He frowned, abruptly removing all his cigars from the pocket, counting with severe displeasure. He counted them again as Soloman watched from the corner of his eyes. Then the big Delta commando turned to both of them. “Who took one of my cigars?” he asked.
“Huh?” replied Soloman, raising his face.
Maggie shook her head, raising hands. “I didn’t see a thing, Malo. I was in the kitchen making coffee.”
Malo’s black eyes narrowed in suspicion. He shook the black cigars. “Uh-huh,” he nodded. “Well, I’ll find out who it was. ‘Cause if they took it, they’re gonna smoke it!” He stuffed the rest in the leg pocket of his BDUs. “Let’s see ‘em take one out of here!”
Soloman was smiling openly as Malo stalked out of the house, and Maggie joined him, her open laughter the most beautiful music Soloman had heard in a long, long time.
***
Archette’s black limousine delivered him to the isolated Long Island manor at midnight, and a wordless servant, tall and gaunt, opened the oak doors to grant his expected entrance.
Head bowed, Archette stepped into the expansive foyer crowned by majestic high ceilings and a winding staircase that ascended to a walkway shrouded in darkness. Beyond him, surrounding chambers were also shadowed, as if to conceal things he was not meant to know.
He waited, not raising his eyes to search the rooms until a tall black man dressed in a long, flowing black robe approached. The man’s head was hooded, his pale face barely visible. His waist was tied with a stout rope and a polished short sword with Hebrew inscriptions burned cryptically into the blade hung from his left side.
Muscular and intimidating, the man stood in silence, as if his unspoken command should be understood. And Archette moved quietly forward, resisting the impulse to wipe beads of sweat from his brow. In seconds he passed through the long corridors to finally arrive at a subterranean chamber that was almost void of decoration.
There was a large round table comprising thick oak planks, and seven chairs, now empty. Built with rough-hewn wood, the table was Celtic or Roman in design; it had the aura of great age.
A large fire roared in a hearth, and before it a single man stood in silence, resting an arm on the mantel. His face was turned away, and his white hair flamed out in a crescent from his bald head, shaved in a dome, according to his custom. He wore a black shirt of loose-sleeved, fourteenth-century glamour. His loose black pants were crafted from leather that appeared soft and comfortable. He did not move.
Archette waited, and sensed rather than saw the cloaked servant moving silently into the shadows, though he knew the bodyguard would not venture far. For this was a place of power, and secrets, and was heavily guarded.
“Things have not gone according to our plans,” the man said finally, still unmoving. There was an impatient intonation to the words.
“No, they have not,” Archette replied, holding place. “There were too many complications, I believe. And the outcome of the ... the experiment remains in doubt. We are not sure yet, Lazarus, whether we have actually succeeded.”
“We have succeeded,” Lazarus spoke, convinced. “That is not my concern. But he is out there, Professor. He is out there and he is apparently confused. Or he would have already come to us.” A pause. “Do you have any idea what price you will pay for failure?”
“I believe, yes, I believe ... that I do.” Archette hesitated. “But there are, indeed, great complications because we cannot find him. He is here, yes, among us. But where?”
“That is for you to discover.” Lazarus frowned. “But tell me of Soloman. Does he again prevail against us?”
“Soloman will be eliminated,” Archette answered. “I must move carefully but, yes, Soloman will be eliminated. He will not endanger our plans as ... as before. Perhaps it would have been wiser if we had killed him in the past, Lazarus, instead of his family.”
The man known as Lazarus turned fully at the words, and Archette once again beheld the commanding face, diamond-black eyes set deep in a saturnine countenance that seemed to know neither mercy nor weakness. His high cheekbones, sharp and intelligent, accented a face and jaw that were almost perfect in strength. His frown was terrifying.
“If we had killed Soloman, then he would only have been reborn,” he rasped. “I am an Overlord. Do you think that I do not understand the power of martyrdom?”
“Of course not!” Archette swayed. “I only meant that—”
“I will not have Soloman reborn to exact vengeance upon either myself or The Family,” he said, black eyes blazing. “The death of Soloman’s wife and child broke his mind as it does with all chattel. And that was sufficient because he no longer pursued those we recruited to serve us within The Circle. But to kill an enemy as powerful as Soloman ... can be a dangerous thing.” He turned again to the flames. “Unless we had utterly destroyed his body, his death would have made him even more powerful in his next world. Then one day, many years from now, he would have again threatened us.”
Archette stood in silence, hands clasped.
“No,” Lazarus continued, vaguely disturbed. “We will only kill Soloman at the Master’s words, for he is the God who would be, and cannot be threatened by flesh – not even by Soloman.”
“Yes, of course. It will be as you say.”
“The Family is displeased, Professor,” he said with colder emotion. “We have cultivated you. We have trained you. We have given you what you could never have gained for yourself. Then we asked for this – for you to bring the Master to us, and you failed. But you will fail no more. You will find him. And then you will assist him in whatever he requires. Or there will be no forgiveness. Or future.”
“I will not fail,” Archette whispered. “I will not fail.”
“Do not.” Lazarus turned back again. “Or you will hear serpents hissing in the halls of your house.”
Suppressing a trembling he had known only rarely in this place— trembling excited by the sacrifices and the dark blood running into water that washed it from the altar—Archette crept away, hoping no more words would be said. Then he heard the soft voice call after him.
He paused. “Yes?”
The man was concentrated.
“If the Master comes, remember that you must not tremble.”
Archette suppressed his racing breath.
“I would never tremble.”
Lazarus laughed.
“We will see.”
***
“Oh, lord!” Ben shouted as he tore off a report from the JDIIS telefax, abruptly handing it to Soloman.
Sipping a cold cup, Soloman took the message and responded wearily, “What is this, Ben?”
“It’s from the FBI!” Ben answered, swaying. “They’ve got a wheelbarrow-load of dead bodies with the blood drained, but this is something different! I think he finally made a mistake!”
Soloman quickly filtered out pertinent facts, and he saw that a priest, Father Lanester, had been murdered in a cathedral. It was a particularly bloody killing that amazed even veteran homicide investigators. No autopsy had been ordered because virtually nothing remained of the body.
Soloman’s eyes narrowed as he read the report, translating ancient words that had been written in the priest’s blood. And he knew somehow that the killing was related. Not just because of the phenomenal strength required for such wholesale murder but because of the malevolent meaning contained in the words themselves.
He stood quickly, walking and speaking, “Have the county homicide units color-fax photos of the crime scene. I want to make sure they’ve got this stuff right. Then heat up the Loach and arrange for a car to meet me at LAX. I’m going to this cathedral.”
Clenching his teeth as he stood, Soloman felt something awaken violently, something that told him he might not be facing an indomitable foe. For if Cain had made a mistake – even a single mistake – then
he could make two. And a second mistake could put him in a killing field.
He turned with new energy to Maggie, suddenly remembering that they hadn’t yet spoken about what Cain had said to Amy in the tunnel. The shock of combat had driven the thought from Soloman’s head, but now it was back and wide awake.
“Maggie,” he began, “we haven’t talked about what happened with Amy in the tunnel before I arrived. Did Cain say anything to her? Did she repeat anything that Cain said?”
“Amy said he was going to kill her,” she said quietly. “She said that he talked about the moon and water. And maybe some planets. She couldn’t remember which ones. Then she said that he mentioned something that sounded like ... verus, or verum ... or maybe grim verum.” She paused. “I don’t know what it means, and I didn’t question her too hard.”
Soloman was still as stone, searching his memory for anything that sounded like ‘grim verum.’
For a long moment he concentrated but nothing came. He shook his head; there was no way to know. But he had a suspicion about the planets, the moon, and the water. Studies he’d done on the Dark Ages made him suspect it was probably a spell and maybe even related to Satanism, which led him deeper and deeper into a hypothesis that he hadn’t spoken aloud to anyone – nor would he unless he was sure because it was too fantastic.
“All right,” he said, staring into the composed green eyes. “I appreciate everything you did. I know it wasn’t easy.”
She nodded, smiling faintly. And something inside Soloman responded to it – feelings and need rose within him with surprising intensity, but he instantly hardened himself against them.
This wasn’t the time.
The telefax began printing photographs of remarkable clarity, and Solo-man studied them as they emerged. He’d braced himself to ignore the carnage, concentrating on clues, but even though he was long ago inured to the sight of blood and slain men, he was shocked at the mutilation. He read the words scrawled in the walls and sensed that this was, indeed, what they had needed: a chance to move ahead of the game. Yeah, now he had something to work with – a place to begin the hunt.
He moved for the door.
“I’ll be back by morning,” he said. “Tell Malo to stay in condition red until I return.”
Ben was following. “Why would Cain kill a priest, Sol?”
“I don’t know,” Soloman responded, lifting the shotgun as he snapped the hammer back on the .45, placing it on safety. “But Cain doesn’t do anything without a reason – at least he hasn’t yet. There was probably something he wanted at the cathedral, and the priest got in the way.”
“But what would Cain want at a cathedral?”
“That’s why I’m going to church.” Soloman was at the door before turning back. “Ben, don’t let Cain get to Amy. That’s everything right now. Don’t let him get to the girl, no matter what. If he wants a fight, you make sure that you give more than you get.”
Ben licked his lips. “Sol, look, Cain ain’t even human. Fact is, I don’t think anything can stop this guy.”
“Look, Ben,” Soloman said sternly, silhouetted alone against the darkness. “I felt beaten before, but now I think that Cain can make mistakes. And if he makes mistakes at all, then he might make a mistake that’ll let us anticipate him and triangulate.”
“What are you gonna do?”
Soloman’s eyes reflected the rage that was deep and haunting and permanent. As he walked away he said, “I’m gonna see if a dead man can die.”
***
Soloman reached the cathedral at midnight. He left the shotgun in the trunk of the black Cavalier that met him at the airport and moved to the wide wooden doors, which he found locked.
Bending, he picked the bolt in seconds—always one of his best skills—before moving silently inside to see only the altar lit by a ghostly white glow. Staring up, he saw a gigantic, crucified Christ commanding the cathedral, staring with deep shadowed eyes.
Soloman stared for a long moment at the cold bronze silhouette with its crown of blood-washed black thorns before he finally moved past it. He was haunted by the ancient pain and the current unearthly conflict, and it took all his control to shut down the surreal sensation that caused his hairs to stand on end, the skin to crawl along his back.
It was less difficult than he had anticipated to stalk silently through the wintry corridors. And despite the surety that Cain was no longer in the cathedral, he couldn’t prevent himself from searching every shadow, every corner, moving with supreme tactical caution.
Within ten minutes, following the detailed description of the reports, he found the priest’s room on the third floor. The door was closed with crime scene tape. He reached out to turn the knob.
“There is no need,” a voice said behind him.
Soloman drew and whirled before he realized he’d dropped the safety of the .45. With clenched teeth he focused hard on the figure, and his finger tightened on the trigger before he identified the threat as a nun.
A breath came from him slowly as he stared at the old nun hidden in the gloom of an alcove. Soloman didn’t understand how he could have missed her but there she was, utterly motionless in a straight-backed chair, hidden in the shadows. Slowly he lowered the pistol to his side, staring until he saw more clearly the white and black habit.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Sister.” His voice sounded rude and intrusive in the gloom of the hall. “I’m Colonel James L. Soloman. I’m looking for the man who committed this crime.”
“He is not here,” she responded cryptically. “And we have washed away the blood that glorified him. So, Colonel, you will find nothing within the chamber of Father Lanester. He is gone.”
Soloman knew she wasn’t speaking of the priest. He stepped toward her, concentrated, for some reason not holstering the .45.
“Do you know what this is about, Sister?”
“Yes.”
“Then ...” He hesitated. “You know what I’m looking for? Have you seen him?”
“I have seen him in many forms,” she whispered, moving rosary beads in pale, slender fingers. “I have seen him in the eyes of the children he has left without a father or mother ... or love. I have seen his face mirrored in the blood his hate has shed and in the lives he has stolen.” She paused. “Yes, I have seen him, Colonel. I have seen him many times.”
Soloman didn’t know how to respond in the heavy silence that followed. Then the nun, seemingly ancient in the gray half-light, rose and walked slowly forward, holding the rosary and crucifix in her hands as if she would never release them. Fearless, she stared up into his face a long time, old eyes narrow and penetrating, piercing. Soloman coldly returned the glare until she was finished, and seemed to nod.
“Yes,” she murmured. “Now you, too, have been joined in the battle.” Her face was certain – no surprise. “There are others, Colonel, who are like you. Those who fight, and may yet destroy him.” Bending her head, she walked past him. “Come, and I will take you.”
Staring, Soloman felt the cathedral’s haunting atmosphere of age-old conflict, of evil and good, and things that should be feared. He hesitated, then, with a frown, gripped the pistol more tightly, and followed her into darkness.
***
Introductions were almost wordless, done more by one man sensing the other than speaking.
Soloman settled into a red leather chair in the office of the priest, Father Marcelle, who sat before the fireplace in a dark chamber. He regarded Soloman with unrevealing black eyes.
It had taken Soloman a few minutes to get accustomed to the priest’s unconventional appearance. Looking more like a small gorilla than a priest, Marcelle sat beside an ashtray filled with unfiltered cigarette butts and ash, and even now calmly smoked another.
Soloman didn’t want to reveal too much with his questions, but somehow knew he couldn’t approach this man with
out alerting the obviously formidable intellect glinting in the obsidian eyes. Also, he assumed that the priest, too, was somehow involved in this situation.
He guessed that Marcelle was some kind of investigator or troubleshooter for the Pope. He was probably a man of extraordinary power – a man of unique power who feared very little, or nothing, from secular authorities.
Settled in with a glass of red wine, Soloman turned to gaze at the venerable old nun who stood with infinite patience beside the door, perpetually ready to serve. Marcelle noticed the glance and spoke with a single nod.
“That will be all, Sister Mary Francis.” He focused on Soloman with the next words. “I’m sure the colonel and I will need no further assistance. You may retire.”
Sister Mary Francis nodded and turned, hovering for a heartbeat on the edge of darkness until, with ghostly silence and poise, she was gone. Soloman watched her leave and hesitated, staring into the stone gray gloom before turning back to Marcelle.
The priest’s dark face was almost perfectly expressionless, but Soloman detected a faint grimness in his eyes, in the reclining posture. It was as if Marcelle had both dreaded and somehow expected Soloman’s presence. He took a long draw on the cigarette before speaking.
“Sister Mary Francis has been assigned to assist me in exploring the reasons for Father Lanester’s murder, Colonel. She is quite a remarkable woman. Of the old school. You may find her somewhat discomforting, but I find her steadiness encouraging.” He paused. “There are few of her kind remaining in this age of expendable faith. But then, I distract you; let us proceed. Please, tell me how I can be of assistance.”
Soloman’s eyes narrowed, and he knew that the man knew far more than he could ever reveal. He was undoubtedly a man of highly developed intellect and responsibility and who bore a heavy mantle. And as Soloman further measured the priest something told him there was nothing to be gained by games.
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