The Judas Line

by Mark Everett Stone

Chapter Twenty-Two

  Mike

  Despite being in the clutches of Satan’s earthly minions who viewed me as a lackey of a lying God, I was being treated pretty darn well. Three hots and a cot until the next day, or what I assumed was the next day (the room had no windows), when I was bound, gagged, and a black bag lowered over my head. A short car ride later and the lot of us were airborne. By the soft texture and spaciousness of the seat, I assumed we flew by private jet. Too bad about my trussed-up condition, I could’ve used a nice comfy ride.

  Maybe they were afraid I’d call down the wrath of the Lord to blast us out of the sky because shortly after takeoff I felt a sharp jab to my neck and it was light’s out for the priest.

  If I had dreams, they didn’t travel with me to consciousness, but pain sure did. My eyeballs screamed at me as pressure forced them deep into their sockets. When I began to struggle and moan the pressure eased.

  “Wake up, Mr. Engle.”

  “Wha-?” Holy moley, that hurt! My eyes watered fiercely as I shook the cobwebs out of my head.

  “Boris, if you would.” Once again large calloused thumbs rammed into my closed eyelids and the pain ricocheted around my skull. That time I screamed. Loud.

  “Ah, good to see you awake, Mr. Engle,” the voice said as the pressure eased. I was learning to really hate that voice. Belatedly, I realized I was bound to a chair that was none too comfortable.

  Focusing proved difficult-my eyes were still smarting and everything was all light and shadow-so I shook my head once again to clear it. Slowly the world came into focus and I saw, standing in front of me, an elegantly dressed older man perhaps in his fifties with streaks of white in his once dark hair. He bore such a startling resemblance to Morgan that I knew it had to be Julian.

  His smile contained enough wickedness frighten angels. “You do not look like a priest, Mr. Engle.” Julian began to walk slowly around my chair. “More like truck driver. Yes, a truck driver. It is that ridiculous moustache. Is that not right, Boris?”

  The mountain of well-dressed muscle named Boris (whose expression registered no signs of humanity) grunted once, the sound seeming to come from the depths of some lightless cave.

  I stole a look at my surroundings. A large art deco space with a white baby grand that Liberace would have loved to play, a black leather sofa and loveseat, natural wood surfaces and a plush carpeted staircase leading to a second floor. What really took the taco was the floor to ceiling windows with a panoramic view what I believed was New York City. From the scale, I guessed we were at fifty plus stories up. Outside the rain sheeted down-a perfect counterpoint to my mood and aching eyes.

  Drinking in the full kitchen and dining room behind me, I cast my eyes to Julian and kept my trap shut.

  Morgan’s father, still smiling wickedly, stopped inches away. Boris loomed like only the massive can loom, the flat, soulless chips of his eyes conveying the message that any misbehavior on my part would be dealt with harshly.

  “Mr. Engle, you delayed my people with your rather … potent magic in order for my wayward son to make his escape. What I want to know is …” He leaned forward, his breath washing over me as he whispered, “Where is he?”

  “I really don’t know,” I sighed, not meeting his eyes. “The Lord provided the opportunity for his escape, but where he went was up to him. But I will tell you is this: you need a new brand of mouthwash.” Almost before the words left my mouth I knew what would happen. Boris placed a large thumb under my ear in the space behind my jawbone. At Julian’s nod he pressed. Hard.

  Instant, remorseless pain, like an iron spike slowly pushing into my throat. My muscles contracted as I tried to veer away from the digging thumb, but Boris’ huge hands kept my head steady as a rock.

  When he let go I almost sobbed in relief. It took a few moments, but I managed to control my labored breathing.

  “Where is he, Mr. Engle?”

  I screamed into Julian’s smug and wicked face. “I don’t know!”

  Another nod to Boris, another round of pain for me, but this time digging under the other ear.

  By the time the former Spetznaz finished, I had given up being brave and shrieked my agony to the uncaring world until my throat shut down. Head throbbing and body slick with sweat, I sobbed like a child while the zip tie holding my wrists together behind my back dug into my skin, tearing it, covering my hands in blood.

  “Where is my son, Mr. Engle? Where is the Grail?”

  I did my best not to start in surprise. The Grail? I had no clue where it could be. Last thing I remembered was facing Annabeth empty handed. Either the Grail had fallen or I’d set it down near the altar. Either way, it could protect itself. By the time I was airborne and on my way to New York, it had probably landed in the hands of some old lady who was using it as a paperweight. “Sorry, Julian, but I’ll have to stick to ‘I don’t know’ on both questions.” I licked my lips, tasting the fear-sweat coating my face.

  Julian quietly spoke into my ear. “I know you know all about us, Mr. Engle. I’ve read that silly memoir of Olivier’s that you kept in that coat.” He laughed at my startled look. “Oh yes, Mr. Engle, I have read it and found it rather droll. There’s nothing in there that can aid you, but at least you are aware of the kind of man I am and what I am capable of. I let you keep it so you know what you are up against in the hopes that you will see reason.

  “My … employer knows you destroyed the Silver, but that does not matter much now as we have other sources of power. Yes, you and my errant son have inconvenienced us somewhat, but we are powerful and you are not. So ponder that for a moment and then tell me where my son is hiding. Believe me, the rewards for aiding the Family are … vast.” The last was breathed with such amusement that I knew I’d never live to see such rewards should I betray my Morgan.

  This wasn’t going to end well. I cast an eye at Boris, the perfect sociopath, and then at Julian, the perfect … well, I’d rather not swear, but you can fill in the blanks. They could torture me for months and I couldn’t tell them anything. Heck, I wouldn’t tell if I could. Morgan was a friend and damn near the only person I considered family.

  “You know, Julian,” I rasped, smiling a crooked smile. “This is going to be a long day.”

  Oh yeah. It was a very long day, indeed.

  I was tortured for hours, maybe days, I don’t know because my brain had gone on overload the first few minutes after my show of defiance. Boris went at me without once breaking the skin and I had to give the big man credit, I felt more pain than I thought possible and still live. Arm locks, fingers jabbed at my throat, nerve centers in feet and arms pinched, poked and punched. Twice he dislocated my shoulders and twice the pain of the ball joints popping back into their sockets hurt more than the dislocating.

  Either Julian finally grew bored with my screams, or he finally believed my protests. I was carried to small room that on second glance was actually a large walk-in closet and dumped on a plain air mattress. At that point I considered consciousness superfluous and passed out.

  When I woke, there was no pain, no bruising, just a quiet lassitude and a feeling that something was amiss. Well, more amiss than usual, that is. Someone had been kind enough to place a tray of food by the bed. Cold cuts, bread, cheese, strawberries a bit past their prime, and bottled water. Wasting no time, I dove in and finished the whole spread-including the water-in less than five minutes.

  A Healing, I mused. Must have been. It explained why my muscles weren’t screaming bloody murder and why I felt pretty good.

  With a sigh and a groan I knelt next to the bed and clasped my hands in front of me in a pose of supplication. Words tumbled from my lips with comforting familiarity: “Our Father, who art in heaven…”

  Once done I felt much better, renewed. It had been a while since I had prayed and the lack had made me feel … itchy. One of my younger parishioners once asked, “Does God really listen to our prayers? And if so, why doesn’t he answer them?” I believe he does. I b
elieve he answers those prayers that absolutely need to be answered, that it is His judgment, His foresight that determines which prayers are the most needful. I’ve heard so many people say that if there is a God, He wouldn’t let bad things happen: earthquakes, mass murders, fires, plagues, etc.

  My take on God is that he is a loving, patient father and we are a bunch of snot-nosed rebellious brats. In the infancy of our existence as a race, He was there to help and guide us, instructing us on how to behave. He punished us when we needed to be punished and rewarded us when appropriate. As the society of man began to age, we depended less and less upon the aid of our Lord, like adolescents learning to fend for themselves. Now, many thousands of years after our creation, we are at the point where we must stand on our own two feet and rely on ourselves to get the job done. However, that doesn’t mean God doesn’t watch over us, providing sage advice and a gentle nudge or two.

  We call the Lord “Our Father,” but it is up to us to become self-sufficient, to stop harassing him all the time for all the little things. As for the bad things that happen, most of the time we-our own selves-bear the blame.

  So when I pray, it’s for the souls of my congregation, for the souls of my friends. I also pray that mankind as a whole will just grow up and start taking responsibility for its own actions instead of passing the blame off to God. We should just have faith that, ultimately, God has our backs.

  I understand that sounds kind of preachy, but that’s part of the job description.

  Shortly after my prayers Boris came, holding the door open and, with a nod of his head, indicated I should follow him. Big and tough as I was, he could still handle me like I was a third grader, so I followed him back to Julian. Long hallways with expensive carpeting told me we were in a hotel, and a ritzy one at that.

  “Ah, Mr. Engle,” he purred from his seat on the black sofa, a glass of red cradled in one manicured hand. The cityscape twinkled with a million varicolored electric stars. “Please sit.” His other hand pointed to an ugly, cold steel chair facing him.

  Deciding that compliance was the better part of valor, I sat.

  A big man long since gone to flab descended the stairs behind Julian. Short gray hair and beard framed a face dissipated by drink, the pug nose red-veined, the cheeks streaked with burst vessels. Despite his obvious deterioration, he was impeccably dressed in a dove-gray suit, presumably Armani. He held out a folder to Julian, who took it with casual indifference, flicking his fingers at the front door behind me. The chubby man left without a word.

  “My son wrote that he believed he was the Redeemer, the prophesied one.” Julian took a sip of wine. “He couldn’t be more wrong, despite having access to all thirty Words provided by the Silver. You see, Mr. Engle, the true Redeemer would welcome the touch of the Patron. No, my son is woefully weak, despite his capabilities.” He finished the glass, placed it on the glass-topped coffee table and stared at me intently. “Enough about Olivier, let’s talk about you.”

  Julian flipped through the folder. “Intensive interrogation reveals so much about a person,” he began, eyes scanning pages and pages of computer print out. “Your interrogation was witnessed by Dr. Silvestri.” He flicked a finger at the door chubby had exited. “The report he compiled tells me all I need to know. Hmmm …” Flip, flip, flip. “ ‘Loyal to a fault and has an over-inflated sense of right and wrong.’ No surprise there. ‘Aggressive tendencies buried beneath the teaching of his deity.’ Once again, no surprise. Look at this: ‘A suitable candidate for martyrdom.’ Well, well, you are a true follower of the Liar and his brat.” All this uttered in an unheated, avuncular tone.

  “Let’s look at your military file,” he continued. “Hmmm … Two tours in Iraq during Desert Storm, very bold. Wounded twice, Purple Heart with clusters … very nice. Bronze Star for meritorious service while engaged in an action against the enemy. That means you are a genuine war hero.” He set the folder aside. “Which begs the question: how does a war hero become part of a pacifist brotherhood of celibate weenies?”

  I couldn’t help myself; he tickled me to no end. He just didn’t get it … the faith, the rigorous discipline required to become a priest in the modern age and hold true to vows willingly taken. He didn’t get that there is more than one path to the Lord, more than one way to serve Him. Soldier, seamstress, surgeon, senator … all could find God in their own way. People like Julian refused to believe that the Lord’s heart is big enough to encompass the world in all its glorious diversity.

  Like I said, I couldn’t help myself … I laughed in his face.

  The next word out of his mouth was so predictable. “Boris.”

  What that big Russian did next took a long time and hurt like hell.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Morgan

  “What a tale you have spun whole cloth out of the fabric of fantasy, Mr. Sicarius!” Cain declared as I finished my story. He took a sip of whisky and flashed a gamine’s grin. “I fancy that you have had quite some time to concoct such an elaborate fabrication.”

  My throat was dry and I had a headache. The whole story took over two hours to relate and my shoulders had long since cramped up under the iron hands of the golem. “Listen, it’s the truth, man,” I snapped. “I didn’t come here for my health.”

  “The truth is a slippery thing, too subjective to be boilerplate for all mankind.”

  Who talks like that? I asked him again.

  “Today’s language offers no music or grace,” he laughed. “When LOL and OMG are considered the soul of wit, I must needs revert to a more intelligent method of conveying meaning.”

  “You have got to be shitting me.” The golem’s hands flexed slightly, enough for me to feel it.

  Cain lost his smile. What came out of his mouth next was a Word. Truth. It carried a cloying hit of garlic. “Is the story you related a factual one?” he asked, becoming very still.

  A familiar vise-like pressure filled my head and it felt like my brain was about to squirt out through my ears. “Yes,” I gritted my teeth. “It’s a true story.” With that said, the pressure eased.

  “Hmmm.”

  I had to smile. That was the shortest, least convoluted sentence he’d uttered since we met.

  “It is at this point, Mr. Heart, that I am presented with a quandary. There is no love lost between me and the Sicarii, but I confess to an overweening fondness for my skin and its placement upon my frame. That said, you should provide me with a suitable argument to sway me.”

  This guy was going to give me schpilkas. “How about saving millions of people from Earth?”

  “That reason does hold merit, but as I see very little chance of success against the Dagger Men, it is not good enough.”

  I’d been holding back one last card, one that could get me dead at the hands of a golem right quick. “Cain,” I said, licking my lips. “My real name is Olivier Deschamps.” During my story, I’d left that little bit out, fearing that it might lead to sudden iron poisoning. With my eyes shut, I waited for ferric hands to crush my torso.

  There was an expectant hush, as if the universe was waiting for the other shoe to drop, then, “Deschamps?” Soft, deadly.

  Eyes still closed. “Yes.”

  “You are the son of the current head of the Sicarii?”

  “Yes I am.”

  “Excellent!”

  What? No painful death? I opened my eyes to see that, once again, Cain grinned from ear to ear.

  Seeing my confusion, he explained, “Nothing would provide me with more joy and satisfaction than tweaking Julian Deschamps’s nose by aiding his son to foil his nefarious plans.”

  Nefarious? “Okay, great. Now can you tell the Incredible Hulk to let me go?”

  The golem’s hands did just that and I nearly passed out as the blood rushed back to my shoulders. Muscles began to spasm and that awful pins-and-needles sensation traveled up and down my arms. The lumbering monster clank-clanked to the door and gently turned the knob with an intricately jo
inted hand. Freezing wind rushed in as it disappeared into the darkness, closing the door behind it.

  “Th-thank you.”

  Cain nodded and retrieved a bottle of vodka from the refrigerator freezer. Pulling a tumbler from a cabinet, he poured two fingers worth and held it out to me.

  Liquor splashed my wrist as my hands shook, but I managed to put the glass to my lips and take a long pull. The burn slithered all the way down and warmed my belly.

  “Oh my,” I breathed, “I needed that.”

  Tap, tap, tap, went Cain’s fingernail against the kitchen table as I finished my drink. Tap, tap, tap. “One question, young Deschamps, if you would be so kind. For two millennia the Sicarii have endeavored to shorten me by a head, to end my ceaseless wanderings upon this troubled earth. Why would they undertake such a trying and perilous task? Everyone has met a swift end at my hands, or the hands of my protectors.” He gestured to the golem. “Such as the formidable Walter.”

  “They want to spit in the eye of God and prove that they’re the best.”

  He raised a bushy eyebrow.

  I sighed. “You were cursed by God and marked, so no man would kill you lest they suffer His vengeance. The Sicarii don’t fear God, so killing you, the world’s oldest man and strongest magus, would be quite the feather in a Dagger Man’s cap. It would make him or her a legend.”

  “Then they are foolish indeed.”

  “Indeed, but you already know all this.”

  “It has evolved into a force of habit to inquire about the motives of the Sicarii, imprudent as they may be. You are such a stubborn lot.”

  “Stubborn or not, I’m a tired man who needs a good night’s sleep.”

  “Of course, young man, I shall provide you with that very thing.” He pointed to the opposite end of the cabin, to a sofa next to a fireplace where a few persistent embers glowed. “My domain is small but comfortable, as you will discover. Liquid good cheer I have supplied and the couch offers generous comfort to ease you to slumber. My room is beyond yon piney door. Should the occasion arise for my assistance, you need only call.” That said, Cain walked through the “piney door” (made of rough-hewn timbers and glowing with beeswax) and returned a few moments later with an armload of blankets and a pillow. I stoked the fire, coaxing it back to life with more wood.