Thrilled to Death

by James Byron Huggins

  “That’s it!” Soloman shouted, stopping the video. “What!”

  “That! That’s it!”

  “That’s what!”

  Soloman rewound the tape, then froze the picture as Cain bent to take the card. He pointed to the screen. “Did you see that? Did you see how Cain took the scientist’s key card without searching for it? Do you see how he selected the right hallway for the elevator even though it was unmarked?”

  “Yeah, yeah; I see it!”

  “Cain couldn’t have known something like that! He could have known how to hotwire the vault or the rest of it, but there was no way he could have known that scientist’s card was in the inside pocket of his coat. He should have been forced to search for it. And he shouldn’t have known which hallway led to the elevator. He should have been forced to search for that, too.”

  “And?”

  “And so something is wrong, Ben.” Soloman rose. “Did Cain ever meet that scientist before he died? Had Cain ever been inside this facility to learn the architecture?”

  “No; Cain was stone dead when he got to the laboratory. His meetin’ days were over.”

  Soloman replayed the tape again and was certain. He forwarded it to where Cain killed the first unit of men and saw it happen again and knew it was there. And yet, still, it gave no real answers. It only opened up another level of mystery.

  Soloman frowned. “Ben, I think we’re dealing with something that’s come back from the dead knowing things no one should know. And I don’t know how that could happen.”

  “But you can stop him, right?” Ben whispered, trembling. “You can find this guy and stop him inside ten days? Because if you can’t, then you know we’re history.”

  “I know already, Ben. I know.”

  Soloman again beheld the lordly image of rage captured on the screen. It was the roaring height of bestial power, of galactic might as immeasurable and pure and far beyond the Earth as the stars.

  “Soloman?” Ben whispered. “What do you say, buddy? Can you take this guy down?”

  Silence dominated as Soloman measured the river of blood already shed by this thing. He saw the lives lost, thought of the families destroyed. And he knew what he had to do.

  His jaw tightened.

  “I guess we’re gonna find out,” he said.

  ***

  Archette’s cadaverous face, skin stretched like parchment across haggard features, stared at Ben from the screen of the imaging system. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Arthur “Bull” Thompson, spoke in a voice of weighty authority. “So, Ben, what do you have for us? What’s the result of the latest analysis?”

  “I am convinced that we can reactivate him, sir,” Ben said, holding his line. “He is utterly in control. And with respect, General, I think further evaluation is a good waste of time.”

  “Good,” growled Bull, looking like a Roman centurion with his big square head and gray flattop. He added, “How soon can you get this thing off the ground, Ben?”

  “Airborne, sir.” Ben nodded. “We’re hot.”

  “You’ve completed a Gittenger Analysis?” Archette asked from nowhere, staring at Ben over his beaklike nose. His face was analytical, the consummate CIA psychiatrist.

  Ben turned to him, impassive. “What?”

  He knew better than to match psycho-jargon with the professor. Archette was an expert at picking the scabs of operatives and enemies alike. His almost preternatural keenness in detecting the weakness of foreign agents by using a complex series of Gittenger tests and subtests was legendary. Ben stalled to craft a reply.

  “Have you completed the Gittenger Analysis?” Archette repeated, slightly perturbed. “Certainly, General, you used the Gittenger Analysis – the most reliable means of detecting weakness in—”

  “Oh, yeah.” Ben gave an apologetic wave. “Sorry, doc, I didn’t hear you. There’s some static on your line. Yeah, I did it, start to finish. For sure, Ghost is sharp. Ready. Primed. We’re wasting daylight.”

  Archette lowered his face.

  “Really,” he said.

  “Good job, Ben,” Bull rumbled. “Activate backstopping for the Trinity Mandate. Secure the safehouses you may need. Double the usual allowance. And get outfitted. It’s coming to the wire.”

  When the Trinity Failsafe was activated and Soloman’s name was kicked out by the computer as the best field operative available, Ben had anticipated that Archette wouldn’t want him dispatched because of their twisted past. But the hard truth was that there were only a handful of agents capable of dealing with the military and civilian complications of the mission, and Archette had been forced to shelve his personal reservations.

  Still, Ben had expected a little more of the professor’s verbal judo when Soloman was contacted, was surprised that the CIA man had remained for the most part silent. He had wondered if Archette was simply biding his time to do a headcut.

  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 always 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.

  CHAPTER 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 tightly in front of his chest. “Miguel, come here.”

  Instantly 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 gently, 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 settle 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, gentleman, 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 uncertifiable 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.