Cain

by James Byron Huggins

  Soloman was still as stone, searching his memory for anything that sounded like ‘grim verum.’

  For a long moment he concentrated but nothing came. He shook his head; there was no way to know. But he had a suspicion about the planets, the moon, and the water. Studies he'd done on the Dark Ages made him suspect it was probably a spell and maybe even related to Satanism, which led him deeper and deeper into a hypothesis that he hadn't spoken aloud to anyone – nor would he unless he was sure because it was too fantastic.

  "All right," he said, staring into the composed green eyes. "I appreciate everything you did. I know it wasn't easy."

  She nodded, smiling faintly. And something inside Soloman responded to it – feelings and need rose within him with surprising intensity but he instantly hardened himself against them.

  This wasn’t the time.

  The telefax began printing photographs of remarkable clarity and Soloman studied them as they emerged. He'd braced himself to ignore the carnage, concentrating on clues, but even though he was long ago inured to the sight of blood and slain men, he was shocked at the mutilation. He read the words scrawled in the walls and sensed that this was, indeed, what they had needed: a chance to move ahead of the game. Yeah, now he had something to work with – a place to begin the hunt.

  He moved for the door.

  "I'll be back by morning," he said. "Tell Malo to stay in condition red until I return."

  Ben was following. "Why would Cain kill a priest, Sol?"

  "I don't know," Soloman responded, lifting the shotgun as he snapped the hammer back on the .45, placing it on safety. "But Cain doesn't do anything without a reason – at least he hasn't yet. There was probably something he wanted at the cathedral and the priest got in the way."

  "But what would Cain want at a cathedral?"

  "That's why I'm going to church." Soloman was at the door before turning back. "Ben, don't let Cain get to Amy. That's everything right now. Don't let him get to the girl, no matter what. If he wants a fight, you make sure that you give more than you get."

  Ben licked his lips. "Sol, look, Cain ain't even human. Fact is, I don't think anything can stop this guy."

  "Look, Ben," Soloman said sternly, silhouetted alone against the darkness. "I felt beaten before but now I think that Cain can make mistakes. And if he makes mistakes at all, then he might make a mistake that'll let us anticipate him and triangulate."

  "What are you gonna do?"

  Soloman's eyes reflected the rage that was deep and haunting and permanent. As he walked away he said, "I'm gonna see if a dead man can die."

  ***

  Soloman reached the cathedral at midnight. He left the shotgun in the trunk of the black Cavalier that met him at the airport and moved to the wide wooden doors, which he found locked.

  Bending, he picked the bolt in seconds—always one of his best skills—before moving silently inside to see only the altar lit by a ghostly white glow. Staring up, he saw a gigantic, crucified Christ commanding the cathedral, staring with deep shadowed eyes.

  Soloman stared for a long moment at the cold bronze silhouette with its crown of blood-washed black thorns before he finally moved past it. He was haunted by the ancient pain and the current unearthly conflict, and it took all his control to shut down the surreal sensation that caused his hairs to stand on end, the skin to crawl along his back.

  It was less difficult than he had anticipated to stalk silently through the wintry corridors. And despite the surety that Cain was no longer in the cathedral, he couldn't prevent himself from searching every shadow, every corner, moving with supreme tactical caution.

  Within ten minutes, following the detailed description of the reports, he found the priest's room on the third floor. The door was closed with crime scene tape. He reached out to turn the knob.

  "There is no need," a voice said behind him.

  Soloman drew and whirled before he realized he'd dropped the safety of the .45. With clenched teeth he focused hard on the figure and his finger tightened on the trigger before he identified the threat as a nun.

  A breath came from him slowly as he stared at the old nun hidden in the gloom of an alcove. Soloman didn't understand how he could have missed her but there she was, utterly motionless in a straight-backed chair, hidden in the shadows. Slowly he lowered the pistol to his side, staring until he saw more clearly the white and black habit.

  "I'm sorry to disturb you, Sister." His voice sounded rude and intrusive in the gloom of the hall. "I'm Colonel James L. Soloman. I'm looking for the man who committed this crime."

  "He is not here," she responded cryptically. "And we have washed away the blood that glorified him. So, Colonel, you will find nothing within the chamber of Father Lanester. He is gone.”

  Soloman knew she wasn't speaking of the priest. He stepped toward her, concentrated, for some reason not holstering the .45.

  "Do you know what this is about, Sister?"

  "Yes."

  "Then ..." He hesitated. "You know what I'm looking for? Have you seen him?"

  "I have seen him in many forms," she whispered, moving rosary beads in pale, slender fingers. "I have seen him in the eyes of the children he has left without a father or mother ... or love. I have seen his face mirrored in the blood his hate has shed and in the lives he has stolen." She paused. "Yes, I have seen him, Colonel. I have seen him many times."

  Soloman didn't know how to respond in the heavy silence that followed. Then the nun, seemingly ancient in the gray half-light, rose and walked slowly forward, holding the rosary and crucifix in her hands as if she would never release them. Fearless, she stared up into his face a long time, old eyes narrow and penetrating, piercing. Soloman coldly returned the glare until she was finished, and seemed to nod.

  "Yes," she murmured. "Now you, too, have been joined in the battle." Her face was certain – no surprise. "There are others, Colonel, who are like you. Those who fight, and may yet destroy him." Bending her head, she walked past him. "Come, and I will take you."

  Staring, Soloman felt the cathedral's haunting atmosphere of age-old conflict, of evil and good, and things that should be feared. He hesitated, then, with a frown, gripped the pistol more tightly, and followed her into darkness.

  ***

  Introductions were almost wordless, done more by one man sensing the other than speaking.

  Soloman settled into a red leather chair in the office of the priest, Father Marcelle, who sat before the fireplace in a dark chamber. He regarded Soloman with unrevealing black eyes.

  It had taken Soloman a few minutes to get accustomed to the priest's unconventional appearance. Looking more like a small gorilla than a priest, Marcelle sat beside an ashtray filled with unfiltered cigarette butts and ash, and even now calmly smoked another.

  Soloman didn't want to reveal too much with his questions, but somehow knew he couldn't approach this man without alerting the obviously formidable intellect glinting in the obsidian eyes. Also, he assumed that the priest, too, was somehow involved in this situation.

  He guessed that Marcelle was some kind of investigator or troubleshooter for the Pope. He was probably a man of extraordinary power – a man of unique power who feared very little, or nothing, from secular authorities.

  Settled in with a glass of red wine, Soloman turned to gaze at the venerable old nun who stood with infinite patience beside the door, perpetually ready to serve. Marcelle noticed the glance and spoke with a single nod.

  "That will be all, Sister Mary Francis." He focused on Soloman with the next words. "I'm sure the colonel and I will need no further assistance. You may retire."

  Sister Mary Francis nodded and turned, hovering for a heartbeat on the edge of darkness until, with ghostly silence and poise, she was gone. Soloman watched her leave and hesitated, staring into the stone gray gloom before turning back to Marcelle.

  The priest's dark face was almost perfectly expressionless but Soloman detected a faint grimness in his eyes, in the reclining postu
re. It was as if Marcelle had both dreaded and somehow expected Soloman's presence. He took a long draw on the cigarette before speaking.

  "Sister Mary Francis has been assigned to assist me in exploring the reasons for Father Lanester's murder, Colonel. She is quite a remarkable woman. Of the old school. You may find her somewhat discomforting, but I find her steadiness encouraging." He paused. "There are few of her kind remaining in this age of expendable faith. But then, I distract you; let us proceed. Please, tell me how I can be of assistance."

  Soloman's eyes narrowed and he knew that the man knew far more than he could ever reveal. He was undoubtedly a man of highly developed intellect and responsibility and who bore a heavy mantle. And as Soloman further measured the priest something told him there was nothing to be gained by games.

  "I won't insult your intelligence, Father. I think you know who I'm looking for. What can you tell me?"

  Marcelle was silent as he took another long breath of smoke, which spiraled up lazily from his stout, square face. His response came slowly, as if he were carefully weighing each word. "I can tell you some things, Colonel. And, not to your surprise, there will be things I cannot tell you."

  "That's not much of an answer,"Soloman purposely dropped the "Father," hoping to communicate with the priest man to man.

  Marcelle understood what this soldier was doing and thought that it if I had been far too long since anyone outside the Church had done so. Slowly he stubbed out the cigarette, took a sip of wine. He set the glass down carefully, running a finger gently over the lip. His tone revealed quiet amusement: "Tell me, Colonel. How can you know that the man you seek is guilty of the murder of Father Lanester?"

  "It's a suspicion. I've seen photos of the crime scene, and killing isn’t enough for this man. He wants his horror show. Plus, he speaks, or in this case writes, in dead languages. It's one of his signatures."

  "And who is this man?"

  "His name is Cain."

  Marcelle's finger froze on the edge of the glass, as if he'd been cut. He nodded after a moment. "And now you want to discover what I know about Father Lanester so that you may track this man, Cain, and kill him?" He looked up with a world of experience hard-gained at the price of Jesuit pain. "Is that not true, Colonel?"

  Soloman detected no surprise and no judgment.

  "Yes," he answered.

  Marcelle responded with a somewhat bitter smile. "Killing Cain may be more difficult than you presume."

  "Look, Marcelle, there's a lot here I don’t understand. But I do know there may be … unexplainable … forces at work."

  "Satanic forces, Colonel?" the priest asked without any hesitation at all, as if he'd been waiting for the time. "Is that what you're alluding to?"

  "That's unlikely." Soloman paused. "I just meant that there were certain things happening that are hard to explain."

  Marcelle's quiet smile masked something else. "Did you know," he began simply enough, "that Satanism is no more illegal than Catholicism – thought the acts of Satanists do tend to gravitate to the illegal? That's why the FBI has trained a handful of experts. I have consulted with them on several publications which explored the herd mentality of what is true Satanism."

  Blinking, Soloman asked, "And what is true Satanism?"

  "True Satanism," Marcelle said, "is not the worship of lunar gods or pedestrian witchcraft or even Santeria, which is only a combination of Catholicism and Haitian paganism. True Satanism is the singular worship of Lucifer, the supposed fallen angel, as the one true God of this universe. True Satanism does not entail the worship of nature, or fortune-telling, or Tarot reading, or horoscopes. True Satanism is a highly systematic act of worshipping Satan as singularly eminent to the Hebrew God, Yahweh. It is self-contained, and though there may be vagaries from cult to cult, which can itself be a misleading term, true Satanism is very narrowly defined."

  Soloman stared in silence.

  With a faintly amused expression, the priest bent his head. "What do you fear to tell me, Colonel? Because in this . . . inferno . . . where we have been hurled, I fear that fear gives us no advantage. Believe me when I tell you that I have been here before. And it can be an apocalyptic ordeal."

  Soloman knew that the priest had just issued a warning, but he didn't understand what it was. He also realized that whatever he himself said about the experiment at White Sands could be construed as a breach of national security, landing him in prison. But his bones told him that the man had knowledge that he needed, and badly.

  Making a deadly decision, Soloman told him of Cain's bizarre resurrection and escape, proceeding into the last days of the chase when Cain slaughtered the FBI agents, only to escape again. Yet he purposely omitted the phenomenon of the HyMar virus and the pending plague.

  Never before had Soloman used actual truth to persuade cooperation; always it had been mixed with lies. But now, seated among the cathedral shadows, surrounded by secrets he could never imagine, he knew there was no other course. And at the end of it Marcelle sat in silence, staring with a slightly bent head into the fire. He spoke with a sense of melancholy, almost amused.

  "What beasts men have made of men," he commented. "A dead man who lives . . . and yet it is not a new thing."

  Soloman scowled. "What do you mean?"

  "It has been done before, Colonel."

  "When?"

  "Three thousand years ago."

  "This science wasn't available then, Marcelle. I don't think that you fully understand what I'm telling you. I'm saying that this man is scientifically enhanced to be, for all practical purposes, unkillable." Soloman shook his head. "What I'm trying to tell you is that this guy was dead and now he's alive. And he is not human."

  A bitter laugh escaped Marcelle. "None of them were, Colonel. No ... none of them."

  Something about the priest's enigmatic turn gave Soloman pause. He stared for a long time until Marcelle spoke again, as if reminiscing.

  "Tell me, Colonel," he began. "What part of a man must die before he is truly dead? Does death come with the death of the body or the brain? Or does death come with the destruction of something more than the brain?" His expression was wistful. "Descartes taught that all things not man were automata which obey sensory and mechanical laws that regulate Nature. But in man the automata were infused with psycho-physical parallelism, a symbiosis that could only be severed by the death of the soul. And this, my friend, was the birth of modern psychology. A revelation that Descartes and Locke first posited on the dualism of man. Also a premise highly respected by Jonathan Edwards, who perhaps held the greatest logical mind to ever exist.”

  Soloman said nothing. His eyes narrowed.

  "Hebrew legend holds that the ancients knew the secrets of human resurrection because they understood the dualism of man far better than we," Marcelle continued. "And I have, perhaps, seen evidence of it. So, although your people may have done it without that occult knowledge, it is not a new thing. What has been done ... has been done before."

  Silence darkened the room.

  "Did you know, Colonel," he continued, "that Augustine designated the will as the force that moves both intellect and inner sense to action, but the will itself is ethically and psychologically free?" The priest laughed. "Homo corpore utitur."

  "Man making use of a body," Soloman said.

  Marcelle seemed impressed. "You understand Latin?"

  "Latin, German, French – a smattering of a few more. Why don't you just say what you mean to say, priest?"

  Leaning back, Marcelle continued. "Man acts upon a body, but is not acted upon by it. And that is what I mean to say. Nor are these elemental forces easily understood or controlled. Like imagination and memory, understanding and intellect, all of them dominated by a force that is classified very, very vaguely as 'will,' which is a woefully inadequate term for whatever, in the end, defines the true essence or soul of man."

  Soloman pursed his lips. "I've thought a little about that, Marcelle. And you might be onto something
. But right now I need to know what you know. I need some answers."

  Unfazed, the priest withdrew another cigarette, speaking without hesitation. "Proceed with your questions, Colonel. I will withhold virtually nothing – measure for measure."

  Concentrating, Soloman's mind kept returning to the words Maggie had spoken after exiting Amy's room. He didn't understand them but knew they were somehow important. "Tell me, have you ever heard the term 'grim veris'?"

  Frozen in waving shadow, Marcelle took a long time to reply. "Yes, Colonel, I believe I know the term. Is that what Cain said to the child before your confrontation in the tunnel?"

  "Yes."

  "So ... yes." Marcelle stared away, expelling a breath toward the hearth. "Yes ... what Cain spoke of was very likely ‘The Grimorium Verum.’ It is a book – a centuries-old book, and a cursed work. It was never reprinted for the masses because the fear of what it contained was too great even to those who did not believe in it . The only surviving copies are in Hebrew and Latin and sealed in three places."

  "What places?"

  "One copy is sealed in the Los Angeles Museum of Natural History," Marcelle answered, eyes narrowing with what appeared to be a sudden suspicion. "Another is sealed in New York's Museum of Natural History. And the last is secured in the Secret Archives of the Vatican. They are very ancient and fragile, and not available for reading."

  "Why would Cain want it?"

  The priest shook his head. "Who can be certain, Colonel? All that is known is that The Grimorium Verum is the ultimate encyclopedia of Black Magic. According to accumulated legend and superstition, and what I know personally, men can supposedly use it to access powers as mysterious to modern man as electricity was to ancient Romans."

  "That doesn't answer my question," Soloman said. "Why, exactly, would Cain risk exposure to actually possess this book? Can't he obtain whatever information it contains from another source?"

  "No, Colonel. The spells contained within The Grimorium Verum are vastly complicated and intricate. Some of the incantations require ancient names and spectacular combinations of elements." He gestured vaguely. "Some must be performed in specific locations with fresh water or salt water or different types of blood dried for an exact number of days on a sword or knife that is polished at an ordained hour of a certain day. Some require detailed diagrams or pentacles and signs or fantastical elements even more complicated. And everything must be done in exacting sequence.” He sighed. “If one does not go step by step with eachconjuration then the spell, according to legend, is useless. And as I said, there is no other source but these three copies. So, I surmise, this is why Cain would risk much to possess one of them. In his mind, it can provide the meticulous incantation he wishes to evoke. At least, that seems a logical deduction."