Pawn's Gambit

by Darin Kennedy

The pouch pulsed, sending a charge through his body that nearly took him to his knees. The doors opened on the fourth floor and Steven stumbled out as a pair of nursing students boarded the elevator. A second pulse from the pouch confirmed another Piece was near.

  The walls along the hallway bore a sickening shade of green that, coupled with the area’s antiseptic stench, caused Steven’s stomach to lurch. The placard above his head identified the floor as Mental Health. Down the hall to his right was another sign that read Inpatient Psychiatry. Steven made his way down the hall wondering what kind of person thought baby-puke-colored walls was the right call for the floor with all the crazy people.

  Steven’s reverie was cut short by another pulse from the pouch. A moment later, the heavy door that led to the inpatient ward opened, releasing a throng of figures in white coats.

  Steven pulled the cloak tight about his body. None of the mob of doctors, residents, and students shuffling by seemed to take even the slightest notice of his presence. More importantly, the pouch maintained its low, monotonous drone as the entire entourage passed. Guessing the target of his search waited within, Steven rushed the doorway and slid his foot into the crack before the door could click closed.

  After glancing around to ensure no one witnessed his mad dash, Steven let himself into the restricted area, marveling yet again at the power of the cloak about his shoulders. The door opened onto a common room filled with a disparate cast of characters.

  In the center of the room, a fortyish appearing man with a handlebar mustache argued with one of the nurses, vehemently refusing his morning medication. A teenage girl with bandages covering both wrists sat in the corner and stared at nothing in particular. A manic-appearing woman paced the floor, giving Steven a quick puzzled look before continuing her earnest effort to wear a hole in the carpet. Fourteen in all filled the room, but not one of them elicited even the minutest reaction from the pouch.

  A few feet down the opposite hallway, a young receptionist with platinum hair and a nose ring sat at the nurse station chatting on the phone while two medical students in short white coats sat behind her scribbling notes into overfilled charts. Steven drew close, but as in the common room, none of the three generated any response from his mystical Geiger counter.

  “Sir? Can I help you?” The receptionist looked up at Steven from behind her red rectangular frames, one of her too-plucked eyebrows raised in a quizzical stare. Though perfectly reasonable, her question took him off guard.

  “I’m, uh… looking for someone.”

  “Name?” she asked.

  Steven was about to answer when down the hall he spotted a middle-aged man in a black shirt and priest’s collar stepping out of a room. The pouch pulsed and the searing heat on Steven’s hip caused him to wince.

  “Ah, there he is. Thanks.” Steven walked away before the receptionist could formulate a response and intercepted the priest as he headed for another room.

  “Excuse me,” Steven asked. “Are you the chaplain for this floor?”

  “For today,” the priest answered. “Chaplain Robertson is out sick, He asked me to fill in. I’m Father Hammond. How can I help you?”

  Steven’s ears grew hot as he put together what he needed to say.

  “I’m sorry, Father. This might take a minute. I need to ask you something.”

  “Well, as it so happens, I’m between visits and have a few minutes right now. Would you care to go somewhere and talk?”

  Steven followed the priest to a small conference room at the end of the hall and closed the door behind them. Father Hammond stayed by the door, his weathered face calm yet expectant, his expression that of a man who had taken his share of confessions. Broken only by the continued drone of the pouch, the two men stood in tense silence.

  Steven searched for a way to begin. “You know, you may want to sit down for this.”

  “All right.” Hammond pulled out a chair and motioned for Steven to join him. “So, young man, what’s on your mind?”

  The priest sat expectantly, awaiting an answer, an answer Steven wasn’t ready to give. In his business, the cold call was his nemesis, at best a crapshoot, and at worst, a setup for failure. Convincing Emilio and Audrey of the truth about the Game had been relatively easy, considering the circumstances of each of their meetings. Pitching the Game to a Catholic priest while sitting on a hospital psych ward was a different story altogether.

  Wrestling with how to begin, Steven locked gazes with the priest. “What would you say if I told you strange things are going on all around us that most people can’t see or understand?”

  Hammond’s face shifted into a knowing smile.

  Steven wished the words back into his mouth, realizing his statement was essentially the man’s job description. “Sorry, Father. That didn’t come out how I meant it.”

  “That’s quite all right. It’s hard to talk about the big concepts sometimes. Things happen every day that are beyond the ken of man. I certainly don’t understand all the whys and wherefores of God’s plan for His people, but I do believe He has a plan.”

  Steven sighed. “What if I told you I was caught up in something, a struggle so important it defies description and so old I believe it might even predate the church.” His heart pounded in his chest. “Everything and everyone is depending on the outcome yet no one knows about it.”

  Hammond fixed him with an incredulous stare. “What’s your name, young man?”

  “Steven. Steven Bauer.”

  “Well, Steven, I would say you’re definitely in the right place to work on those kind of issues. Which doctor is taking care of you?”

  Great. He thinks I’m a patient. Time for drastic measures.

  “Uncloak.” In the blink of an eye, Steven stood revealed. His battered hands folded before him on the table, his torn clothes hung like rags from his bruised shoulders. He turned his burned, swollen face up into an ironic smile.

  “Honestly, Father, I wish I was crazy. It would hurt a whole lot less.”

  “My God, what happened to you?” Hammond’s eyes grew wide in disbelief. “And how did you do that?”

  Steven spent the next while giving a chronicle of the events leading up to their arrival in Virginia. The priest’s face vacillated between rapt attention and utter disbelief as Steven recounted the events of the preceding three days, his expression at times turning a bit sad as long held beliefs were inevitably called into question. At the end of his story, Steven unfastened the pouch from his belt and held it out to Father Hammond who took it from him as if it were a fragile newborn.

  “The truth is, Father, I can tell you about the Game all day long, but to understand it, you have to experience it.”

  “What do you mean?” Hammond asked.

  “I asked the pouch to take us to a place where Lena and Emilio could get help, but I think it brought us to this particular hospital for a reason.”

  Hammond’s eyes filled with apprehension. “What reason?”

  Steven closed his eyes and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “I think we’re here for you.”

  “Me?”

  “When I first saw you in the hallway, the pouch made it pretty clear you’re the next Piece to be claimed. Don’t ask me to explain it more than that. If I’m right, everything will be clear very soon.” Steven reached across the table, took the pouch back from the priest’s trembling hand, and unwound the silver cord from the pouch’s mouth.

  “You reached inside and the piece was there, waiting for you?” Hammond’s voice brimmed with excitement.

  “That’s how it happened for all of us so far.” Steven handed the humming pouch back to Hammond. “I guess we’ll have to see.”

  Hammond opened the pouch and stared into its open mouth like a child opening a gift on Christmas Day. Not wasting a moment, he reached inside for the prize awaiting him. A long couple of minutes passed as the priest ran his hand along every stitch of the bag inside and out, even turning it upside down and shaking it at one point. After a
brief pause, the priest laid the pouch on the table and looked up at Steven, his joyous expression replaced by one of defeat.

  “It’s… empty,” Hammond said. “There’s nothing there for me.”

  “But, that’s impossible,” Steven said. “I was there. I saw you. The pouch pulsed. Are you sure?”

  Hammond rose and trudged toward the door. “Nothing there for me,” he murmured again as he left the room. The door closed behind him with a crisp, metallic click, leaving Steven alone in the quiet conference room.

  “Why did you bring us here, then?” Steven inquired of the still droning pouch. “What do you want?” Steven reattached the pouch to his frayed belt and headed back toward the nurse’s desk, his mind a barrage of questions. Would Father Hammond wake tomorrow and think their encounter some strange dream? Or, would his near touch with destiny haunt him the rest of his days? Wrapped up in his own thoughts, Steven almost didn’t hear the hushed voice coming from the door resting ajar to his right.

  “Hey, you. Out in the hall.” The harsh whisper set the hairs on the back of Steven’s neck on end. “Get in here.”

  Steven walked to the door, knocked once, and entered to find a man at least forty years his senior lying in a hospital bed working on a half-eaten piece of French toast. His dark skin provided a stark contrast to his unkempt silver hair.

  “Right floor, kid.” The man coughed into his closed fist. “Wrong priest.”

  Amaryllis fluttered nervously at Steven’s neck.

  “Excuse me?” Steven asked.

  The old man put down his fork and wiped his mouth.

  “Hello, Steven Bauer. My name is Archibald Lacan, but you can call me Archie.” The man flashed Steven a disquieting smile. “I believe you’re looking for me.”

  23

  Archie

  Steven ventured farther into the old man’s hospital room, his head buzzing with a thousand questions. An enigmatic grin upon his face, the man beckoned him to come closer, his hands and fingers gnarled with years of arthritis. The low drone of the pouch escalated with each careful step and soon attained its familiar high whine. As Steven came to the foot of the bed, the leather seared his hip. Without a doubt, he had found another of the Pieces, though Steven couldn’t shake the feeling he was missing something. Something important.

  “Mr. Lacan—”

  “Father Lacan, but I prefer Archie. Less formal.”

  “All right, Archie,” Steven said. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

  “No, Steven Bauer, but I know you.”

  Steven’s hand went to his pocket and gripped the Pawn icon, his eyes riveted on the old man’s obscurant smile. “What do you want?”

  “Now, now, you won’t be needing any of the implements of your station here.” The old man speared the last wedge of French toast. “Even if I meant you harm, I’m hardly a threat these days. Look for yourself. Not even a glimmer off your icon.”

  Steven studied the marble pawn in his hand and found only the fluorescence of the hospital lights reflecting off its polished surface. Still, a visceral sensation both like and unlike his various encounters with the Black, roiled through him.

  “How could you possibly know the things you’re saying? Who are you?”

  “My apologies. I’m so thrilled to finally make your acquaintance, my enthusiasm has gotten the better of me. Not to mention, after the couple of days you’ve had, I’d be surprised if you weren’t a bit skeptical. Sit for a moment and I’ll try to explain.”

  Archie slapped an open hand on the arm of the blue recliner by the bed and though still dubious of the man’s intentions, Steven accepted his offer and took a seat.

  “So, you want to know how the crazy old man on the psych ward knows so much. Well, for starters, let me let you in on a little secret.” Archie beckoned Steven to pull closer, feigning a quick look around the otherwise empty room for eavesdroppers. “I’m not crazy.” His subsequent laughter ended in a hacking cough. “It’s the visions, you see.”

  Archie grinned up at Steven, the crazed look in the man’s eyes raising the hairs on his neck. “I see things no one else sees. Know things no one else knows. Can you imagine? For years, you dream about the end of the world, witness the great catastrophes of history, experience vicariously the various iterations of this insane Game that has taken over your life, Steven Bauer, and yet, you can’t tell anyone. Who would believe you if you did?”

  “Not even your fellow priests? Sounds like it’d be right up their alley.”

  “Truth be told,” Archie said, “for a profession that deals in a lot of end of the world talk, most of my esteemed colleagues aren’t all that keen on practical application.” Archie laughed again. The resulting cough lasted over half a minute.

  “I kept a journal,” Archie continued, “studied the Scripture for anything that would bring meaning to what I had seen, but kept my tongue. Even managed to delude myself into believing the visions were nothing but dreams or, I suppose, nightmares.”

  “How’d you end up in here?” Steven asked.

  “Over the last several weeks, the visions have been escalating. Before, they came only in the night, but as they encroached upon my daytime activities, I couldn’t ignore their significance any longer. I feared I was losing my mind.”

  “What happened?”

  “Before my recent… change in circumstance, I was the bishop of a small diocese north of New Orleans and had been invited to officiate Sunday morning mass at one of our local churches. I was finishing the homily that morning when I was hit by a vision of such intensity, it sent me staggering from the pulpit. I fell to the floor and from what I understand, laid there in front of a hundred parishioners, mumbling incoherently about kings and knights, good and evil, light and darkness, you get the picture.”

  “You scared the crap out of everybody.” Steven smiled despite himself.

  “To say the least. I understand the confessionals were packed for days.”

  Steven’s initial apprehension waned. “So? What happened next?”

  “I was admitted to Tulane for a few days. Got tested for every malady under the sun. The doctors seemed almost disappointed when they found nothing seriously wrong with me. They discharged me from the hospital, and after a few days, I tried to return to work. That’s when the visions started coming daily. I couldn’t function, but to be honest, I wouldn’t have stayed even if I had been able to deal with the constant intrusion on my thoughts.”

  “Why not?”

  “Around the same time, the visions shifted from rewind to fast forward. Instead of history, I started to receive glimpses of the future. Very precise, very accurate glimpses.” Archie licked his lips and cast Steven a wistful grin. “Can you imagine knowing without a doubt what will happen an hour from now. Exactly what tomorrow will bring?”

  “A skill like that must come in pretty handy.”

  “Not as much as you might think. As it became clear these weren’t just dreams and I was actually predicting things to come, it occurred to me my problem might actually be a form of prophecy, perhaps a gift from God. So, as any priest worth his salt would, I brought my newfound talent to the attention of the archbishop down in New Orleans.”

  Steven ran his fingers through his hair. “I see where this is heading.”

  “He didn’t know whether to call me senile or simply a heretic. Regardless, I was immediately suspended from my post. I’ve often wondered since then what the modern church would do if an actual prophet were to walk through their doors.” Archie took a sip of coffee and cleared his throat.

  “After a week, the archbishop again met with me. He’d gone so far as to discuss my case with representatives of the Vatican. They recommended I step down from my position and seek psychiatric help.” Archie closed his eyes and lay back on his pillow. “Thirty-seven years, and I was out.”

  “I still don’t understand.” Steven asked, shifting the conversation in a hopefully less painful direction. “How’d you end up in Virginia?”


  “My sister. Other than the job, I didn’t really have anything holding me in Louisiana. The people from my local parish were very kind, but after that day, nothing was ever the same. I moved here a few weeks ago to stay with family while I figured out what to do next. Things were good for a while. The visions took a break. I wondered if maybe the Archbishop was right. Too much stress, or something like that.” Archie sighed. “That’s when it happened.”

  Archie took a breath to center himself. “My sister’s grandkids decided to throw me a big party to celebrate my coming to stay with them. They called it Homecoming.” Archie snorted back a laugh. “Still makes me laugh. I grew up in the bayou, Steven, and let me tell you, the mountains of Virginia are as different from southern Louisiana as anything you can imagine.”

  “Sounds like they were glad to have you. Nothing wrong with that.”

  “Oh, their hearts were in the right place, but it still stung a bit having to move after seven decades in one place.”

  “I can relate,” Steven said. “I’m a bit of a transplant myself. I’m guessing something happened at the party?”

  “The event was a huge picnic, must have been fifty or sixty people there. Family, friends, neighbors, kids running everywhere, lots of people I’d never met before. The kids were bringing out the cake when it hit me.”

  “Another vision?”

  “The strongest one yet.”

  “What did you see?”

  “You, Steven. I saw you.” Archie’s piercing gaze fixed Steven to the spot. “As plain as you sitting here next to me.”

  “What? How?”

  “One minute I’m standing at the front table giving a speech and thanking everyone for coming. The next, I’m curled up on the floor, screaming over and over for someone named Steven to get the hell out of there.” Archie laughed despite himself. “I guess Annie and Eli won’t be throwing me another shindig any time soon.”

  “When was this?” Steven asked.

  “Five nights ago. I’ve been a guest of this fine establishment ever since. The docs here ran all the same tests on me as the doctors at Tulane. They say I’m fit as a fiddle. Other than this stupid cough, I’m the healthiest seventy-three-year-old they’ve seen in a while.”