Sins of the Assassin

by Robert Ferrigno

  “You’ve heard about the Colonel digging up Thunderhead Mountain?”

  “I’ve gotten reports.” Crews scrambled up the slope, all arms and legs, leaping from boulder to boulder. “Verily, it’s written that in the last days the wicked will seek to bury themselves in the earth, to hide from the wrath of God.”

  “The Colonel isn’t hiding. He’s looking for something.”

  Crews stopped just below the summit of the path, fixed Rakkim with a red glare in the setting sun. “We’re all looking for something, pilgrim.”

  “He’s looking for other coins just like the one in your hand.” Rakkim climbed up beside Crews. “He’s looking for the other twenty-nine pieces of silver.”

  “Ah, yes, the price for betraying the Prince of Peace, the bounty on God, the blackest of black magic.” Crews lightly stroked the raw edge of the coin, watching Rakkim. “Evidently, the Colonel will believe anything.”

  “The Colonel didn’t believe me at first either, even after I showed him the coin, but I guess he made some inquiries…maybe checked with some people from the old days, folks who might have heard tales of what was buried.” He flinched as Crews gripped his shoulder. “The old USA., richest, most powerful nation on earth,” he hurried, “and…and all that time no one ever asked how it happened, what was the source of that power. My grandpa was part of the unit that moved the coins out from under the Washington Monument during the last days, hid them in the mountain for safekeeping—Ahhhh!” He squirmed as Crews dug deeper into his flesh. “My grandpa…he was the ranking officer. He stole one of the coins, said if Judas himself couldn’t resist temptation, how could he?”

  “How could any of us, pilgrim?” Crews relaxed his grip.

  “My grandpa said the man on the shekel was a Roman emperor.”

  “Your grandfather was an ignoramus,” said Crews. “That’s Melqarth on the coin, the Carthaginian god of the underworld, but I wouldn’t expect you to know that.” He smoothed Rakkim’s hair. “Are you sure it’s only the rest of Judas’s thirty pieces of silver down there? What about a sliver of the true cross?” His eyes caught the last of the sunset. “I heard Ben Franklin himself brought a piece of the cross back from France. A sliver of wood with the power to heal the sick and raise the dead, turn water to wine.”

  “I don’t know anything about—”

  Crews gobbed a wad of spit on Rakkim’s boot. “Pardon me, pilgrim. Must have been the taste of bullshit in my mouth.”

  “That’s not—”

  “I may command a host of inbreds and psychopaths, but I’m an educated man. I was a university professor once, a tenured professor.” Crews clutched the coin. “Why would you share such a treasure if it really existed? You love me, pilgrim? You have a schoolboy crush on the professor?”

  “I’m one man. You’ve got an army.”

  “So does the Colonel.”

  “The Colonel’s going to sell the treasure,” said Rakkim. “You’d use the thirty pieces of silver the way it was meant to be used.”

  “How do you know what I would do with the silver?”

  Rakkim raised his right hand, showed the brand from the Church of the Mists. “Because I’d do the same, exact thing.”

  Crews looked at his own hand, slowly placed it next to Rakkim’s. The brands were identical, the white scars a perfect match. He started to speak, stopped.

  “Yeah,” said Rakkim. “Ain’t that something?”

  The wind whipped Crews’s hair, scattered yellow flowers.

  “I don’t know how it was for you, but I must have wandered in the smoke for hours, choking on the stink, about to cough up a lung,” said Rakkim, the brand throbbing in the dying light. “I thought for certain I was going to burn up…then God led me through the flames to the door.”

  “The door, yes,” Crews said gently. “Were you able to enter, pilgrim?”

  Rakkim hesitated, saw something in those wolf eyes. “No…no, I wasn’t.”

  Crews relaxed slightly. “Me neither. I beat on that door till my hands were raw, but it wouldn’t budge.” He showed his sharp, tiny teeth. “Saved by the grace of God, but condemned to forever remain on the doorstep, never allowed inside. That’s who we are.”

  Rakkim nodded.

  “Don’t despair.” Crews fingered the shekel, lost himself in the feel of it. “You can sense the darkness, can’t you? Power and dominion over earthly desires…the pure temptation. Truth be told, I wouldn’t have been as interested in a piece of the true cross as I am in this tainted thing. You ask me, Judas got a bad rap.” He jabbed the coin at the sky. “There’s a battle coming, pilgrim, good and evil, heaven and hell, and no mercy at all, not a bit of it. Perhaps once we drown the unrighteous in a sea of blood…perhaps then God will reconsider our exile from Paradise.”

  “I don’t give a shit about Paradise.”

  Crews laughed.

  “The Good Book says God made man in his own image. Look around, Malcolm, and see what we’ve made of the world. Take a good look. What does that tell you about the nature of God?” Rakkim was right in Crews’s face, made him take a step back. “I didn’t bring you the coin so you could buy your way into heaven. You and I are here to tear down the whole shit-house, set it ablaze, and not look back.”

  Crews stared at him in the twilight, finally nodded. “Yes…I think you and I have a lot to talk about.” He started up the path. “Come on, I want to show you something.”

  Rakkim followed him until they reached the top of the hill. In the distance he saw a small barn made of rough-cut logs and branches. Light leaked through gaps in the walls and roof. A cross was daubed on the door in red paint. The wind was even stronger here, their clothes flapping. He shivered.

  “The devil has a thousand names,” said Crews, voice rising, “but the name he takes the most pride in is Prince of Lies, because he is such a convincing fraud. Even God himself was fooled by Satan once, so what hope do we have to tell what’s truth and what’s false?” He ran a fingernail down Rakkim’s cheek. “Fortunately, God gave us a way to know.” He waved toward the ragged church. “Let’s go to meeting, pilgrim.”

  Chapter 31

  “You look beautiful,” said the Colonel, speaking around the lump in his throat.

  “Oh, you’re just saying that.” Baby pirouetted, the wedding dress swirling around her in a corona of white lace. “Doesn’t seem right for a girl to only get to wear her wedding dress that one time.”

  “You…you can wear it as often as you like. You look more beautiful now than the day I married you, and I didn’t think that was possible.”

  She spun faster and faster, laughing now, giddy, the dress lifting higher, exposing her long legs, faster, until she lost her balance. She would have fallen if the Colonel hadn’t caught her. “My hero.” She nuzzled his neck, kissed him, still laughing.

  The Colonel kissed her back, gently at first, then deeper as her heat filled him.

  Baby fanned herself with her hand. Pulled away from him. “Colonel, suh, you have an erection! What will my daddy say?”

  The Colonel reached for her, face flushed, but she darted away.

  “I bet it’s a big ol’ purple screamer, isn’t it? I heard stories about you.”

  The Colonel touched a button on the wall, maximized the privacy windows. He could see the last of the sunset, but the sentry posted outside could hear and see nothing inside.

  “I know what you’re up to, you nasty man.” Baby wagged a finger at him. “You’re gonna try and put that big ol’ thing inside of me.”

  “Baby, please…” Her games made the Colonel uneasy. All the variations, the sheer joy of her play was intoxicating, but he worried that she needed the games to hold her interest. “Baby—”

  “Today’s my wedding day and I can do anything I want.” She lay back on the sofa, lifted her skirt, and the rustle of silk sounded like a roaring fire. “Oh, damnit, I forgot my panties.” One hand crept down, lightly stroked her smooth pussy. “What am I ever going to do? Jo
hnny’s going to be so mad.” Her fingers traced their way up her inner thighs. “He thinks…” She gasped. “He thinks I’m a little bit of a whore. You don’t think…” Another gasp. “You don’t think I’m a whore, do you, mister?”

  “No.” The Colonel smiled, started unbuttoning his jacket. “No, ma’am, I don’t think you’re a whore at all.”

  She watched him from the sofa, back arched, the wedding dress bunched around her waist. “Johnny, he’s a big boy, got muscles on top of his muscles, but I think he’s scared…” Her fingers flew back and forth. “Scared of my…little…pink…pussy.”

  The Colonel tossed his jacket onto a chair. “I suspect that Johnny feels like he’s the luckiest man in the world.”

  “I hope so, because I love him…love him to death.” The moist sound of her fingers filled the quiet room. “That’s why…why I’m so worried about what he’ll do…when he finds out I’m not wearing panties. He’s got a terrible temper.”

  Thunder rolled off the mountain, shook the house. The Colonel lowered the lights as rain patted the roof, gently at first, then harder. The sentry hunkered down, head lowered. “Rain on your wedding day…that’s a good sign.” He tore open the Velcro snaps of his shirt as he stared at her.

  “You have to help me, mister,” she cooed.

  The Colonel laid his shirt on top of his jacket. “Anything.”

  “Anything for the bride to be.”

  “Anything for the bride to be,” he repeated.

  She beckoned him closer, her finger moving with the lightest touch. “Johnny…he’s gonna put a whipping on me if he catches me without panties. He’s not like you, mister. You like a dirty girl, I can tell, but Johnny, he’s just full of rules.”

  The Colonel knelt in front of her. “Maybe marrying Johnny is a mistake. A…dirty girl like you deserves to be with someone who appreciates her.”

  “I wish I could, I dearly wish I could.” She ground her hips. “Johnny, though…his family owns everything in our little town. The mill. The grocery store. The bank. If I don’t marry Johnny…his family’s going to fore-close on my daddy’s farm. So you can…see…my problem.”

  The Colonel couldn’t see anything else but her. “I…I’d be happy to help.”

  She grabbed his head, slowly moved him closer. “I want you to paint panties on me, mister.”

  The Colonel looked up at her.

  “With your tongue, mister. I want you to paint panties on me with your tongue.” She pulled his face into her, groaned as his tongue gently probed her softness, teased her. “Anything for the bride to be, that’s what you said,” she hissed through gritted teeth.

  The Colonel pressed her thighs apart, circled her with the very tip of his tongue as she worked against him, and he thought of other intimacies, other women…all gone now. Even the memories of them fading like photographs left in the sun. There was only Baby. She twisted against him, tore at his hair, but he held himself back…just enough. He always knew when to charge and when to retreat.

  She cried out, laughing as her wedding dress floated down over his head.

  The Colonel stood up, wiped his mouth. “What time is the wedding?”

  “I got to be at Gethsemane Baptist in two hours.”

  The Colonel unzipped his trousers, let them fall around his ankles. “Plenty of time.”

  Baby clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. “Well, look at you. That’s positively fierce, mister.” She gnawed on the hem of her dress. “I don’t rightly know if I can handle something like that.”

  The Colonel settled down on her, the wedding dress crinkling around them. He entered her slowly, entered in one long, liquid movement, and she rocked with him, her heat boiling away any doubts. Any thoughts. She held him close as he drove deeper and deeper, whispering in his ear, urging him on, working with him, the two of them panting, fighting for breath as the rain beat on the roof.

  It was dark when they awoke, the Colonel’s communicator buzzing.

  “Don’t,” said Baby, reaching for him. “Let it be.”

  The Colonel put the communicator to his ear, listened for a moment, and started getting dressed.

  “Zachary?” Her wedding dress rustled against the sheets, the top unbuttoned, her breasts peeking out. “You’re no fun,” she pouted as he hurried into his pants.

  “Moseby called, darling.” The Colonel pulled on his shirt, his expression eager as a schoolboy’s. “He’s found something at the bottom of the tunnel.”

  Baby examined her nails.

  “You want to come look? Moseby sounded—”

  “No, thank you, Colonel. I’m just going to lie here and pleasure myself thinking of other men.”

  The Colonel laughed, grabbed his rain slicker off the peg, and started for the door.

  She watched him stride past the sentry, shoulders back, reveling in the storm that raged around him. She sighed in the dim light. Slid her hand down the wedding dress. Rain slanted through the night as she idly stroked her nails across her flat belly.

  She was still touching herself when lightning streaked across the sky, flashed on Lester Gravenholtz barreling toward the house in his high boots, soaked, good and angry as usual. The sentry saluted, but Lester ignored him, taking the steps to the front door two at a time.

  Chapter 32

  Malcolm Crews kissed the silver shekel. “I hope you’re telling the truth.” He pushed open the door to the rickety chapel and ushered Rakkim inside. The men sitting in folding chairs turned around, followed their progress to the front of the room. Most of them wore skeleton costumes. Wind whistled through the dry branches that formed the wall. Howled through the roof woven from twigs. Electric lights propped in the corners cast shadows across the faces. It smelled like an old grave.

  “You’re not scared, are you?” said Malcolm.

  Rakkim looked at the men staring back at him. “Scared of getting fleas.”

  “You know what you need?” Malcolm picked up a couple of gallon jugs off the floor. He spun the screw top off with a flick of his thumb, the top rolling along the dirt floor. “You need a drink.”

  “That’s okay.”

  Malcolm nudged him with one of the jugs. “I won’t take no for an answer.” He waited for Rakkim to take it, handed the other one to a man in the front row. “Bottoms up.”

  Rakkim sniffed, wrinkled his nose. Tilted back the jug. He spit it out, coughing.

  Malcolm took the jug back. Drank deeply, smacking his lips. “Satan can’t abide strong drink, ’cause he’s afraid he might up and tell the truth.”

  “It’s…it’s turpentine,” said Rakkim.

  “Turpentine and rainwater straight from heaven,” said Malcolm. “Drink up, pilgrim.”

  The man in the front row upended the bottle, took a long pull, and passed it.

  Rakkim looked into Malcolm’s eyes…and drank. It flowed down his throat like acid, but still he drank, eyes watering as he fought to keep it down. Wiped his mouth and passed the jug back to Malcolm, who beamed and took another swallow. The jug went back and forth between them, back and forth, the other jug making the rounds of the chapel.

  Music started up…or maybe it had always been playing. Hard to remember how long he had been standing here among the shadows. Rakkim couldn’t tell if the sound came from within the church or outside. It was dark now. Dark out. Dark in. The light from the electric torches guttered as though they were candles. The men stood, swaying as the jug circled the room, around and around. Malcolm and Rakkim had the other jug to themselves, the turpentine burning through them, burning through the lies in search of the truth.

  “Feel that?” shouted Malcolm, though they were just inches apart. “That’s your sins being eaten away, pilgrim.”

  Rakkim trembled. It felt like his skin was on fire.

  Malcolm preached at the room, arms flailing, talking of the coming battle, the ancient foe, and the cost of redemption. “Matthew ten thirty-four: Whoever acknowledges me before men, I will also acknowledge
him before my Father in heaven,” he shouted, waving the jug overhead. “But whoever disowns me before men, I will disown him before my Father in heaven. You get me?”

  The crowd amened him, wobbly, bellowing their approval.

  Malcolm leaned forward, squinting. “Now don’t go supposing I’ve come to bring peace to the earth, because I come with a sword. I’m here to turn a man against his father, a daughter against her mother. A man’s enemies will be the members of his own household,” he snarled, snapping at the air. “You love your daddy or your mama more than me, you’re not worthy of me. You love your son or daughter more than me, you’re not worthy of me. Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.”

  The men cheered, howling with glee, all the dancing skeletons, bones those bones those dry bones, and Rakkim felt himself moving too, carried along on a wave of madness, jerking and twisting.

  Careful.

  Rakkim turned. Circled around at the front of the church, trying to see who was talking. The same voice that had led him through the smoke. Led him through the flames.

  “The Good Book and my new best friend says God made man in his own image,” said Crews, looking into Rakkim’s eyes. “Look around, and see what we’ve made of the world, my brethren. Take a good look. What does that tell you about the nature of God?”

  The men howled, baying like beasts, and Rakkim felt sick.

  Malcolm lifted the jug to Rakkim’s lips. He turned away, but men appeared on either side, skeleton men, holding him up as Malcolm poured the turpentine water into his mouth.

  Rakkim choked, sprayed the foul liquid into Malcolm’s face.

  Malcolm laughed. “Holy water, pilgrim. Much obliged.”

  Rakkim felt himself tilted back, and the jug banged against his teeth, turpentine pouring down his throat, and he couldn’t fight, his legs rubbery. He sat on the ground now, head flopped against his chest as the room whirled around him. Where did all the cobwebs come from? Cobwebs in the corners, hanging from the ceiling. The music was louder. Too loud. He stood up to make it stop, but his legs weren’t working so well and the laughter around him was even louder than the music. Rakkim struggled to his feet.