Thrilled to Death

by James Byron Huggins

  Soloman’s laugh was frightening. “You tell ‘em that it’s too late for that. If they want to recall me, they can kill me. That’s the only way they’re taking me out of the field.”

  There was a disturbing silence, and Ben lowered his voice. “Look, Sol, this line ain’t secure and, I’m telling you, Archette says it’s over. Officially over. We’re out of funds and support.”

  “I know the line’s not secure, Ben.” Soloman’s voice held a bitter edge. “That’s why I’m saying it. I’m going to get Amy back, and if they want me out of the game, they can kill me.”

  “Look, Sol, I’m serious about this.” There was no exasperation in the tone, just anger. “And believe me, buddy, if they have to put you in irons until this is over, they will. Our papers are canceled. Passports are recalled. Customs has shut us down.”

  Soloman’s bitter smile didn’t fade. “Tell ‘em to go ahead.” He was emotionless because all human emotion had been burned from him, replaced with a suicidal rage. “But if they try to put me in irons, somebody could get themselves killed. There’s a little girl out there, Ben, and I’m going to find her.”

  Nothing was said for a time, but Soloman could almost hear Ben pondering.

  “Sol,” he continued, “listen to me on this, and listen good. I think they’re sending over a team for you. They want you out. And I can advise you that you should expect to be arrested. They’re not going to let you run off ...” Ben was silent a moment. “... like you did before.”

  A grimace twisted Soloman’s face, and he slowly sat up. Something had been hit hard, awakened by the words—something he’d strangely forgotten in the horror of the night. He stood with profound purpose, and Marcelle caught the commitment. Sister Mary Francis focused on him as he released a heavy sigh directly into the phone.

  “You’re right, Ben.” His voice held an air of disappointment. “Tell them that I’ll go peacefully. I won’t make any trouble.”

  “I’ll tell ‘em, Sol.” Ben hesitated. “The good guys left a few minutes ago, so they should be there within ten minutes. And good luck.”

  Soloman hung up and motioned silently to Marcelle. Then he pointed to Mary Francis and the bedroom where Maggie lay, and the old nun moved fast, her black cloak flowing.

  Soloman peeked out the front window and saw nothing, but didn’t trust it. He spun as the priest came up, “Do your people have the resources to finish this, Marcelle?”

  Marcelle nodded hard and Soloman returned the gesture in a secret pact as the Mother Superior emerged, half-supporting Maggie. She was still groggy from the sedative, and Soloman lifted her strongly in his arms. Marcelle opened the door, and they descended the steps of the town house. They reached the car, a new LTD, in seconds.

  Dropping Maggie in the backseat Soloman snapped open the trunk and moved to the rear of the vehicle, jerking out the radio module to hurl it into the street, where it was snatched up by a group of high school kids. Then Marcelle settled beside him in the front seat as Soloman backed the car, Mother Superior Mary Francis supporting Maggie’s head in the back.

  Marcelle whispered, “The radio?”

  “Has a GPS in it,” Soloman said as he threw the car into drive and they broke into traffic. “Do you have a place we can hide until Maggie wakes up from the sedative?”

  “Yes,” Marcelle replied immediately, indicating a turn. “The Church is not unqualified for the task.” He gripped the seat as Soloman hung an extremely hard left. “We will finish this alone?”

  “Yes!” Soloman shouted, livid. “They’re pulling the plug on us. They’ll probably turn it over to the CIA. It doesn’t matter. Amy will be dead by the time they find Cain. And I’m not going to let that happen.”

  “The FBI is hunting us?”

  “Every intelligence agency in this world is hunting us.”

  Soloman hung a hard turn, the LTD fishtailing. “But they can be beat. I’ve beat ‘em before!”

  Marcelle started violently. “When?”

  “When I—”

  Soloman gritted his teeth as he chaotically crossed the curb to take the sidewalk, pedestrians scattering wildly. Then the LTD was on the street again, busting the light to get clear.

  “For my daughter!”

  Marcelle held the roof as Soloman hit another turn.

  “Did you save her?” the priest shouted.

  Soloman’s reply was hard in hate.

  “No.”

  ***

  Amy had stared for hours, and, yet, the man had not moved. Sometimes his lips moved in a dark whisper, but his eyes remained closed, his head bowed and motionless.

  She was amazed as she had watched his body heal, skin peeling in sheets to fall away like the skin of an onion as new, pink skin, healthy and unhurt, emerged from beneath. His hideously ravaged head and face, also, had slowly reconstituted, becoming almost as smooth and unscarred as they were before the fight. Already a thin sheen of hair and skin was visible on the skull, which had gleamed a reddish-white only a few hours ago. Together they rested in the abandoned building somewhere in a city.

  Cain sat on the dirt-caked floor while she lay on a moldy mattress, her hands and feet tied, tape over her mouth. And for the longest time, she thought he had fallen asleep. But now she sensed that he was doing something else. He was meditating ... or something.

  Finally he raised his head, and a deep breath escaped him as he bent over, slowly opening his eyes to stare hatefully at nothing she could see.

  Amy watched, afraid to move, hoping he’d forgotten her. Then he rolled his head and moved his fingers in a fluttering, quick gesture that made the talons click. He flexed a fist, holding it a moment before laughing that horrible, haunting laugh. Turned to her.

  “Amazing, is it not?” He smiled slowly, a cruel red slash splitting beneath mocking eyes. “Amazing that this body holds such power.” He laughed again. “I thought that whore of a nun had exhausted my strength. How pleased I was to discover that she had not. For I still have much to do. I must locate Kano. I need ... The Circle.”

  Amy had trouble catching her breath. She didn’t remember much of the night. Only cold, a soaring roar in her ears and then a landing silence with an even deeper cold. Then there had been a distant, frightening scream and more screams before the man returned and lifted her, moving with rumbling, galactic force through a dark forest. She woke up here.

  “Mortals.” He stared away. “They regard knowledge as evil. And yet they know nothing of knowledge. They know nothing of space or light or worlds beyond the scope of their imagination.” He sighed, “I spoke with him—warred with him face-to-face, and I knew the terrible scope of that arm. So, no, I was never deceived. And I myself was almost without limit, made to resemble him in every way.” He frowned. “These mortals wonder stupidly at my image. But my image was as his – as the sun in all its glory. No creature in Heaven could look upon me with pride.”

  There was silence until he clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. “Michael! You were such a fool! Together we could have made the North run red with blood! Together we could have taken that Throne! But then, there was always ... the Nazarene.”

  Amy saw the face darken, the hard lines burning in the frown, the black eyes. “Yes, always the Nazarene – the one who had the pride to taunt even me! To call me murderer ... Thief ... Seducer ... Liar. But he will regret his scorn. For I will yet drag him down in his vassal’s human form to this disintegrating world, and the chains will change.” He was silent a long time. “Do you really believe that I, as lofty as I am, failed to see the essence of what you were?” He laughed. “No, for certain, space and time cannot change. And you think I didn’t understand? But I understood too well! I understood from the beginning what you had created and what my place could be within it! Nor did I care for what I could not claim!

  “The infinite belongs to you and always shall! But th
is . . . this that exists in space and time was mine and shall be again!” He grimaced. “No, you are not undefeatable! I destroyed your work by power. I destroyed your work by deception. I defeated you again and again, and I will defeat you again! Your only victory lies with the horror of the hill ... my only crime. For until then I had never killed an innocent man. I had never violated your ... your justice! I won by right! I won by might! I had taken nothing that was not rightfully mine!”

  With a guttural roar he threw up taloned hands. “The Earth was given to man, but man gave it to me! All this was legally mine, and you knew it! And then you deceived me! You lied to me! And you had the pride to call me a liar?” His eyes narrowed as if he beheld something savagely pleasing. “But I made you suffer for it! I made you suffer as no man has ever suffered nor ever shall! Until I make you suffer for it again!”

  Amy heard a car outside the building. Reflected light coming through the windows of the second-floor window caused him to lower his head. Stunned, Amy watched with wide eyes, with hope, but the giant rose slowly to his feet, undisturbed. He edged to the window and glanced down, gazing a long time until he turned to her.

  “It seems the police have discovered our means of transportation.” He laughed and stretched his huge arms, releasing a deep breath. “They are entering the building to investigate, which is a fortuitous event, indeed. For I hunger.”

  Gazing down, he smiled.

  Moved toward the stairs.

  ***

  Soloman was amazed with the skill that Marcelle met their needs. The priest stopped once to make a quick phone call, and then they were driving again, Soloman alert for marked or unmarked cars.

  Cautiously Marcelle directed them to a small church off Pennsylvania Avenue, less than a hundred yards from Shore Drive, a heavily traveled interstate. Soloman stopped behind the building and exited the LTD, and in the cold ocean breeze, he could smell the salt water of Jamaica Bay. He caught sight of a 747 landing at Kennedy Airport, less than thirty minutes away. From years in the intelligence field he knew it was a good location for a safe house.

  Marcelle was speaking quickly as Soloman lifted Maggie from the back seat.

  “Aveling has arranged for a speedboat to wait for us in the bay,” the priest said. “If need arises, we will use it to escape the city and gain another place in New Jersey, which he has also prepared. And we have a private jet waiting at the airport to take us anywhere in the world within a half-hour’s notice.”

  Slightly stunned as he carried Maggie into the rear entrance of the church, Soloman asked, “Do you people do this often, Marcelle? I haven’t seen any intelligence agency in the world that has this kind of coordination without a ton of paperwork and computer gurus.”

  Closing the door hard behind them, Marcelle laughed.

  “The Church is not the world, Colonel.”

  ***

  Aveling was seated in a crimson chair, staring intently into the vault of the Secret Archives. His face held no expression, his hands no tension as they rested on the mahogany arms. But his eyes, focused on the cavernous chamber as if to discern truth by sheer will, glinted angrily.

  The Librarian Superior stood to the side, waiting.

  Moving quickly, Father Barth came down the steps, a note in his hand. He walked up to Aveling and waited until the Jesuit said, “Yes?”

  Barth handed him the note, which he read slowly, frowning before he nodded. “Good,” he said. “Now, arrange in Rome for the transfer of unlimited funds.”

  “A wise decision, Aveling. But, again, do we not worry about the consequences?”

  “The consequences can worry of themselves,” Aveling answered gravely, folding hands meditatively before his face. “Marcelle has thrown himself into the void, so now there can be no trembling of hands or knees. I will stand behind my son because I believe his cause is just, because his enemy is great, and because we must all choose where we will die. And, last, because no man who sets his hand to the plow and looks back is worthy of the Kingdom of God.”

  A long pause.

  “Go,” Aveling said, bowing his head. “Do what must be done.”

  ***

  Soloman was stoic, staring out a window. He knew that Marcelle had approached him but didn’t turn. His mind had locked on something dark and disturbing. “Tell me something, Marcelle,” he began. “Do you really think you’re right about Cain?”

  Gloom, silence.

  “Yes, Colonel, I believe that I am right. As incredible as it sounds, I believe that Cain is a dead man inhabited by Satan. The body is dead, and the soul has fled, but because of this bizarre experiment, it walks among us as undead. Now, Satan has somehow seized the soulless void of this superhuman body, so we do not battle mere flesh. We battle a principality. We battle an elemental force of the universe.”

  “You spoke of that before,” Soloman said. “And I wasn’t certain if I believed.” He paused. “But now I do.”

  Marcelle said nothing.

  “Is he on a chain, Marcelle?”

  “A chain, yes,” the priest replied. “A long chain, to be sure. But the Almighty does, indeed, keep him on a chain. If he did not, then Cain would have destroyed this world long ago. And he knows his time is short, but he has deceived himself into believing that he can overcome.”

  “A dog on a leash,” Soloman said. “That’s what Amy said. A dog on a leash.” He grimaced. “So much power, but there’s no nobility, nothing to glorify. It’s like strength without purpose. Vengeance without justice.”

  “Yes, but he remains strong.” Marcelle was grim. “For he was once the greatest of all created beings, and he retains a measure of that cosmic might. Nor can any man understand him because no man can understand the essence of a spiritual being. Spiritual beings are not the fruit of reason, Colonel. Nor can any man understand pure evil because at the core of even the most immoral man lies the faintest measure of good.”

  A mutual silence.

  “He’s insane,” Soloman said.

  Marcelle considered. “Yes,” he said, “his defeat is assured, and, yet, he denies. He is deceived by his own ferocity, and he inhabits his own dimension of madness.”

  “Madness to name this,” Soloman whispered. “How inadequate.”

  CHAPTER 21

  “It ain’t gonna end like this,” Ben muttered, fists clenching.

  He found his car in the parking lot of Langley and unlocked it, lamenting the long drive back to the base with the traffic and the tolls. He wasn’t in a mood for the mundane.

  After dealing with Archette he vaguely expected the whole thing to blow sky high when he started the engine, but the experience was uneventful. Then he hastily cleared the guarded exit and drove east on Highway 172, sensing rather than smelling the water of Chesapeake Bay.

  He felt himself frowning as he debated a dozen options. But everything seemed futile, an exercise for nothing. And he knew better than to commit to an attack before he had measured the strength of the resistance; futile attacks cost more lives than futile causes. But, really, there was nothing left to do except sit and watch, he thought, as he saw the flat green fields of Langley Air Force Base approaching.

  As he cleared the gate, angrily anticipating the thirty-minute flight to Washington, the phone rang, and he let them know by his tone that this was not a good time. But as he listened, his brow hardened in concentration.

  “Who is this?” he growled.

  He listened until the conversation ended abruptly, as if in defense against a tap. Then, stone-faced, he parked the car in a no-parking zone and moved with his briefcase across the lobby, shouldering a dozen non-coms aside to command the desk sergeant’s immediate attention.

  Ben returned the salute.

  “Get me a chopper right now,” he said sternly, using the full frightening weight of his authority. He didn’t like to brutally throw his influence
or power over his boys, but he was inspired.

  “What’s the flight plan, sir?” the sergeant asked, galvanized, and Ben looked up from his wallet, knowing he couldn’t use military resources for the rest of it.

  His eyes glinted.

  “Long Island,” he said.

  ***

  Maggie was sitting on the bed smoking a cigarette when Soloman entered the small, undecorated room. Thin blue wisps spiraled up from a faintly trembling hand, but her face was emotionless. Approaching her slowly, Soloman watched her eyes. They never turned to him.

  When he was beside her, he drew up a chair and glanced out the window, noticing the darkness approaching far too fast. It disturbed him deeply because it meant they had only three more nights until Samhain and the ritualistic sacrifice of Amy, if she were still alive.

  Leaning back as Maggie released a slow breath, Soloman waited for her to speak. They hadn’t talked at all after the battle in the basilica; it had been too chaotic. And everyone had been temporarily deafened by the explosions and gunfire. But now, Soloman knew, they had to communicate because he had seen Maggie replace the syringe in the coolant, securing it inside her purse.

  In the dying light of a dismal day, he stared at a slender wood crucifix hung on the wall, one of the few emblems in this hidden section of the basilica. Then Maggie flicked ashes into a small bowl and slowly massaged her forehead with the heel of her hand. Her voice was dry as she said, “I could use a glass of water, please.”

  “Sure,” Soloman said as he moved from the room, coming back to find her smoking another cigarette. Gently, silently, he set the glass on a small table beside the bed, trying to sound encouraging.

  “I didn’t know you smoked.”

  A corner of her mouth quirked in a humorless smile. “Gave ‘em up.” She didn’t look at him. “Bummed a pack off Marcelle.”

  “Yeah,” Soloman said faintly. “Marcelle likes his cigarettes.” He shook his head. “Sometimes he’ll have one burning in an ashtray and one burning in his hand at the same time.”