Thrilled to Death

by James Byron Huggins

  “Yes, Aveling, I am certain that he cannot remember all that he knew.” Confusion was evident in Marcelle’s eyes. “But how could that be, Father? Why does Cain not remember all that he knew?”

  “It is simple, Marcelle. Because Cain, as you name him, has just opened his eyes to see.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that a man who has been blind since birth is sometimes healed by miracles of science. But upon seeing for the first time he does not know how to process information gained through his new-formed brain. He cannot see and identify what is ‘square,’ even though he knows what is square through his other senses. He cannot identify something so simple as a tree or even himself. He knows what a tree is but if you were to show him a tree, he would not be able to identify it. He must feel it with his hands as you tell him that this is a tree, and so he learns little by little. Yes, he learns as his brain discerns itself – until his mind is accustomed to this flesh and the gaining of it. Not a thing so difficult to understand – even to be anticipated. And Cain is obviously suffering a similar phenomenon. But he will learn, Marcelle. Yes, he will certainly learn. He is too terribly intelligent to fail in this task.”

  “So you are saying that Cain is attempting to acclimate himself to this body? To this brain? Is this the singular reason for his confusion?”

  “Nothing is singular, Marcelle. We do not know what forces fight for us. No one does. But that is the essence of Cain’s confusion, I believe. He is seeking to acclimate himself to this corporeal form, undead and yet un-living.”

  Marcelle went into it, Jesuit intelligence flashing keen in his concentrated glare. “Let us use sequential logic,” he said.

  “Proceed.”

  “Cain cannot remember all that he knew,” he began. “He seeks The Grimorium Verum. But for what purpose? He also seeks the child. We know already that he needs her blood to correct his anomaly. But there must be another reason, or he would have killed her in the tunnel before Soloman reached them. Why would he delay? Why did he hesitate? Tell me, old friend. What is the sum of these things?”

  The old priest folded his hands before his severe face. His eyes narrowed, gazing forward as if reading an invisible page.

  “Cain’s pride reveals him, Marcelle. If he is, indeed, our adversary – if he is the Prince of the Air, as we suspect – then he seeks to be worshipped even as God is worshipped. So we can logically deduce that he is trying to remember the names and locations of those who worship him. Yes, and so he may be seeking to remember these and others. And to continue that line of logic to its end, as we must do, he may also be attempting to remember secret pacts with princes of the Earth – to remember those in power that he has cunningly won by deception, or even remember the location of hidden treasures or empires dedicated to serving his cause, for even our adversary, in this human form, will need vassals to execute his plans.”

  “And the spell?” Marcelle asked. “The Grimorium Verum?”

  “May be the means of obtaining such lost memory.”

  Marcelle stared. “My God, Aveling. Is such a thing possible? Can . . . can memory be transferred from one universe to another? I hold you with the deepest respect, Father. But that seems impossible.”

  An indulgent laugh. “Remember, Marcelle, that ions and electric impulse, and thus memory, are as real as physical life or lightning itself. Soul cannot be defined, it’s true, but the physics of memory are readily understood. And nothing physical is ever lost, even in death. It is only transferred, as science has indisputably proven.”

  “And when Cain obtains this memory?”

  “If Cain possessed such memory, his wisdom would be supreme. His purposes would be laid deep and pursued with the advantage of cosmic cunning that no mortal could overcome.” Aveling pondered the theory. “That is, if he could remember. And that is apparently what he seeks through the spell. As I said, my son, his words reveal him. He cannot remember all that he knew, but he seeks to remember, and I conjecture that he seeks The Grimorium Verum to assist him in this task. So, if you combine all these hypotheses you have a logical conclusion. It is mathematical, a line that is not broken.” He paused. “Cain seeks this child’s blood to correct the strange disintegration of his own form. That is accepted as fact. But he also seeks to use her in this spell that will allow him to remember all that he knew. Thus he seeks to use her to obtain dominion over this world. Or destroy it.”

  Marcelle was suddenly fierce. “We don’t have much time, Aveling. Cain must be destroyed before he destroys this world. How prepared is Rome to stand behind what I must do? My terms may be extreme.”

  Aveling nodded. “With any means necessary.”

  “Good. Then we must move with purpose. Will you use all your power to make arrangements for me as I describe them?”

  The old man removed a sheet of paper from the desk.

  “The weakest ink is better than the strongest memory.”

  ***

  A silhouette in shadow awaited Marcelle as he exited the cathedral, and he turned his head, immediately identifying the bent, cloaked form of Sister Mary Francis standing silent and shadowed in the foyer. She stood with centuries-old patience, unmoving. But he felt the impact of those hard eyes and knew she had been searching for him. Holding the artifacts in his hand, he approached her in grim silence.

  She bent her head. “The child lives?”

  Marcelle stared. It was impossible that she could know anything of the situation outside these walls, and, yet, she seemed to know it all. He didn’t know how to respond, finally decided to use the truth: “Yes, Mother Superior. The child lives.” He paused. “How can you know of this?”

  “Always it is children,” she replied. “Yes, he wars eternally against children. I have spent too many long nights nursing them to life, and praying with them until they passed, to know any less.” The lack of fear in her voice was inspiring. “You must protect the child, Marcelle,” she continued. “Is it... a male child?”

  “No,” he replied. “It is a young girl. And our adversary, Cain, seeks to take her life to preserve his own.”

  “He is too inhuman to do otherwise,” she answered simply. “But you must not fear him.”

  Marcelle’s face tightened. “But ... but I do fear him, Sister. I have met him. And I fear him.”

  “Fear him not!” she said sternly. “He will use your fear! He will defeat you with your fear! Remember that he is not omnipotent! He is only a creature! Like us!” She paused, slowly folding hands in her habit. “The eyes of the children who died in my arms, and who understood the love of God with their last breath feared him not ... in the end.” She turned her head to the side. “We must have no less courage than them.”

  For a moment they said nothing, and then she angled her head, gently moving the rosary and crucifix. “I humbly request permission to accompany you, Father,” she said. “I perceive it as my duty. And I perceive more: I perceive that if we do not stand together we shall not stand at all.”

  Marcelle debated, wondering and fearing what Soloman would say if he did not return alone; they were already on tenuous legal ground. But the decision took only a second as he sensed the old nun’s formidable strength inspiring him with the will to carry on.

  He nodded. “I will await you outside,” he replied.

  CHAPTER 14

  Alone on the steps of the cathedral, waiting for Mother Superior Mary Francis to retrieve her things, Marcelle contemplated all he had heard. And it meant something to him.

  It seemed so clear now that he had spent too many years isolated in cold academic thought; too many years acquiring a formidable intellect but somehow losing what had called him here, in the beginning.

  Shadowed from within in the full light of day, he wondered how life had brought him to this place, and where he’d lost the essence of what he truly was. It had been a terrific loss, he realized; a loss
of years and love with so much time spent searching for a treasure that could not be found.

  He felt foolish, as if he had wasted decades in abandoned, desolate places, digging with nothing more than rumors and legend to lead him, always disappointed when he could have been building a truer life for himself in a truer world.

  Time that could not be redeemed.

  He scanned the surrounding buildings as he listened to the distant traffic, the world of men. And it seemed suddenly meaningless to him, more meaningless than it had ever been.

  He realized that the old nun knew more than he; knew that whatever was the heart of her faith was far simpler and easier to gain than the fantastic but meaningless disciplines he’d mastered – disciplines that could never build a tower to God. For somewhere in that simple faith lay a truth he had left far behind.

  Wind moved over him, and it seemed he had never felt it so clear, his skin so sensitive ... to the touch. It was simple and natural, and he knew it, yes, invisible but there, always there.

  Wind, whispering.

  Yes, the evidence of things unseen.

  With a thin smile he would no longer search to understand what lay beyond because he could never know what lay beyond. But he was struck at once with a memory of all the stars and all the nights he had ever seen; a starry host blazing and gazing, alive with life.

  He took a deep breath.

  Nodded.

  It was enough.

  ***

  It was late afternoon when Soloman finally received a Monopoly game from a somewhat surly FBI agent and winked. “Need some distraction.” The agent didn’t even reply as Soloman entered the kitchen to find Amy and Maggie sitting at the table. Malo was standing aside, rifle in hand with the stock set on his hip, chewing a cigar.

  “Got it, Amy,” Soloman said as he sat.

  “Great!” She clapped her hands. “I knew you would do it!”

  Soloman felt a rush that came through the small cracks of his internal armor and didn’t try to stop the release—wind moaning from a tomb—as he laid out the game. Confused, he tried to remember how much money was involved but it had been so long that he couldn’t recall the rules. Then Amy apparently sensed his confusion and reached out.

  “Here!” She laughed. “Let me do it!”

  Soloman smiled, leaning back. “Go ahead, kid.”

  He watched her work, and it was good. Clearing his throat, he narrowly studied the instructions to see where everything was laid. His face made it obvious that he had no idea.

  “Let me help,” Maggie said, taking the rest from his hands. She began laying out pieces, glancing up with a smile. “You play Monopoly a lot, Sol?”

  Soloman scowled. “Uh, no. Not really.”

  “Well, then, I guess it’s time to get back into it.” She grinned as she finished laying the pieces and leaned back, casting a challenging glance at Malo. “Want to join in, Malo? See how tough you really are?”

  Frowning, Malo shook his head. “No, ma’am. I think this is gonna get too mean for me.” He chomped down on the cigar. “I probably need to be … doing something useful.”

  Soloman cut him a glance as he walked away, muttering about checking heat sensors and motion ... whatever. He went through the kitchen, leaving Soloman with a very determined looking Amy and her openly amused mother. Soloman focused on the child.

  “You sure you know how to play?” he asked, dismayed at how quickly she’d laid out the money.

  Something told him he was in trouble.

  “Yeah!” she smiled. “I play this a lot! I even beat Mommy most of the time!” Soloman looked up to see Maggie’s laughing gaze and grimaced, clearing his throat. He began, “Yeah, well, maybe we should play a little warm-up game or something, just so we can—”

  “Oh, I already know all the rules.” Amy laughed and nodded curtly, suddenly serious. “It’s your move, Soloman.”

  Soloman met the beaming gaze and glanced at the board. Felt a sense of doom.

  “I was afraid of that,” he said.

  ***

  Ben wasn’t certain if he’d prevailed or not. He perceived from the last few minutes that the team might receive more time, but the winds of the career-minded were blowing hot and hunting for heads.

  Haggard and gaunt, Archette was constructing an elaborate argument to explain how Soloman’s failure to conform to military norms, his disrespect of lawful behavior and his unfortunate tendency to initiate overly aggressive procedures could be indicative of a dangerous antisocial disorder that might endanger the mission.

  To a point, Ben couldn’t dispute the accusation because, despite Ben’s earlier diatribe, Soloman had indeed gone outside regulations at the museum. And if the confrontation had ended in success, it could have been forgiven. But it hadn’t. It had resulted in the deaths of six elite commandos, virtually destroyed a national monument, closed down a major thoroughfare, and initiated a massive mobilization of the entire Los Angeles Rescue Squad. Not to mention that virtually every news agency in the world was now scrambling to uncover anything on this very sensitive operation.

  Tired, Ben muttered a curse. He wasn’t sure how it could get any worse. Until it did.

  “Is it not true,” Archette asked painfully, “that Colonel Soloman has actually violated the safe house with unsecured personnel?”

  Ben knew he couldn’t hesitate at all. Nor could he reveal what Archette so quaintly referred to as “micro-expressions” which, in psychiatric circles, were identified as almost invisible physical tics that expressed emotion far better than words.

  “That,” Ben said flatly, “is a lie.”

  Archette simply stared a moment before, “I have received reports that a priest is advising Colonel Soloman in this mission. Can you confirm this?”

  “The colonel is conducting a classified investigation,” Ben answered. “I am not at liberty to discuss whom he has, or has not, contacted. That would be a breach of security.”

  “Not if he has violated security parameters of the Trinity Mandate,” Archette replied steadily, and Ben knew he was right. He’d also known it would be Archette s next response, and he’d taken the moment to craft a carefully timed reply.

  “Gentlemen,” he began, glancing at the frowning faces of Bull Thompson and Blake Hollman, both of whom had to catch flights to New York within an hour. “I certainly know the security parameters. It is not a compromise of procedure for Soloman to confer, within limits, with anyone that he elects in order to facilitate the execution of this fail-safe. I can assure you that there has been no violation of procedure.”

  Bull took less time than Hollman. The NSA man, troubleshooter and general fixer for the State Department, stared at Ben as if he somehow harbingered a plague.

  “Ben, I accept your assessment,” Bull said finally. “And I trust that neither you nor your team has violated the security mandate. But, Ben, I’m not going to be able to give you more than another forty-eight hours. If you or your team haven’t made significant progress within that time frame, the Trinity Failsafe will be dismantled.”

  “I understand.” Ben nodded. “Give us forty-eight hours.”

  ***

  A crimson sun colored tree-strewn cliffs when Marcelle returned in the late evening. It had taken him the last half of the day to reach the safe house where he found Soloman and Maggie playing Monopoly with Amy, game pieces scattered across the kitchen table, an extensive display of money and houses and hotels and cards claimed by all. It looked like they’d been playing for most of the afternoon.

  Soloman turned as Marcelle entered and saw the old nun, Mother Superior Mary Francis, walking beside the priest. Her hands were folded inside her habit, her head bowed to wordlessly ask his acceptance.

  Rising instantly, Soloman walked forward, studying the situation. He wasn’t surprised at how things kept getting away from regulation.
After his discussion with Marcelle this morning, nothing could surprise him. He was aware of Malo’s cock-eyed grin at this newest development.

  “Sister Mary Francis?” Soloman reminded himself aloud.

  A demure nod. “I do not know that it will avail you anything at all, Colonel,” she said quietly. “But, with your permission, I would like to offer my assistance.”

  Malo smiled—actually smiled—enjoying it. “The general’s gonna love this when he gets back,” he said.

  “All right, Sister,” Soloman replied. “I guess we can use all the help we can get. Why don’t you fix us something to eat? You can ask Maggie and Amy if they want something special, but anything is fine for the rest of us.”

  Mary Francis nodded and gave him a narrow smile. “Thank you, Colonel. It would be my pleasure.” She moved past him.

  Unfazed, Marcelle spoke as she entered the kitchen. “You are a man of rare wisdom, Colonel. Sister Mary Francis may be of more use than it would seem.”

  Not responding, Soloman headed for the door.

  “Take over for me, Malo.”

  “I don’t think that I want to take over for you, Colonel,” the lieutenant replied. “No disrespect intended, sir, but your position”—he glanced at Amy and the Monopoly Board before tempering his language—”isn’t the best.”

  Soloman turned to glare a direct order, and Malo reluctantly laid his rifle on the counter. As he took Soloman’s position he looked with open admiration at Amy and the large accumulation of money and houses, still chewing the unlit cigar. “You ever done any money laundering, kid?” he asked. “I think you got a real knack for it.”

  With a smile Amy clapped her hands. “You want to trade all four railroads for Boardwalk, Malo? I’ve got a hotel on it. And, by the way, Soloman just landed on Pennsylvania Avenue. You owe me two thousand dollars.”

  Malo scowled at the board. “Eh?”

  Maggie laughed out loud, and Soloman smiled as he reached the door, following Marcelle onto the porch. He’d commandeered yet another cigar from Malo and lit it before meeting the darkening air of the forest.