by John Case
Lassiter ignored it all, striding through the forest in dead silence, his footsteps cushioned by a mulch of pine needles.
And then, too soon, he was there.
The path opened onto a ledge of rock at the very edge of the sea. There, a low, dilapidated building crouched by the water’s edge, its stone foundations lapped by the waves at high tide. Twenty years earlier the building had provided winter storage for half a dozen small boats and canoes. Today it was a gray wreck with a bowed roof and broken windows.
Lassiter looked one way and then the other, hoping for a better place to hide – but there was nothing. Just the rain, which was heavier; the sea, which was higher; and the woods, which were darker.
Crossing the ledge to the boathouse, he pulled the door open and stepped inside. ‘Marie?’ he asked. The building was pitch-dark until, quite suddenly, a finger of light stabbed him in the eyes, blinding him. ‘Jesus!’ Lassiter exclaimed, his heart lurching.
‘Jesse!’ Marie cried. ‘Turn that off!’
Instantly, the flashlight went out, and once again Lassiter was standing in the dark. Blinking. ‘Where are you?’
‘I let him hold the flashlight –’
‘It’s okay.’
His eyes swam with colors, as if his vision had been marbleized. And then, very slowly, shapes began to materialize in the room. A boat’s cradle. A pile of lobster pots. Some fishing nets, hanging from the walls.
‘Are we going to be okay?’ Marie asked. She was huddled in a corner of the boathouse, holding Jesse in her arms.
‘Yeah,’ Lassiter said, ‘we’re gonna be fine.’
‘You’re sure?’
Why lie? ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not really. The path goes right from the cabin. If they follow it . . . isn’t there anywhere else?’
Marie thought about it. Finally, she said, ‘No.’
‘There must be somewhere.’
‘It’s a small island . . . maybe they’ll think we’re gone.’
Lassiter shook his head. ‘The wood stove’s warm. They’ll know we’re here. You and Jesse, anyway.’
The flashlight on and off.
‘Jesse,’ Lassiter whispered. ‘Don’t.’
‘I’m sorry,’ the boy sang.
Lassiter sat down below a broken window, next to the door, cradling the rifle in his arms. He was thinking of the three men that he’d had in his sights. I should have killed one of them, he thought. Della Torre or Grimaldi, Grimaldi or the Mattress.
‘What are we going to do?’ Marie asked.
Lassiter shook his head. ‘I’m not sure.’
The minutes passed slowly, but they passed. The wind was blowing now, a low howl that made the rafters moan. It wouldn’t be easy for della Torre to look for them at night, Lassiter thought. Not in weather like this. Not if he was smart. If he was smart, he’d go back to the mainland, and try again in the morning. It was the only sensible thing to do, Lassiter told himself. And then he sighed. Sensible as it was, he couldn’t even sell this line of reasoning to himself.
He was hoping against hope, and he knew it – knew it for a fact when he heard the voices coming through the woods. At first he couldn’t make out the words, and then, when he could, he couldn’t understand them.
‘Franco? Dove stai?’
Lassiter waited with the rifle. Across the room, Marie sat on the floor, holding her breath – and Jesse. ‘Don’t worry,’ Lassiter whispered as the rain drummed on the roof and the wind moaned.
The men were outside now, walking around the boathouse. Lassiter’s heart was a drum.
Suddenly, a flashlight’s beam sliced through the darkness, sweeping the walls from left to right and back again, casting enormous shadows. It came from the window above Lassiter’s head, and in a second it had them. Like startled deer, Jesse and Marie were caught in the light, petrified.
‘Ecco!’
With a crack, the door exploded on its hinges, and a huge shape materialized in the void, shoving the splintered wood out of the way. Standing in the ruined doorway, the Mattress hesitated, savoring the effect of his entrance on the terrified woman and child. Then he took a step toward them, and Lassiter murmured, ‘Hey – big guy!’
The Italian turned with a roar, and as he did, Lassiter fired. The bullet slammed into his face and, hitting the cheekbone, somersaulted through his brain, lifting him into the air before it blew off the top of his head. The noise of the gunshot filled the room. Marie yelped. And the Mattress dropped to the floor like an armload of wet laundry.
Lassiter dropped the rifle and scrambled on his hands and knees over to the Italian’s body. As he searched for the gun that had to be there, he glanced at the dead man’s face, which now wore a look of permanent surprise. And then, quite suddenly, it was Lassiter’s turn to be surprised.
‘Ciao.’
The voice was atonal, above and to the left. Without looking, he knew who it was, but turned his head nonetheless. Grimaldi was standing just outside the broken doorway, looking down at him. He had a Beretta in his hand, and no obvious sense of compassion.
Now I’m dead, Lassiter thought. We’re all dead. This is how I die.
Grimaldi said something over his shoulder, speaking in Italian, and della Torre came to his side, holding a flashlight. ‘Why, Joe,’ he said, shining the light in the American’s eyes. ‘What luck to find you here.’ Slowly, the flashlight’s beam traveled to the body on the floor, where the Mattress lay in a slush of blood and brains. Della Torre made the sign of the cross, and stepping into the boathouse, moved the light in a slow arc, from one side of the room to the other, until it held Jesse and Marie in its glare.
‘Do you know who they are?’ the priest asked. When Lassiter didn’t reply, he answered the question himself. ‘They’re bad company, Joe,’ he said. And then, ‘All right – everyone get up. We’re going back to the cabin, where it’s warm.’
Grimaldi asked a question in Italian, and della Torre shook his head. ‘No – portali tutti,’ he said, and moments later the five of them were walking through the woods.
Jesse and Marie led the way, guided by the eerie beam from della Torre’s flashlight. Lassiter came next, just ahead of Grimaldi and the priest. Though the gunman was five feet away, Lassiter could feel the barrel of the Beretta pointing directly at his spine, as if the handgun were a phantom limb. If I break for the woods, he thought, they’ll kill me right away. And if I don’t, they’ll kill me later. Either way, Jesse and Marie are dead. There’s no way out.
Unless they make a mistake.
Which, however unlikely, was their only hope, and so he clung to it, and kept on walking.
By the time they reached the cabin, they were soaked. Grimaldi herded them over to the kitchen table and gestured with his gun for them to sit, while della Torre lighted a kerosene lamp and stoked the wood stove. After a moment the priest came over to the table with the lamp and sat down, across from Jesse and Marie.
‘Well,’ he said, clapping his hands lightly together, ‘here we are!’ With a glance toward Grimaldi, he muttered something in Italian, and nodded toward the wall, where a coil of rope was hanging from a nail. Then he looked directly at Marie, who was holding Jesse in her lap, and said, ‘Tell me something, Joe. Do you know who Lilith was?’
Lassiter shook his head. ‘No. Never heard of her.’
Grimaldi came to the table with the rope and gave the Beretta to della Torre, who leveled it at Lassiter. Then Grimaldi turned to Marie and, looping the rope around her waist, began to tie her to the chair. Instinctively, she started to get up, and as she did, Grimaldi reached for her wrist and, with a twist, forced her to sit down. Then he said something to her in a low snarl that needed no translation.
When Grimaldi finished tying her to the chair Jesse climbed back into his mother’s lap. ‘It’s all right, Mama,’ he said softly. ‘It’s all right.’
Della Torre cleared his throat. ‘Lilith was Adam’s wife – before Eve.’
‘Listen,’ Marie said, ‘if you�
�ll leave Jesse alone, I’ll do anything you want.’
Della Torre turned to her. ‘You should listen to this,’ he said. ‘It concerns you.’ Then he turned back to Lassiter. ‘When Lilith left Adam – and this will amuse you, Joe: they disagreed about who should be on top! – angels begged her to return.’
Lassiter was thinking, The kerosene lamp has possibilities. But what he said was, ‘And did she?’
Della Torre shook his head and looked regretful. ‘No,’ he said. ‘She didn’t. She was so unhappy with Adam, and with God, that she went to live with Satan. Eventually, she bore his children.’ The priest reached over and, with a smile, tousled Jesse’s hair. ‘They were demons, of course.’
Lassiter nodded. ‘You see a lot of that these days. I blame it on MTV.’
Delle Torre clicked his tongue against his palate – tsk tsk tsk – and, leaning forward, said, ‘“And the ten horns which thou sawest upon the Beast, these shall hate the whore, and shall make her desolate and naked, and shall eat her flesh, and burn her with fire.”’ Sitting back, he added, ‘Revelations, 17:16.’
Then he turned to Grimaldi and spoke to him in Italian. Grimaldi spread his hands and shrugged.
‘They’re out of rope,’ Marie explained.
Della Torre looked surprised. ‘You speak Italian?’
‘Chi lasci andare, Padre?’
Della Torre pretended to consider the idea. Finally, he said, ‘I can’t do that,’ and beckoned to Grimaldi. When he came over, the priest whispered in his ear. Grimaldi nodded and walked back to the kitchen. There, he searched through one drawer after another until he found a pair of kitchen knives. Returning to the table, he gave the knives to the priest, who handed him the gun.
Marie blanched, and Jesse held her closer.
Della Torre turned to Lassiter. ‘Give me your hand,’ he said, picking up a chef’s knife with a six-inch blade.
Lassiter stared at him, disbelieving. After a long silence, he said, ‘Unh-unh.’ Della Torre nodded to Grimaldi, who stepped behind Lassiter.
He expected to be hit, hard, but all he felt was the lightest touch – the edge of Grimaldi’s hand against the back of his head, slightly to the right of center. And then he heard a click and suddenly, he knew why Grimaldi was holding his hand like that: He wanted to shield himself against the spatter when he fired.
Lassiter took a deep breath, muttered an obscenity, and held out his hand to della Torre. The priest received it in his own, and turning it over, gazed at the palm. With a gentle touch, he pushed the hand down on the table and, taking the chef’s knife, touched the point to the middle of Lassiter’s palm.
‘Have you ever had your palm read, Joe?’
Lassiter shook his head and, in a rasping voice, said, ‘No. Never did.’ He was trying to control his breathing, and it wasn’t going well.
‘You see that line?’ della Torre asked. ‘The short line, just there? That’s your lifeline.’ And with that, the priest drew back and brought the knife down with all his force, driving the blade into and through Lassiter’s palm, nailing his hand to the table.
The pain was so sudden and piercing that Lassiter’s head flew back, reflexively, and a gasp burst from his mouth toward the ceiling. He heard Marie scream, faintly, as if she were far away, and then Grimaldi wrestled his other hand down to the table. Somebody straightened his fingers out and, a moment later, the point of a paring knife was driven into the palm of his right hand. This time he shouted something that sounded like a string of vowels that, once again, ended in a gasp.
He dropped his head to the table and groaned through gritted teeth. He lay like that for what seemed like a very long time, but probably wasn’t. When he finally looked up, della Torre was watching him with excited eyes, while Jesse cried in a weird and stertorous way. Marie was white as phosphorus.
He looked at his hands, impaled against the table. There was surprisingly little blood, but still, he felt his stomach sway. Taking a deep breath, he leaned toward della Torre. ‘You psycho fuck – what’s the matter with you?’
‘We had to improvise.’
Grimaldi heard the word, and chuckled. Lassiter’s stomach heaved, and suddenly he felt very cold. I’m going into shock, he thought. And then: Don’t.
‘You don’t understand what’s at stake,’ the priest said.
‘I know exactly what’s at stake,’ Lassiter replied.
‘I doubt that,’ della Torre said, and just as he spoke, lightning pulsed through the room. Then thunder exploded like a grenade, and suddenly the rain began to gust against the windows, hitting them in waves. With a worried look, della Torre glanced around the room. ‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘with all this rain . . .’
Lassiter wasn’t listening. He was looking at his hands, and asking himself if he had the courage to upend the table. If he did, as the table fell over, gravity would tear the knives loose from his hands.
Della Torre shook his head. ‘You’re not paying attention.’
Lassiter looked at him. ‘I’m a little distracted,’ he said.
The priest nodded. ‘You’re the wrong person to ask, in any case.’ Then he turned to Grimaldi and muttered something in Italian. The gunman nodded, zipped up his coat, and went outside, into the rain.
Della Torre turned back to Lassiter. ‘You think you know what’s at stake, Joe, but you don’t, really. You can’t. Because unless you believe in God as much as you do in science – and you have to believe in both to really understand – you never will. Do you know who that boy is?’
‘I know who you think he is,’ Lassiter said.
The priest cocked his head. ‘Really? And who is that?’ he asked.
‘You think he’s Jesus Christ.’
Della Torre pursed his lips, thought for a moment, and shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t. Because . . . if I thought he was Jesus Christ, I’d be down on my knees. Of course. But he’s not. He can’t be.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
Della Torre gestured vaguely. ‘I’m sure that God made man in His own image – and not the other way around. The child’s an abomination. And the abomination has a name.’
‘His name,’ Marie said, ‘is Jesse.’
‘His name is Antichrist!’ The priest was glaring at her, but then he seemed to soften. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘Baresi’s achievement was really quite spectacular. He accomplished in a few years what all the world’s magicians had failed to do in as many centuries.’
‘What’s that?’ Lassiter asked, thinking, All you have to do is throw yourself forward. It’ll only take a second. The table will go over, and . . . I can’t, Lassiter thought. I just can’t.
Della Torre was looking at him, as if he guessed what he was thinking. Finally, he said, ‘He conjured demons from blood.’
A gust of cold air blew through the doorway as Grimaldi returned with a jerry-can of gasoline. Coming into the room, he asked della Torre a question, and the priest nodded.
Suddenly, della Torre seemed out of breath, and perspiring. ‘I’m a little nervous,’ he explained, seeing Lassiter’s eyes on him. ‘I’ve never done anything like this before.’
‘Come on, come on, come on,’ Lassiter muttered to himself and gritted his teeth in search of the gumption he needed to overturn the table. His brain was screaming at his legs to stand, but his hands wouldn’t let them do it.
‘There’s no choice where they’re concerned,’ della Torre said, nodding to Jesse and Marie. ‘But . . . we could make it quicker for you.’
Lassiter’s fingers curled and uncurled around the blades of the knives as Grimaldi unscrewed the top from the gasoline can. ‘No thanks,’ Lassiter muttered.
‘Well,’ della Torre said, getting to his feet. ‘It’s time.’ Leaning forward, the priest dipped his finger in the blood that ran from Lassiter’s right hand. Turning to Marie, he traced the number 6 on her forehead, then grabbed Jesse by the arm and, twisting it, did the same to him. Replenishing the blood, he wrote the same number o
n Lassiter’s forehead, and stood back to admire his handiwork.
For a moment Lassiter was nonplussed, but then he understood. Himself, Jesse, and Marie:
666
The Beast.
Turning from them, della Torre reached into his cassock and produced a holy-water bottle that Lassiter recognized immediately. Removing the stopper, the priest snapped the bottle toward each of the four corners of the room, mumbling in Latin as droplets of water flew in every direction.
Suddenly, Grimaldi stepped behind Jesse and Marie. Inverting the can, he poured the gasoline over their heads, filling the cabin with an explosive smell. Lassiter began to struggle to his feet, realizing it was now or never – when Marie made the decision for him. Leaning back in her chair, she put the ball of her foot on the edge of the table and, using the leverage it gave her, pushed the table over.
Lassiter cried out in pain as the knives tore away from the table and the kerosene lamp crashed to the floor at della Torre’s feet, igniting his cassock. With a bewildered look, the priest bent to slap at the flames, while Marie screamed for Jesse to run, and Grimaldi bellowed at everyone and no one. Suddenly, the room was a dance of shadows as the cassock flared and della Torre became a torch, running toward the door – the outside, the rain – with a terrified wail.
Grimaldi took a step to help but before he could reach the priest, Lassiter blindsided him. Slamming into Grimaldi’s back, he sent the gas can flying at the priest. In an instant the blaze went nova; a little line of flames zipped along the cabin’s floor. Lassiter drove Grimaldi into the wall, and the air burst from the man’s lungs with a sound like a cough. Turning the Italian around, Lassiter grabbed Grimaldi by the lapels and drove his own forehead into the bridge of Grimaldi’s nose. Something snapped – it made a sound like plastic cracking – and Grimaldi seemed to sag. Without thinking, Lassiter swept his legs from under him and, as the Italian hit the floor, drove the point of his shoe into Grimaldi’s chest.
And again. And again, searching for his head, until the Italian rolled away from him – and came up firing.