulary vehicles in the front of
the brownstone. James broke through the police barrier when he saw
Christine’s father kneeling next to two shrouded bodies, sobbing
uncontrollably. James drew back the blanket and saw Christine’s
blood-spattered face. Her mother lay dead beside her, with her
bodyguards close by. James placed the wedding ring he had bought
that day on Christine’s finger, whispered in her ear, and then gave
her one final kiss. It was the last kiss he ever gave out of
love.”

Steven stared wide-eyed at the priest.

“Christine’s father confessed his true
occupation and the precarious relationship his organization had
with this rival group. There was a deep hatred between the two
organizations. It turns out one of the members had ordered the
kidnapping of Christine, the very attack James had prevented. For
that, Christine’s father had ordered the hit. Christine’s father
was on the way home to pick them up for the birthday party when two
cars pulled up to the house, gunning down Christine, her mother,
and their bodyguards as they descended the stairs.”

Despite the throbbing in his head, Steven was
riveted by the story. “Please…continue, Father.”

“James demanded to know the location of the
people who killed Christine. Her father cautioned James that the
compound was on the outskirts of London, heavily fortified and
impenetrable, and that the father would avenge their deaths, but it
would take time.”

“What did James do?”

“He had no plan. He reacted with a raw, feral
fortitude. Joaquin tried to stop him, and when that failed, he
tried to help him. James needed to act alone, as he had been
trained to do. He neither cared about his own safety nor did he
fear death. He put on his overcoat, hid Joaquin’s gifts underneath,
and went to the compound. James unsheathed his Samurai sword and
kept it pressed against his body underneath his coat. He never
attempted to hide and he was clearly visible to the guards as he
walked up the long driveway to an electric gate. When James reached
the gate, he instantly withdrew his Samurai sword and baptized it
with the guard’s blood, then scaled the gate while two guards
approached from the inner yard. He moved with such speed and
ferocity that the two had no time to react to his onslaught. In
less than a minute, three bodies lay upon the path of his revenge.
He rushed into the house and slaughtered everyone he encountered.
The syndicate’s leader was on the second floor, waiting inside his
office with a revolver. James broke down the door and dropped to
the floor as a gun fired several shots into the wall behind him.
His target’s gun now empty, James charged, severing the man’s head
with one elegant stroke of the blade. James told me that the entire
episode was a blur; all he could recall was slashing, screaming,
blood, and the sounds of death. When he finished, ten were
dead.”

Steven slumped back against the wall, his
strength waning.

“James told me that he felt exhilarated. He
sat down amongst the dead and poured himself a glass of fine
whiskey in celebration, thanking the demons of his past for the
training that made his revenge possible. He never again spoke of
Christine to anyone but me.”

Steven remained frozen on the bed, unable to
move. He was reliving the pain of losing Amanda and his
daughters.

The priest watched Steven closely. “James’
past pain is no excuse for what he did to you and your family. The
day of Christine’s murder was the day James died and the Scorpion
was born. James disappeared, evolving into a legendary horror
story.”

Steven finished the rest of his drink, but
said nothing. He was feeling groggier. “Are you sure about this
coffee? I don’t feel better. Actually, I’m feeling worse.”

The priest laughed. “Don’t worry. You will
soon feel better. Be patient my son; patience is a virtue.”

Steven tried to fix his eyes on the priest,
but his vision was failing him. “When did you last see James?”

“I saw him many years ago, long after I
became a priest and took up my missionary work. James was no longer
fearful of revealing his identity to me, because I was simply a
shepherd tending my flock. ”

Steven tried lifting his head, but couldn’t.
He was having difficulty speaking, all his words were slurring and
his tongue felt heavy. The priest pontificated about faith and
tragedy, moving in and out of Steven’s focus. Completely unable to
move, Steven tried to concentrate on the priest’s sermon about
redemption. He heard not only the sentences commanding God’s
forgiveness but also the separate words; a pattern slowly emerging.
Although his brain seemed to be failing him, his auditory function
had somehow been enhanced. He found himself in a state of
self-awareness where everything he saw and heard had special
meaning.

“Should not God and man forgive the thief who
steals bread for his family?” the priest asked, not waiting for a
response. “James is the gardener who pulls the weeds and the hunter
who ferrets out the weak and the sick from the herd. He is one of
God’s instruments with a unique and special responsibility. You
must move on with your life. You must let bygones be bygones.”

Those words
,
Steven thought. Where had
he heard those words before? Steven could barely keep his eyes
open. “You put – some – thing – my – drink…”

“Yes, it is called ayahuasca, and it is a
natural hallucinogen. It is very powerful and will lead you to a
deep religious experience. You will feel better in the morning. For
now, you must sleep.”

Steven suddenly remembered what Charlie had
told him about the Scorpion’s speech patterns. He remembered
Charlie repeating the Scorpion’s words: “Patience is a
virtue
.
” He then looked at the space where the Roman collar
would be. In that place was an unusually straight tan line. It was
him! Steven desperately tried to sit up, but couldn’t move. His
head spun with a symphony of voices in his brain. He tried to
speak, but he didn’t know whether it was his voice or one of the
voices in his head that was now speaking to him. “It’s…you!”

The priest noticed a flash of awareness in
Steven’s dilated eyes and felt hatred flow toward him, the man
Steven so desperately wanted to kill. A tear trickled out of the
corner of Steven’s eye, frustrated by his paralysis. He was frozen,
mere inches away from the executioner of his children. He knew he
was dead and said an act of contrition: “Forgive me, Amanda, for I
have…failed…you.”

Bending close and gently wiping the tear with
his cassock the priest whispered: “You have tasted my sting. When a
Scorpion hungers, it seizes its prey, paralyzes it with venom, and
then injects an enzyme to liquefy the internal tissues. Then it
feeds, sucking the prey dry and leaving an empty husk. Steven, you
are now akin to a Scorpion’s victim. You are immobile, paralyzed.
Amazonian natives take this same potion for heightened religious
awareness. I hunger for your forgiveness. Actions beyond our
control have left us both emotionally bankrupt, empty husks. I can
speak with you now, without the possibility of violence or death,
from either of us. I seek forgiveness, not only for the death of
your loved ones, but also for causing your emotional death. It was
never my intention, in all the years I killed, to transform another
person into the empty shell that I am. Murder, I will continue to
do. Accepting what I did to you and your loved ones is a sin that I
cannot live with. I chose to tell you my tale that only one other
person knows. When I leave, I will leave you the choice to follow
me or to return home. If you follow me, it will end in your death.
If you return home, you will be free of me. You will choose whether
you shall be a soulless husk like the Scorpion or a soulful man
like his alter ego, Father Mateuse.”

“God will…help . . me,” Steven said, barely
able to speak or move.

The Scorpion stood and placed a blanket over
Steven. “God may be there for you, but remember Steven; you alone
are accountable for your own actions and any consequences of those
actions. It will be your choice and your decision.”

The Scorpion walked to the door. “Steven
Capresi, son of Tomasso Capresiano, in another world we would have
been friends. But we live in
this
world and I am granting
you one last chance. You must choose. Sleep well.” The Scorpion
returned the bag containing the cash the officers had confiscated
from Steven, and disappeared out of the church and into the
darkness of the square.