7

by Van R. Mayhall Jr.

  “Good God!” she said, shooting a look of concern at Robby. She was stunned; Robby had not turned away or averted his eyes. He stared at the man. She wondered if he was in some kind of shock.

  “I’ll pray for you, Mister,” said Robby abruptly. “Does it hurt?”

  “Yes, the scars hurt,” the Burnt Man said after a bit. “But I’ve gotten used to the pain.”

  “I don’t mean the scars,” said Robby.

  The Burnt Man stared at the boy.

  “I once knew a boy about your age,” said the Burnt Man.

  Cloe saw the man flinch slightly as if in pain. He hid it very well, and she was not sure at first that she had seen anything. But as she studied his ravaged face and—she had to admit it—beautiful eyes, she knew that Robby had somehow evoked a strong reaction in him.

  “My boss takes away the pain when he lays hands on my face,” said the Burnt Man. “He’s the only one.”

  “He’s not the only one,” said Robby, slipping out of his seat and walking directly to the Burnt Man. “Your boss causes the pain so he can take it away. Let me look at your face.”

  The Burnt Man was taken aback and hesitant at first, but he leaned down closer to Robby. Robby looked upon his disfigured countenance and then spat in his hands and placed them across the Burnt Man’s face. Robby bowed his head and prayed. The Burnt Man moaned and fell toward Robby, ending up on his knees in the aisle.

  Cloe glanced around for some means of escape or defense, but there was none.

  The Burnt Man came swiftly upright and said, “What did you do? My face is burning!”

  “I’m not sure what it is, but this will help. I know that,” said Robby. “You will be healed.”

  “Healed?” mocked the Burnt Man. “My face is on fire from whatever you did, and you say it will be healed? Only my boss can heal my face!”

  “He’s not your boss, and I didn’t say anything about healing your face,” said Robby in a small child’s voice.

  The Burnt Man sat back on the seat behind him and stared in apparent confusion at the boy.

  “I’m beyond healing.”

  Boss … boss, thought Cloe as she flashed back to what Tomas and his men called him. An old memory surfaced.

  “Oh my God! Michael!” she cried.

  CHAPTER

  71

  The monsignor stood in the rear of the Cathedral of Christ the King and watched the cardinals enter. He could smell the incense wafting through the air from an alcove to the right of the main altar. While it was dubbed a cathedral, aside from its age, it was not much more than what would be found in an average parish church in Europe or America. It was the oldest Catholic church in Iceland, dating from about 1864. Still, it is not the Sistine Chapel, thought the monsignor. The usual sea of scarlet was today a mere trickle of barely thirty cardinals, who came from all over the world to elect a new pope.

  “What will they do when they find out the pope is still alive?” asked the father curator.

  “I don’t know. We are sworn to secrecy,” said the monsignor.

  The monsignor glanced over at his colleague and friend and saw a tear in the corner of his eye.

  “They are so few,” said the monsignor, understanding his pain.

  “Yes.” The curator sniffed. “And the centuries-old tradition of the conclave at the Sistine Chapel is finished.”

  “My friend, you are very knowledgeable and wise, but I would beg to have you consider what the Church has versus what it is,” said the monsignor. “It has many traditions, some ancient such as the conclave and the sealing of the Sistine Chapel to elect a pope. But that’s not what the Church is. You will recall that the first pope, Peter, was simply anointed by Christ as the rock on which the church would be built. There was no vote and certainly no Sistine Chapel.”

  “Yes, quite right, Albert.” The curator shrugged. “It’s just that I miss the tradition of it all.”

  “Yes, we all do, but the Church, as the worldwide body of Catholics, has survived for two millennia and will continue to do so,” replied the monsignor. “It’s the spirit of the body of Christ … it’s the people.”

  “But how will we carry on?” asked the older priest.

  The monsignor turned and looked directly at his old friend and said, “We are now leaner, and we will get meaner if that’s what it takes to defeat this evil that has gripped the earth. In the book of Revelation, Jesus himself defeated the beast and threw him into the abyss for a thousand years. We must be ready to do likewise.”

  “I wish I had your courage, Albert,” said the curator. “It just all seems too much.”

  “Take heart, Father Curator. We have the wherewithal to overcome this latest challenge. We must find the right tools, the correct approach.”

  The monsignor looked around as a commotion arose at the heavy wooden entry doors to the church.

  “Father, look!” he cried. “It’s Father Anton! He must have come directly from the pope.”

  The monsignor and the curator moved toward the porch on the front of the church.

  “What’s the meaning of this interruption?” cried the camerlengo, who was responsible for the conclave and the gathering of the cardinals. “We are about to send all but the cardinals out and seal the doors for our deliberations.”

  Father Anton stood tall and said, “By all means, Father Camerlengo, please proceed to do so, but the monsignor and the curator will stay. I have a message they must hear, along with the cardinals.”

  “Impossible! And you are impertinent, young man!” declared the camerlengo, now beginning to grow angry. “It will not do.”

  “Father Camerlengo, please clear the church and seal the doors,” said Father Anton. “I have an urgent message to deliver that may be heard only by the conclave and my colleagues.”

  “From whom does this message come?” asked a nearby cardinal.

  “The source of the message may only be known by the conclave,” said Father Anton firmly but respectfully.

  The camerlengo glanced over at the monsignor and crossed his arms over his chest in a gesture that clearly communicated his disdain.

  “Camerlengo, I pray hear this man out,” said the monsignor. “He comes directly from an unimpeachable source.”

  Audible chatter issued from the cardinals now gathered around the camerlengo and Father Anton as they speculated on the source of the message and its contents.

  “The pope is dead!” cried one of the cardinals. “We are here to elect his successor.”

  “Has the camerlengo performed his sacred duty and pronounced the pope dead?” challenged the monsignor.

  Again, confusion reigned with all eyes turning on the camerlengo.

  “He was reported killed when Castel Gandolfo was sacked,” was all he could say.

  The curator stepped forward and said, “You all know me. I have overseen the Vatican library for a half century. I have served each of you. Hear this man out!”

  “Empty the hall and seal the doors!” cried the camerlengo, raising his right arm and pointing to the entrance.

  The personal servants of the cardinals and a few trusted administrative personnel were all sworn to secrecy, and then they left the church to await their call.

  When only the cardinals and Father Anton, the monsignor, and the curator were left, the camerlengo stepped to the front of the group and said, “Father, please deliver your message.”

  “Thank you, Father Camerlengo,” said the priest.

  He then turned to the cardinals and in a loud voice so all could hear, he said, “The pope lives!”

  Chaos ruled in the old church as the cardinals came to this truth and began to shout questions.

  “How? Where? Praise God!”

  “The pope is in hiding, recovering from his injuries suffered in the blast that destroyed the Castel Gandolfo,” s
aid the priest.

  “My God! I understand you cannot say where he is, but to know he is alive and recovering is a miracle!” exclaimed the camerlengo.

  “It is God’s will,” said the curator.

  “It is both,” replied the soldier-priest. “Now, Camerlengo, would you examine this writing from the pope and verify its authenticity?”

  The camerlengo took the scroll, which had been sealed in heated wax, and examined it.

  “There is no stamp of the papal ring,” said the camerlengo.

  “No, the Ring of the Fisherman was used as ransom for my release from Malta,” said the monsignor. “Do you know the pope’s hand?”

  “Certainly,” said the camerlengo, looking over the writing very carefully. “It is the pope’s handwriting.”

  “Read the message!” one of the cardinals called.

  CHAPTER

  72

  Cloe and the boy stood in an enormous suite on top of an impossibly tall building in what she thought must be the Middle Eastern country of Dubai. They had deplaned and come here in a blacked-out Suburban, so she saw little of the surrounding area. The elevator, however, was a dead giveaway as to the size of the building. So this is the tallest building in the world? Somehow, it was fitting.

  As they rose toward Michael’s mysterious overlord, she had felt again the shock of recognizing him. She had thought him dead and long out of her life. How could he have survived? Cloe’s mind went back to that night with Michael on the terrace of the old hotel in Tunis. Magic, she thought, and her heart ached.

  The suite was entirely empty. There was not a stick of furniture. There was no art and no window treatments. There was only white and the huge windows. There were no light fixtures, yet light was omnipresent. She and Robby cast no shadows. The light was not stark or oppressive but just a source of illumination. That was the only way she could explain it. She had entered the cave of the creature, but she wondered if the cave might actually be the creature, or at least a part of it. How else to explain this?

  She and Robby moved toward the huge floor-to-ceiling windows. She could discern nothing on the ground below them but a light here and there. The emptiness outside swept over her, and she stepped back, slightly nauseated.

  The Burnt Man waited in silence.

  Cloe caught movement out of the corner of her left eye. She spun in that direction to see a tall man dressed all in black standing a few feet away from her. He was studying the boy. Cloe watched him carefully. He was perfectly coifed and garbed. His eyes were flat black with no depth at all. Shark eyes. His skin was lily-white, but his lips were rosebud red. Was this the center of the evil now loosed on the earth? He was only a man. Only a man—but much more.

  “Good evening, Dr. Lejeune,” he said. “My name is Icar. Now that you are here, welcome to my home.”

  “We had little choice,” replied Cloe. “Your man was most insistent. Why are we here?”

  “Ah, directly to the point, I see,” replied Icar. “The boy is here to remove him from the other six. Without the seventh—the boy—they are harmless to me. But the boy himself—is he harmless? I’m not sure.”

  “Robby is a seven-year-old child,” said Cloe. “What threat could he possibly be to you?”

  “One never knows. It pays to be on the safe side,” said Icar. “Have you not translated the journal passages of the dialogue between St. John and that man?”

  “Yes, I have completed the translation,” said Cloe, wondering if he would hear the lie.

  “Then you know that one of the seven rises and becomes the leader,” said Icar. “It might be this boy.”

  Cloe laughed. “So you think this seven-year-old child is the leader of the seven? That is assuredly not so. I have met their leader. Who are the seven anyway and what possible threat can they be to you?”

  “They have been here from ancient times in different forms, different people at different times, waiting, always waiting for me,” said Icar. “We have tangled before.”

  “Without much success, I gather,” said Cloe.

  “Well, this has been pleasant, Dr. Lejeune, but why are you here?” asked Icar, turning to the Burnt Man. “I sent for one of the seven, did I not?”

  Cloe gawked at the change in Icar, from the chatty colleague to the terrible taskmaster. Why am I here?

  “And I brought you one of the seven,” said the Burnt Man. “You said nothing about the others. I used my judgment. She is the leader of the Vatican group. Perhaps she can be used as leverage to achieve your plan.”

  “My plan needs no leverage. It has been set in motion. Nothing can stop me. Plagues and chaos abound, and the US sits on the sidelines. The Vatican is destroyed, and the pope is in hiding. There is nothing that can be done to oppose me,” spewed Icar.

  “Impressive,” said Cloe. “So why kidnap a child?”

  Icar turned on her with fire in his eyes. The lights in the suite dimmed slightly and then burst forth with a brightness that was painful.

  “You do provoke me!” he hissed.

  “The mighty Icar,” Cloe mocked, gaining confidence or maybe just shedding her fear. “Afraid of a boy. Your plans may be in motion, but I sense an Achilles’ heel. There is a card here that, if pulled, brings the whole house down.”

  “You have obviously read the prophecy,” said Icar. His eyes swept over her.

  Until that very moment, Cloe had not thought of the coded passage in the journal as a prophecy. Now it all made perfect sense. These were not Jesus’s instructions as to what to do upon the rise of evil. This was his foretelling of how events would unfold in this second cycle of evil. This was why Icar was so afraid of the boy.

  Cloe laughed and pressed, “What a waste. All this destruction and death. Only to end with another thousand-year nap for you.”

  Icar roared, and the whole place went black and then brilliant white again.

  “You task me!” he snarled. “Your life hangs in the balance! Do not provoke me further.”

  “Nothing original to say, Icar? I’m not a whale, white or otherwise.” Cloe smiled demurely, wondering whether his allusion to Melville was deliberate. “The boy is just a boy, and I demand that we be set free. If your plans truly cannot be stopped, there can be no harm in letting us go.”

  “Perhaps you are correct, Dr. Lejeune,” replied the demon-man with a thin smile on his face, turning to the Burnt Man. “Michael, take them immediately to the observation deck and set them free.”

  CHAPTER

  73

  “Brothers,” the message began. The enclave of cardinals was completely silent. A pin dropping would have made a racket.

  “Brothers, Father Anton bears my message, and I bid you to heed him,” said Father Anton, reading the papal missive.

  Father Anton put the scroll down and looked at the assembled group.

  “Read the rest of the message!” cried one of the cardinals.

  “That is all that is written,” said the warrior-priest. “The pope would not trust the rest to paper.”

  “What else is there and how can we know it is true?” questioned another cardinal.

  “I will tell you the rest, and you will judge the truth,” said Father Anton.

  Father Anton looked at the monsignor, and he nodded for him to continue.

  “His Holiness says we are at war,” started the priest slowly. “We are in a thousand-year struggle with the beast. Evil appears now at every quadrant. But it has all been foretold. This is the second cycle of evil. Originally, in the time of our Lord, it ended with Jesus banishing the beast to the abyss for a thousand years.”

  “Yes, yes … that is written in the book of Revelation by St. John,” observed one of the cardinals. “But what of today?”

  “The first cycle occurred during the Dark Ages, and again, evil was vanquished,” said the priest. “The second cycle is now upon
us. It is up to us to confront and to pitch evil into the abyss. To do this, we need a warrior-leader of the church. We need someone of proven mettle who can lead us into battle.”

  The cardinals murmured amongst themselves as they heard this. The monsignor thought he heard agreement in the whispers.

  “The Church requires a person who can assume the mantle of battle and take the fight to the beast,” said Father Anton, his voice rising.

  Now the assent among the cardinals was louder with some saying, “Yes!”

  “The pope has designated such a person,” shouted the priest. “He will assume the post of vicar of St. Michael, a position vacant for a millennium. To him shall fall the sword and lance of St. Michael the archangel. These are among the most sacred of the Vatican treasures. Upon his shoulders shall rest the fate of the Church and of humanity.”

  The room was dead silent now. No one shouted or cheered as the weight of the incredible responsibility fell upon the assembled group. Cardinals prayed aloud that this not be their lot.

  “Who is it?” whispered the camerlengo.

  “The pope has decreed that the vicar of St. Michael the archangel,” cried Father Anton, “the one to confront and to defeat the beast, shall be Father Albert Roques, the monsignor!”

  CHAPTER

  74

  “Boss, I can’t take them to the observation deck; if there are people up there this evening, they will notice and ask questions,” warned the Burnt Man.

  Icar turned on Michael and walked closer to him. “Michael, is there something different about you? I sense a change.”

  “No, boss. It’s the same old me, but this is a dumb plan. It goes too far,” he replied.

  The dark man smiled and said, “No one will care. There’s no security in the building, and no one would have the gall to question me. Be done with it.”