Soloman was amazed that she seemed even less shaken than he was, and he wrote it off as a measure of her phenomenal mind. Then with a grimace he took a deep breath, as if resurrecting a determination that had faded in the savage confrontation. He wasn’t sure what made him evade her question. Perhaps it was because he feared his own answer.
“Maggie,” he began, “could Cain have drowned in that tunnel?”
“It’s possible, Soloman. Cain can drown just like anyone else. But he’s not anyone else. If there was any way at all out of that tunnel, he found it. Even in pitch black he can see where to go.”
“But there’s no light,” Soloman countered.
“He registers light at two-thousandths lux or less and translates it to a range of twenty-five thousand,” she said, as if reading from a chart. “To Cain, the absolute dark of a cave would just be shades of gray. Even your guys’ starlight scopes can’t approach it. It’s possible, even likely, that he’s already found a way out of that system.”
With a supreme effort of will Soloman shook his head, as if to flame the stunned fire of his will, and Maggie was silent as he did. He had no doubt now that whatever horrific force delivered an ending to this conflict would take his life with it; knew somehow that victory, if it was to be bought, would be bought with the blood of everyone who stood in the gap.
He only regretted it because he had just discovered, to his surprise, a faint interest in living again. But in the end, he knew, he had a duty to do; a duty he would do even if he had to shed his very last drop of blood ...
***
Ben reluctantly recognized that he was retreating, reading the lay of the land as it seemed to change before him in a political earthquake. After more than seven minutes of continuous questioning, he was becoming more and more certain that Archette was playing a carefully crafted game.
“If you will, General, allow me to ask another question,” the professor continued, ultimately controlled. “Why did Ghost not earlier anticipate this direction of Genocide One? Was that not his responsibility? Such a lack of anticipation, a quality for which this operative is so highly vaunted, almost led to this child’s death and provided Genocide One with a cure for his abnormalities. And did, indeed, result in the deaths of eight federal agents.”
Ben really didn’t feel like dancing over this.
“Well, Doc, I think he did do his job.” Ben gave all of himself to the tone. “Ghost figured this out before the rest of us. Even before the researchers. It was our man, Professor, I stress, who got to the girl before Genocide One could kill her. Without Ghost’s intuition and judgment, she’d be dead.”
“But his actions were decidedly not fully preemptive,” Archette stressed, leaning forward as if Ben lay on a couch. “That is what you must understand, General. If we—”
“Look, Doc.” Ben returned the posture. “You’re not a professional soldier. Truth is, I don’t know what the hell you are. But I know you’re not qualified to judge how fast we figured this out. No, we didn’t completely second-guess Genocide One. That’s obvious. But with the help of this operative we’re beginning to anticipate this guy. And I’m convinced that pretty soon we’ll be a step ahead of him. Plus, you have to remember that we’re still early in this game. I’ll say again that Ghost’s success tonight demonstrates, indeed, that he can anticipate the moves of this target.”
From the screen located in the Pentagon, Brigadier General “Bull” Thompson seemed to concur and turned to the NSA assistant director. “Well, Mr. Hollman, what is your perspective?”
Inured to the complexities of catastrophes, Blake Hollman was quiet a moment. His face was bland but also faintly dismal. “I don’t know military procedures, General. It’s not my place to second-guess professional soldiers who should be doing a professional job. But I do know we’re getting heat from the Hill.” He emphasized the threat with perfect timing. “Significant heat.”
Releasing a slow drag of his cigar, Ben tried to reveal that he didn’t give a damn – which he actually didn’t.
“Heat about what?” he asked.
“About the deaths of so many fully-armed federal agents in a public place and about the fact that we’ve got to put a credible spin on this disaster,” Hollman responded, unaffected. “About the fact that we’ve got a madman walking around infected with a virus that could go supra-epidemic in a week. About the fact that internal antagonists of this experiment—an experiment which could be interpreted to violate international treaties prohibiting germ warfare—may eventually leak it to the media if they anticipate imminent failure. About the fact that any subsequent global disasters will be construed as our fault.” He hesitated. “And that, gentlemen, even if Genocide One is ultimately found and destroyed before Class Four mortality rates are achieved, will injure our position. Conceivably, it could change the scope of our influence.”
As usual, General Thompson revealed nothing at hearing this threat. He stared at Hollman’s screen and Ben could see the NSA’s solidity. He also knew the tension wouldn’t fade because Bull was a fighter. In the silence that followed, he thought of Soloman and regretted bringing him into it.
“Well,” General Thompson said flatly to Hollman, “I think we need to stand behind this team a little longer before we initiate more comprehensive means of containing Genocide One, sir, because if General Hawken and his men are successful, there will be a minimal loss of life. And in military jargon that’s called ‘accuracy.’ You kill the target without excessive collateral damage. And you can remind the President that the next-in-line failsafe, which entails dropping a nuclear bomb on whatever area Cain is located, is decidedly worse than giving this team another few days.”
Hollman was thoughtful. “Very well, General. I’ll relay the—”
“I concur with General Thompson,” interrupted Archette. “I am not sure what measure of collateral damage must be acquired before we terminate this exercise, but backup fail-safes are decidedly worse than our current plan. Yet I would also like to make a suggestion: If we meet in person to discuss the situation we may be able to articulate our views more adequately and design superior strategies. General Hawken, I would like to meet with you at the safe house.”
Ben was ignited at the suggestion. He didn’t like it at all. “The location of the safe house is classified beyond your need to know, Professor. I have no intention of allowing you or anyone else inside my perimeter.”
“General.” Archette shook his head. “Do you recall our collective clearances?”
“Doctor, not even the President of the United States has the clearance to approach this safe house.” Ben was inspired by his own anger as he continued. “Your suggestion is out of bounds. Further, if you attempt to—”
“That’s enough, Ben,” said General Thompson, turning to stare at Archette’s screen. “Mr. Archette, even I do not know the location of the safe house that General Hawken, in his tactical judgment, has selected. That is under the Trinity Mandate. You are well aware that this was to be a closed operation of a single field operative, a scientist, and a military commander. Your request is outside parameters. Nor do I want to hear it forwarded again.”
“Of course,” said Archette, with a slight nod. “I merely meant that, as unexpected threats have complicated this mission, specifically the threat of a profound security breach, that we should confer to discuss alternate tactics. And I wished to do it without inconveniencing General Hawken. But since my ... suggestion ... is deemed unsuitable, General Hawken can meet us in New York or Washington.”
Ben cursed under his breath; the last thing he wanted was to sit in a room with Archette and Hollman. But, then again, Bull would be present, and the old man would assure a purposeful approach, shutting the lid on anything that even hinted of self-aggrandizement. Unless, of course, things got too out of hand in Los Angeles and, in that situation, the fighting had just begun. There was no telling how bad it was
going to get.
“Very well,” said Thompson finally. “Ben, can you fly to New York and convene here?”
“Yes, sir. If it’s necessary.”
“Good. Then we’ll schedule a meeting tomorrow night or the following day, depending on developments. But if things get too hot, we have to come to some kind of neutral ground. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Thompson said. “Until then, gentlemen, we will allow Trinity to reacquire the target and complete their assignment, although we will be perilously close to a deadline if Trinity fails. This transmission is terminated.” He cut the display without further words.
Ben released a deep breath. He debated what he had heard and knew he had perceived a slight tightening of the bolts from Archette. Not enough to make him suspect, but there was an intensity of tone, as if the CIA man were beginning to lay groundwork, preparing for something.
Ben knew it could simply be the fact that Archette was covering his butt, putting himself on record to question Soloman’s judgment at the same time that he stood behind Trinity; it would be the best of both worlds. But Archette’s sudden change of direction at this moment, authorizing Soloman a few more days even though they would be running out of time fast if they were forced to derail the team and select another failsafe, was curious.
It didn’t make sense, and Ben stared at the screen a long time, searching it out. Some things made sense and some didn’t, and finally he shelved it. He was too old for this, he knew. Too old by half.
He should have retired a long time ago – along with Soloman. But he was in it now – up to his neck – and he would finish it. He scowled at the blank screen that had held Archette’s haggard face and remembered the night he’d saved him from Soloman’s wrath.
Even now, so many years later, it felt wrong. But it had been regulation and law, and Ben had moved on what he knew. He had regretted it at the time, had regretted even more the travesty of a trial that ended with Archette walking away clean, Soloman broken from the ranks.
And, damn it, here he was again.
The cigar hung forgotten in his hand.
***
Ben exited the communications room to find Maggie and Soloman deep in a conversation that seemed more personal than professional. It wasn’t because of what they were saying; he could plainly hear Soloman explaining his interest in languages and philosophy. No, he thought, it seemed personal because of the way Soloman was relaxing and gesturing. He even smiled once; something that hit quick and was gone just as quick, but it was there. Then Ben thought that he hadn’t seen his old buddy’s face so devoid of bitterness and anger since ... since before.
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 forestwere 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, this 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 noncollateral 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 l
ocated 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.
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