Cain

by James Byron Huggins

  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 are 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 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 re-envision what he had witnessed. 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?"

  Soloman was amazed that she seemed even less shaken than he was, and he wrote it off as a measure of her phenomenal mind. Then with a grimace he took a deep breath, as if resurrecting a determination that had faded in the savage confrontation. He wasn't sure what made him evade her question. Perhaps it was because he feared his own answer.

  "Maggie," he began, "could Cain have drowned in that tunnel?"

  "It's possible, Soloman. Cain can drown just like anyone else. But he's not anyone else. If there was any way at all out of that tunnel, he found it. Even in pitch black he can see where to go."

  "But there's no light," Soloman countered.

  "He registers light at two-thousandths lux or less and translates it to a range of twenty-five thousand," she said, as if reading from a chart. "To Cain, the absolute dark of a cave would just be shades of gray. Even your guys' starlight scopes can't approach it. It's possible, even likely, that he's already found a way out of that system."

  With a supreme effort of will Soloman shook his head, as if to flame the stunned fire of his will, and Maggie was silent as he did. He had no doubt now that whatever horrific force delivered an ending to this conflict would take his life with it; knew somehow that victory, if it was to be bought, would be bought with the blood of everyone who stood in the gap.

  He only regretted it because he had just discovered, to his surprise, a faint interest in living again. But in the end, he knew, he had a duty to do; a duty he would do even if he had to shed his very last drop of blood ...

  ***

  Ben reluctantly recognized that he was retreating, reading the lay of the land as it seemed to change before him in a political earthquake. After more than seven minutes of continuous questioning, he was becoming more and more certain that Archette was playing a carefully crafted game.

  "If you will, General, allow me to ask another question," the professor continued, ultimately controlled. "Why did Ghost not earlier anticipate this direction of Genocide One? Was that not his responsibility? Such a lack of anticipation, a quality for which this operative is so highly vaunted, almost led to this child's death and provided Genocide One with a cure for his abnormalities. And did, indeed, result in the deaths of eight federal agents."

  Ben really didn't feel like dancing over this.

  "Well, Doc, I think he did do his job." Ben gave all of himself to the tone. "Ghost figured this out before the rest of us. Even before the researchers. It was our man, Professor, I stress, who got to the girl before Genocide One could kill her. Without Ghost's intuition and judgment, she'd be dead."

  "But his actions were decidedly not fully preemptive," Archette stressed, leaning forward as if Ben lay on a couch. "That is what you must understand, General. If we—"

  "Look, Doc." Ben returned the posture. "You're not a professional soldier. Truth is, I don't know what the hell you are. But I know you're not qualified to judge how fast we figured this out. No, we didn't completely second-guess Genocide One. That's obvious. But with the help of this operative we're beginning to anticipate this guy. And I'm convinced that pretty soon we'll be a step ahead of him. Plus, you have to remember that we're still early in this game. I'll say again that Ghost's success tonight demonstrates, indeed, that he can anticipate the moves of this target."

  From the screen located in the Pentagon, Brigadier General "Bull" Thompson seemed to concur and turned to the NSA assistant director. "Well, Mr. Hollman, what is your perspective?"

  Inured to the complexities of catastrophes, Blake Hollman was quiet a moment. His face was bland but also faintly dismal. "I don't know military procedures, General. It's not my place to second-guess professional soldiers who should be doing a professional job. But I do know we're getting heat from the Hill." He emphasized the threat with perfect timing. "Significant heat."

  Releasing a slow drag of his cigar, Ben tried to reveal that he didn't give a damn – which he actually didn't.

  "Heat about what?" he asked.

  "About the deaths of so many fully-armed federal agents in a public place and about the fact that we've got to put a credible spin on this disaster," Hollman responded, unaffected. "About the fact that we've got a madman walking around infected with a virus that could go supra-epidemic in a week. About the fact that internal antagonists of this experiment—an experiment which could be interpreted to violate international treaties prohibiting germ warfare—may eventually leak it to the media if they anticipate imminent failure. About the fact that any subsequent global disasters will be construed as our fault." He hesitated. "And that, gentlemen, even if Genocide One is ultimately found and destroyed before Class Four mortality rates are achieved, will injure our position. Conceivably, it could change the scope of our influence."

  As usual, General Thompson revealed nothing at hearing this threat. He stared at Hollman's screen and Ben could see the NSA's solidity. He also knew the tension wouldn't fade because Bull was a fighter. In the silence that followed, he thought of Soloman and regretted bringing him into it.

  "Well," General Thompson said flatly to Hollman, "I think we need to stand behind this team a little longer before we initiate more comprehe
nsive means of containing Genocide One, sir, because if General Hawken and his men are successful, there will be a minimal loss of life. And in military jargon that's called 'accuracy.' You kill the target without excessive collateral damage. And you can remind the President that the next-in-line failsafe, which entails dropping a nuclear bomb on whatever area Cain is located, is decidedly worse than giving this team another few days."

  Hollman was thoughtful. "Very well, General. I'll relay the—"

  "I concur with General Thompson," interrupted Archette. "I am not sure what measure of collateral damage must be acquired before we terminate this exercise, but backup failsafes are decidedly worse than our current plan. Yet I would also like to make a suggestion: If we meet in person to discuss the situation we may be able to articulate our views more adequately and design superior strategies. General Hawken, I would like to meet with you at the safe-house."

  Ben was ignited at the suggestion. He didn't like it at all. "The location of the safe-house is classified beyond your need to know, Professor. I have no intention of allowing you or anyone else inside my perimeter."

  "General." Archette shook his head. "Do you recall our collective clearances?"

  "Doctor, not even the President of the United States has the clearance to approach this safe-house." Ben was inspired by his own anger as he continued. "Your suggestion is out of bounds. Further, if you attempt to—"

  "That's enough, Ben," said General Thompson, turning to stare at Archette's screen. "Mr. Archette, even I do not know the location of the safe-house that General Hawken, in his tactical judgment, has selected. That is under the Trinity Mandate. You are well aware that this was to be a closed operation of a single field operative, a scientist, and a military commander. Your request is outside parameters. Nor do I want to hear it forwarded again."

  "Of course," said Archette, with a slight nod. "I merely meant that, as unexpected threats have complicated this mission, specifically the threat of a profound security breach, that we should confer to discuss alternate tactics. And I wished to do it without inconveniencing General Hawken. But since my ... suggestion ... is deemed unsuitable, General Hawken can meet us in New York or Washington."