***
Livid with rage, Malo whirled as distant gunfire reverberated through the tunnels. He searched frantically but couldn’t pinpoint a direction and spun toward Chatwell. “Chatwell! Where did the colonel go!”
“I don’t know!” the sergeant gasped, staggering with fatigue as he glared into the spot-lit darkness. “He just vanished! He said he couldn’t wait for backup!”
Malo whirled back as sounds of shotgun fire and a wild animal roar collided. “Spread out and find the colonel!” he shouted to all of them as he ran forward. “Come on, come on, come on! We’re out of time!”
***
Soloman fired point-blank into Cain’s chest and Cain fully took the blast, staggering. He hovered on the edge of the ledge and Soloman advanced as he fired again and again, impacts of the SPAS-12 shredding the giant’s torso in violent concussions that painted the white walls red but Cain didn’t drop so Soloman kept firing.
Then with a galactic scream Cain staggered forward, lifting taloned hands to grapple and Soloman roared in rage as he stepped into it, the SPAS ejecting spent rounds as quick as he could pull the trigger.
Taking five blasts dead-center to the chest Cain was moved back again by the onslaught to hover on the edge of the ledge. Then his face twisted with pain and fangs exploded from his jaws in a thundering god-roar as Soloman fired the twelfth and last round from the SPAS, instantly dropping the shotgun to fast-draw the .45.
Before the shotgun struck the ground Soloman fired to hit Cain in the forehead only to hear the .45 round ricochet into the dark, defeated by the titanium skull.
He fired five, ten, twelve rounds point-blank into Cain’s head and chest and then the giant swayed on the edge of the abyss, his body hovering above the river. Soloman shouted as he sighted between Cain’s eyes.
Fired his last shot.
The bullet hit Cain’s forehead center-mass and, like a mountain, the giant fell from the ledge, bellowing in rage. He hit the river hard where the impact was lost to the deafening roar of the river itself, and then he was gone, taken by the current.
Sweating in the mist, Soloman stared angrily from the edge of the river as he dropped the empty magazine. He slammed in another to instantly chamber a round and searched a long moment but saw nothing and realized Cain had been defeated by the river. He was gone.
Gone into the darkness of the connecting pipeline.
Grave, breathing hard and heavy, Soloman turned to stare down at the little girl, searching and concerned. But he saw she was unharmed as she whispered fearfully, “Did you . . . did you kill it?”
Soloman was silent a long time, compassion and control giving tone to his eventual words.
“No, Amy. I don’t think that I did.”
***
Marcelle gently touched the wall, feeling the deep talon marks torn in H the plaster of Father Lanester’s room. The monstrous claws had raked with phenomenal power to tear furrows as wide and deep as his fingernail, clearly the work of inhuman strength.
The room had been almost cleaned by a single old nun, who labored yet. Working on her knees with a scrub brush, she stubbornly struggled to remove blood stains from the glossy wood.
She had looked up, unsurprised, as Marcelle emerged to stand silently in the door frame. Her wrinkled face was implacable, mouth set in a grim line. As one deeply inured to the secret ways of the Church, she seemed to know why he had come. Silently she nodded, closing her eyes, and Marcelle gravely returned the gesture, also wordless.
Then she went back to her cleaning, tirelessly trying to defeat the blood as Marcelle fully entered the room, his quiet footsteps overcome by the sound of determined brushing. Ten minutes later Father Barth also appeared in the doorway. Although the old man spoke loudly and boldly to Marcelle, he did not enter the room.
“We have begun to catalogue the Archives against the last list of interred documents,” he said. “The Archbishop has called Rome for assistance, and they are flying in the Librarian Superior and Superior General Aveling forthwith. He will be here by late tonight to assist us.”
Marcelle indicated that he understood, not wishing to speak against the silence of the room—a silence broken only by the dogged work of the old nun so intent on her task. He was amazed that the walls had already been cleaned, for the chamber was not small. She had obviously begun at the top and worked her way down, where the blood had pooled. He could not even imagine how many buckets of blood she had already carried from the room, just as he knew that it had been a horrifying task. Though the horror of it seemed only to enhance, rather than dilute, her iron will.
He looked at the bed to see more talon markings deeply torn in the plaster, scratches that began low and rose to descend again, writing ... something. He studied it to translate and almost with the first letter, he knew. His mouth opened in a shock that even he could not conceal, and then he sadly shook his head as he finished, knowing what he had long feared had finally come, as he always knew it would come.
“What is it?” asked Barth, noticing the change.
Marcelle’s mouth tightened.
“Marcelle!” the old man repeated. “What do you see? Can you not tell me?”
“A word,” Marcelle replied, teeth clenched. “A single word.”
Braced by the presence of others, the old man walked into the room. Even though he was of strong fortitude, this event – so horrible and in his own parish – had clearly shaken his constitution. He stared at the wall, reading the scrawl left by the claws. His voice was quieter when he spoke.
“Neshamah,” he murmured, squinting a moment as if searching across a great gray distance, perceiving an enemy there. “It was written beneath the blood. That’s why I didn’t see it.”
“Yes,” Marcelle agreed coldly. “Always beneath the blood.”
Barth could almost be seen searching his mind, the definition of the word coming to him slowly. “Yes, Neshamah. I know this word. It is old Hebrew. It was used to identify ... yes, to identify the soul proper. It is meant to identify the essence of what is truly man. But what does it mean here?” He turned to Marcelle. “Why would it be torn into the wall beneath Father Lanester’s blood, Marcelle?”
“Jealousy” Marcelle replied. “Jealousy for what it cannot have.”
“And what does that mean? Are my suspicions correct? Is someone subjugated?” Barth waited, staring hard. “What does it mean, Marcelle!”
Marcelle bowed his head. Then without hesitating in her work at all and without looking up, the old nun spoke from the floor. Her voice was defiant and unflinching.
“Golem,” she said quietly.
Father Barth gazed at her.
No wind moved the air that moved.
“Golem?” he repeated. “What is this, Sister? I am not familiar with this word.”
Mary Francis respectfully waited for Marcelle to deliver an answer to the question, but Marcelle held his silence. Then, after a moment, she spoke while working, always working.
“Golem is a man that is not man,” she said, dipping the blood into the bucket. “The Golem is a dead man that lives – a dead man inhabited by Satan because it has no soul.”
Barth was cleanly shaken by the words, spoken with such a lack of emotion that the calm greatly enhanced the horror. “Can it be true, Marcelle?” he asked, trembling. “Can such a thing be true?”
Marcelle was deliberate. “Yes, Father, it can be true. The Golem is a man that lives unnaturally. A man that has no Neshamah, consequently leaving the mind empty for possession by the mazzikim – the angels of destruction. The ancients record as early as the Mosaic period that a Golem could be created by old masters of sorcery. Then, after the Golem entered the world of men, its soulless void could be filled by the most powerful of demons.”
“But is this not mere superstition?” Barth gasped. “A dead man living? Inhabited by Satan? You a
re a man of science, Marcelle! Tell me! Is it possible that something so terrible could come into our world?”
“Thousands of years ago men believed so,” Marcelle said. “And in many ways the ancients remain wiser than us, despite our science. The Golem is even mentioned in the Scriptures, in Psalm 139, verse sixteen. It is a passage that refers to a man that is imperfectly and improperly formed. It’s an obscure passage, and confusing to many. But it is there. It has always ... been there.”
Father Barth blessed himself and leaned against the wall.
Then, as if struck by something beyond them all, Sister Mary Francis suddenly ceased her labor, raising her face to look curiously upon Marcelle. It was a curiosity that passed beneath old eyes and slowly faded at Marcelle’s grim countenance until it was gone completely to be replaced with a deep and sincere compassion. Then, almost without expression, the old nun slowly crossed herself, slowly lifted her rosary beads to move them in silence, finally resting her hands on her knees in prayer.
But Marcelle knew it wasn’t for herself.
With a frown he raised his eyes to the wall.
To see death, there.
***
Soloman gently cradled Amy in his arms as he made his way through the hazardous tunnel, using the throat mike to communicate with Delta commandos who were still trying to find them in the underground labyrinth. The child was trembling violently from shock, murmuring over and over about the monster, the monster, the monster ...
Touched, despite the cold nothingness that he had come to know as life, Soloman paused to gaze down, his face slowly softening. Moment by moment his warlike fierceness faded to a gentle, tender aspect.
“It’s over, Amy,” he said. “Rest easy. It’s over.”
“But ...” she whispered. “But you didn’t kill him. And he’ll come back for me. He’ll come back ...” Soloman felt one of her small hands clutching his with all the strength a child could possess.
“Don’t worry about it, Amy,” he said strongly. “I’m going to stay with you. No matter what.”
Blinking, she gazed up. “But he’s evil. He said he was going to hurt me.” Fatigue washed across her eyes, half-closing them. “He said he was going ... to kill me.”
“Nobody’s going to hurt you, darlin’. I’ll protect you.”
“You’ll protect me . . . from him?”
Soloman hesitated. “Yeah, darlin’. I’ll protect you from him.”
She faded with each word. “Are you... FBI?”
“No, honey. I’m just a soldier. My name is Soloman.”
Silence – a long stare.
“Thank you, Soloman,” she said, and reached up so tenderly, touching his face. “Thank you ... for saving me.”
Then she rolled herself into Soloman’s chest knowing that she was, at last, safe in the arms of someone who would protect her. Little by little her trembling slowed, stilled.
She whispered, “Thank you for saving me …”
And surrendered to sleep.
Soloman stood a long time in the darkness. Then he gently tightened his arms to hold her even closer, warming her. And as he gazed into the angelic face he remembered the last time he’d cradled a still, silent child, a child who’d died only because he hadn’t been there for her.
With a frown Soloman bowed his head, wondering at it. Wondering how love for a child had destroyed him, how love for a child had resurrected him, how death itself had brought him back to life.
He gazed into her face, spoke softly.
“I was about to tell you the same thing, Amy.”
***
Maggie was pacing nervously at the entrance of the tunnel, both Hueys decked in the field behind her, when Soloman emerged from the darkness holding Amy tight to his chest. Malo and Chatwell and the Delta squad were close behind him, and as they cleared the entrance, they flared out to either side, effectively securing the area.
Maggie ran forward and Soloman stopped in place as she settled a soft hand on Amy’s face, reflexively feeling. Despite overwhelming emotions, she controlled herself with remarkable will and determination. But as they stood close Soloman could all too easily read the pain expressed by her tight mouth, the tears standing on the edges of her eyes.
“She’s all right, Maggie,” he said calmly. “She’s in light shock, but she’ll be fine once we get her warm. Right now we have to get you and her to a place where she’ll be secure.”
Maggie looked up, searching.
“No,” Soloman shook his head. “Cain’s not dead.”
Maggie reached out to take Amy from his arms, but he didn’t comply. “She’s heavy, Maggie, and it’s a forty-minute flight. You’d better let me hold her on the bird.”
She bit her lip, nodded once. “All right,” she whispered. “But I’m not leaving her side.”
Together they walked toward the Huey, and the pilot heated the turbos at their approach. Then as they reached the bay Soloman settled into a seat, cradling the sleeping child in his arms. Maggie sat next to him as Malo suddenly came near the hatch, leaning in.
“Negative on a perimeter search, Colonel!”
Soloman’s eyes narrowed. He nodded, “All right. Then put every bird the local police have in the air for a zone search. But you take charge of any assault if Cain is sighted. Continue until you determine whether Cain has broken clear of zones, then meet me at the safe-house.”
“Aye, sir,” Malo replied and solidly shut the hatch, distancing them from the thunderous sound of rotors and turbos. “Let’s go!” Soloman shouted to the pilot, and Maggie clutched Amy’s hand tightly as the Huey ascended sharply from the field, angling to clear trees as they flew high and hard into a night that had already lasted too long.
After twenty minutes in the air, monitoring Amy’s pulse and respiration, Maggie was content that her child was uninjured and was glad Soloman had chosen to hold her for the flight because it had to be exhausting. Yet his arms were almost motionless as he cradled Amy’s blanketed form, seemingly unaffected by fatigue as they sailed through the dark.
Finally Maggie leaned back, wiping wet bangs from her sweat-streaked face. Then she released a deep breath and glanced around at the sophisticated and confusing military equipment, neither intimidated nor impressed. She blinked slowly as she looked once more at Soloman’s silent silhouette.
Neither of them had said ten words since they left the ground, each preferring the respite.
Now, though, she saw Soloman’s head bent, his face hidden in shadow as he gazed at Amy. And Maggie caught a somberness in the bend of his brow that seemed sadder than anything motion could ever capture; it was a stillness that seemed to reveal a hint of tragic regret or haunting loss.
She watched him a long time, and he seemed to have forgotten her presence as he bent to Amy’s angelic face. Then he did something almost too small to observe. But she knew it was there as his fingers curled closely on the blanket, holding as if to comfort ... or ask forgiveness.
She hoped her curiosity wouldn’t draw his attention, but as he leaned back again she felt the hard impact of his eyes, implacable once more, staring over her. She opened her mouth.
Didn’t know what to say.
Finally Soloman gazed away.
Silent.
CHAPTER 9
A dark, dismal, soundless night haunted the aftermath of the battle, shrouding the safe house where they secured Amy. There was no triumph in their countenance, no words spoken to alleviate their mutual despair. A family in their fear, it was as if they knew together that hopeful words would not only be futile but despised. What they faced, they knew, was too profound for anything but the horrible truth, so they said nothing at all.
Soloman sat in silence, his gaze narrow and set against a window, watching a gathering storm. His face was distinctly bitter as if, even now, he could not reenvision what he had witnesse
d. Even the implacable fire of his eyes seemed shaken and dimmed, as if he had measured his own meager strength against a superhuman force he could never approach.
His head had the hated bend of defeat, and, inside his shocked mind, Soloman could see only one thing over and over again: the face of the child, the child with desperate, terrified eyes staring up at him.
It had moved him in a way he never thought he could ever be moved again because he had long ago reckoned that part of himself as dead. Now, though, with a child’s single pleading gaze, he’d been roused from a dead man’s desert grave to find himself reluctantly return to something he had fled for so long. With a disturbed frown he stared into the dark, wondering how it could have happened to a heart gone so long.
Secured deeply within the windswept, scattered green birch and ever-green woodlands of San Bernardino National Forest, the safe house was reinforced with steel walls, steel doors, and lead windows.
But none of them felt any comfort at its strength; they had seen already that nothing they carried could truly stop the virtual force of nature that had come against them. Only the fact that they were well hidden gave them temporary peace, for not even Cain could kill what he could not find.
Amy had fallen into blissful sleep with the help of a sedative, and Soloman heard Maggie quietly exit the bedroom, entering the den where he sat isolated. Ben had secured himself in the communications room to conference with the Trinity Council.
The big general had already been in there a long time, and Soloman knew he was probably having a difficult conference on the imaging system. But there was nothing he could do to help, so he turned his mind to security.
All the Delta commandos were outside with Chatwell, ensuring that the perimeter of the four-bedroom structure was covered. They were setting a wide array of heat and motion sensors to detect an approach.
Gazing quietly at Soloman, Maggie leaned against a wall. “She’s going to be okay. Her shock was psychological. But I gave her some Valium, so she should sleep soundly until morning.” She paused. “Amy told me you hit him with a lot of rounds. How badly did you wound him?”
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