Soloman decided not to fuel the fire. "So who took care of you after you reached the States?" he asked.
"An uncle in Miami. He's history now." The reply held deep emotion calloused by time. "Yeah, they're all history. Been dead awhile." He paused. "Anyway, when I was eighteen I got my GED and put my mark on the line." He moved his mouth around the cigar. "Been in since."
"It worked out well for you."
Malo laughed—an unusual expression for such an impassive face. "Yeah, I figured shootin' and lootin' was all I was good at so I might as well get paid for it. And it went better than I anticipated. Eventually got myself a college degree to qualify for OCS, made light lieutenant. Got recruited for Delta a few years back and it's been good work, good pay. I ain't got no complaints."
"You're a good soldier," Soloman said. "And I know, 'cause I've seen a few."
"Yeah, I figure you have." Malo turned his head to meet Soloman's gaze. "Colonel James L. Soloman. Annapolis graduate. Former commander of the 72 Rangers. Supposed to be a super grunt with the mind of a scholar. A Renaissance Man. Soldier. Philosopher. Killer. Speaks German and French and Spanish and a couple more. Commanded at Albany. Lejeune. Okinawa. You were being groomed for the JCS but you passed it over to run a top-secret program to hunt rogue counterintelligence agents. Worked in a blacked-out unit of SEALs and Special Forces and Force Recon with full authority and command – all of 'em world class shooters. And, word is, you were the keenest hound to ever run in the pack. Could track a ghost through a fog, a fish through water." He placed the cigar back in his mouth, looked out. "Yeah, everybody who's a stud knows who you are, Colonel. You're something like a legend, I guess. Just like we all know why you got out. . . I'm sorry about your family."
Soloman revealed nothing. "It's in the past. Right now we need to stay centered."
"Yeah, for sure," Malo grunted. "We're in badass Indian territory on this one."
Indian territory; hostile ground.
Soloman smiled; it'd been awhile since he'd heard that one. "Well, we're down but we're not out. I think we might turn the tables on this guy if we get the chance."
"Think so?" Malo was keen to it, as if he'd seen too much of the bad. "Why do you say that?"
"Well, Winston Churchill said it best," Soloman continued, quoting. "'War opens the most fruitful field to all human virtues, for at every moment constancy, pity, magnanimity, heroism, and mercy shine forth in it, and every moment offers an opportunity to exercise one of these virtues.'"
There was silence as Malo considered it. Finally he muttered, "That's almost poetic."
Soloman laughed and thought of the Delta commando's curious ex-change with Marcelle. "I didn't know you were Catholic," he said quietly.
Malo spat out a sliver of tobacco. "I grew up Catholic 'cause my mama was Catholic, God bless her heart. I know the rules, the prayers, when to stand and kneel and all that. But I don't do it no more. I just don't care anything for it, I guess. But you know what they say: There ain't no atheists on a battlefield. And, anyway, it's best to cover yourself. Can't lose nothin', for sure." They were silent a long moment until he said, more morosely, "You really think we can take him?"
There was a faint disturbance in the question, a cold realization that they might not, in the end, have what it took to finish this fight. It was something Soloman had expected to hear eventually after Malo calmed down from the initial adrenaline rush.
"Yeah," Soloman said, steady. "I think we can take him."
Malo didn't look back.
"We'll see," he whispered, black eyes narrowing to subdue a shadow of vivid fear. "We'll see."
***
Reptilian sounds, sounds of slow water and subterranean life, moved over him so loud in the gloom that concealed his form, and he heard his burned tendons grating against blackened bones. He moved slightly, growling at the agony of such horrible, searing wounds, and snaked a ravaged arm over his body, finally finding purchase. Then he began to crawl deeper into the darkness.
He knew that he should be dead, for surely nothing could have survived what he had somehow survived. But he had, indeed, survived, he realized with vengeful satisfaction, as he crawled slowly, so slowly ...
Darkness caressed him and the shadows seemed very much like the home he'd forgotten in the flaming trauma of his defeat.
What defeat?
In the depth of his wounds, he could not remember. He only remembered the dark flaming current and being swept along in blazing pain as he tumbled alive in the dark light that hurled him into the sea . . .
The sea?
No ... No ...
Not the sea ...
With a severe act of will, he opened his eyes.
No, he knew, not the sea; he was far from that sea where he had been hurled and where he would one day rise again, the apocalyptic image of pain and death and his long-awaited bloody deliverance. Yes, he was still far from that, though he knew it was coming ... one day.
Moving, he tensed his ravaged muscles in a fantastic sphere of agony that would have made him scream had he been less. But he would not scream.
No, he would never scream because that would acknowledge his defeat. So in order to mock it he would feast on the pain, despising what was his only claim, his only take from this hated loss.
Air flowed over him, cool and chilling, and he remembered where he was and how he had come here. He saw the darkness of the tunnel again as he tumbled beneath the water of the river, once again knew the fiendish struggle to gain the underwater entrance in the cascading current as his fingers locked desperately on the iron grate. Then he remembered swimming through the hideous burning, the breathless race to find a place to hide before the pain would be too great to overcome and he would collapse.
And he had claimed his victory, finally raising himself above the water level where he had fallen on his face in the slime, slithering as a serpent, moaning and rolling in the tormenting prison of his pain until, exhausted, he fled into sleep, escaping the agony. And now he must feast, he knew, for this body, tremendous and magnificent though it was, could not overcome the damage without more blood.
Yes, Soloman was skilled and savage – a superior fighter from a superior realm lost to the world for so long that even he could not remember the true greatness of it.
Growling, he remembered facing only one other—the son of Jesse— who fought with such will. One who never retreated, knowing only attack with such purity of purpose. He closed his eyes as he remembered the sweeping black blade weaving a wheel of steel before him.
He'd sought to escape the wrath of the warrior-king but he had failed and finally turned on the rampart, each challenging the other as the Temple of Dagon burned down around them. Sword in hand, ignoring the flaming timbers that crashed like trees, the Hebrew had advanced like a sea-king of old, unyielding and unconquerable to the last to claim a victory that was not of this world.
Their swords met, fire flying from the clash.
Iron against iron . . .
David roaring before him.
Blow after blow . . .
David spinning, whirling the great black blade.
Such strength!
Attacking, attacking.
Fire and sword . . .
A blow struck true, drawn.
Agony!
A blazing bearded image of righteous rage.
Retreat ...
The black sword rose high, a kingly roar descending as it fell to— Darkness.
He shook his head, snarling.
No!
Enough!
I will not be defeated again!
It cursed him that he remembered so well how it came to pass. For the body of the gigantic Gadite, resurrected from death by Egyptian sorcery in the sacred ritual of Saturn and Mars, had been the single physical form he'd managed to possess during the long ages. And he had wreaked havoc on the Hebrews with that almost unmatched strength, defeating great Benaiah, Abishai, and even the legendary Jashobeam who once slew eigh
t hundred men in a day's fighting, in single combat.
Yes, he had scattered Israel's strongest warriors like chaff until David, their anointed king, had come to understand what cosmic force was ravaging his mighty army.
And then the Hebrew had risen from his throne, taken up the sword of Goliath and hunted him down, angrily challenging him in the Temple of Dagon where the last, savage battle ensued – a merciless mortal conflict that left the temple shattered and aflame. But it was not enough for the King of Israel to claim mere victory; he had felt it necessary to rid the Earth of his presence forever. So with kingly vengeance he ordered the Gadite body buried in a chamber beneath the disintegrating walls, hesitating so long that he daring the wrath of a sandstorm approaching from the east.
David himself had sealed the tomb with a sword, driving it through the stone sheath before shattering the blade. Then at his own peril and as flames rose on all sides, took precious seconds to chisel those hated words above the grave, casting a curse on all who would dare to approach the gateway.
So many years ...
Yes, for so many years his near-physical essence had been imprisoned within those stone walls, for he was not beyond the limitations of space and time and light. No, he was a prisoner, too, of nature, as much as lightning or even man. His essence was different from flesh, but he was not as the Old One. He could not transcend the physical. He was a created being and could not be omnipresent, nor could he cross the void, or even the Earth without a portal.
He had lain within the tomb for so many dark years, dreaming dreams of revenge. And then the priest—he could not remember the face or name—had come to set him free, the priest who defied the curse and opened the portal that loosened him once more upon the world.
At last!
Yes, free at last to deliver his vengeance upon the world, because the Hebrew King had long ago returned to dust, lost to ages. And now he inhabited another superhuman form, a form far, far more marvelous than the first; a form that he had never beheld even among the Nephilim who ruled the land before David's hated sword drove them into ravines and valleys where they were slaughtered by that scornful strength.
But now was the hour of his revenge, and he laughed.
He moved inch by slow inch, crawling through the dark to find the first faint tendril of light, a spectral white that cut through the grate above. Then he raised his scarred head, gazing up to see a blue sliver of moon. And with the sight he moved more quickly, finding what he had to find in the dark, rising with final fierceness until he was climbing. Then as he reached the surface he shattered the steel cover with a fast fading strength, and after insuring that the street was empty, emerged.
Yes, he needed time to heal.
Rolling in infinite agony, he gazed about and saw the glistening wet streets. Then he rolled again and saw the October moon low in the sky like a grinning skull, brooding over a building that hunched black and wide on a shrouded hill, surrounding trees swayed by night wind. Massive and ponderous, the building commanded the small knoll, a thick iron gate surrounding it with pikes articulated against a storm-clouded sky. He squinted through gathering wind and abandoned air to read the sign: Halcrouth Sanitorium.
He laughed.
Yes, of course; it would be the perfect place to hide while his wounds healed, the perfect place to recover before he once again waged war with this soldier who had so foolishly defied him.
Rising with effort, he stumbled forward, hesitating only at the last moment to prevent himself from shattering the chain on the isolated rear entrance. No, no, he remembered, he must leave no careless clues that might lead these mortals to him. He must be cunning.
Grimacing in agony, he climbed the pikes, quickly finding himself in the bright moonlit sheen of grass. Then he walked through the dark mossy silence, a ravaged humanlike thing emerging silently from shadow. And in the far night he saw the front gate, a guard reading.
He found a door and effortlessly shattered the lock, for there was no manner of penetrating the building without causing some measure of damage. But by the time it was discovered in the morning, he knew he would be so well hidden inside the walls that they would never find him.
He moved in an aura of rumbling death down the now-haunted corridors to find where he could feed. Then he forced another door without hesitation and opened it to enter the room of ... a woman.
She lay upon the bed, her face bandaged to cover the incisions of the surgeon. Yes, she had been healed—healed by the healing that came from a realm that was not this, as all their healing came. And she was so happy with it, he knew. Yes, so happy that her disfigurement was corrected, making her as beautiful as the rest.
Staggering, he approached the bed to stand, gazing down with black eyes that cast no reflection. He smiled softly as his charred hand reached out, caressing the face, touching the incisions. And then he laughed, a cut of hideous intent in darkened air. He ripped the gauze from her face and she opened her eyes instantly, awakening and turning to him in shock.
He smothered her scream.
*
CHAPTER 13
Amy was amazingly bright and alert as she sat in a plush white recliner, light blond hair spilling like sunlight over pale blue eyes. Her gaze was intently focused on Marcelle as he sat before her, an encouraging smile. But her body revealed the slightest measure of tension as if she knew the priest was about to approach something dreadful, something that should be feared.
Then, with a slight bend of his head, Marcelle casually intensified his benevolence, seemingly summoning a faint measure of confidence from within her. When he spoke it was with the full measure of that masterful confidence that Soloman had come to know so well: the tone of a man who had suffered much, and was eminently qualified to speak with those who had endured the same.
"Hello, Amy," he began slowly. "I am Father Jacob Marcelle. I am happy to see that you are well."
There was silence as she seemed to measure him. "I'm fine," she replied carefully.
"Yes, my dear, of course you are." Marcelle's familiarity was respectfully distant; no, he would not presume. "I spoke with your mother and she told me that you slept well last night, resting better than anyone anticipated amidst these annoying circumstances." He smiled. "Your mother was happy to see you get some rest, as all of us were, I assure you. And, in fact, that is why we are here. We want to ensure that you remain safe." Marcelle leaned closer with the words, hovering majestically on an invisible line. "You see, we want to help you, Amy. Do you think, if it is no trouble, that you might also help us?"
A moment.
Faintly, she nodded.
"Yes." Marcelle laughed easily. "Yes, I was certain that you would be willing to help us, as well as yourself. And it will be no trouble for you, I assure you."
Amy shifted. "What do you want me to do?"
"Oh, only a simple thing," he continued with consummate compo-sure, his face comforting. "I need only to ask a few small questions, and the answers will be simple enough, I promise. But you don't have to answer at all if you don't want to. Whatever you wish is fine."
He smiled expectantly.
"All right," she said, but the words came slowly, as if she remained uncertain.
"Good," Marcelle replied and for a split-second carefully paused, his aspect telegraphing that he was about to approach a subject that might be painful. But with another alteration he seemed to acknowledge her courage.
Amy blinked, her mouth tightening.
"Yes, well," he continued, settling hands on his knees, "I only want to ask you one or two questions, and I'm sure that whatever you say will be fine. Then we will not need to speak again."
She bit her lip, nodded.
"Good," Marcelle smiled encouragingly, his eyes kind and gentle as he leaned comfortably forward. "So, let us begin. Now, this man, this criminal who chased you, he said something about the stars and the moon and planets, things like that. And I want to repeat to you something that may have sounded like what he sai
d. Only a few words, mind you, and you can tell me whether I am correct or not. Can you listen to me while I do that?"
Another nod, stronger this time.
Soloman glanced to the side to see Maggie Milton nervously chewing a fingernail. Her stance was tense, faintly trembling. He looked back at Marcelle as he continued. "It, perhaps, sounded like this. This man was probably not speaking to you. He was ... uh, perhaps speaking to himself. But he might have said something to the effect of the moon, or the power of the moon, or, uh, the blood of the moon. Was it something like that?"
"Yes."
Soloman frowned. He had already told Marcelle that much; the priest wasn't covering any new ground. But Amy seemed to lighten in aspect as Marcelle nodded his square head, openly pleased. "Ah, yes," he said, a good smile, "yes, I knew that would be it. I was certain that it would be the power of the moon."
Silence.
"No," Amy replied, pausing. "That's not what he said. He said, 'the water of the moon.'"
A hidden shudder went through Soloman at the repetition of what Cain said in that horrible moment, extracted so easily by Marcelle s subtle skills of interrogation. Or, rather, skills that seemed subtle but which had been gained by a lifetime of delving into the darkest heart of man.
Soloman knew from years of counterintelligence work that interrogation was an exceedingly difficult skill that required extensive experience and training. For not only did the questioner have to remain far, far ahead of those being questioned, he had to reveal nothing—no excitement, no interest—when he finally approached the true target of his quest. If he did, then those being interrogated could be spooked into a dozen lines of manipulation or retreat, or even reconsideration. It was an exacting science, and Soloman was respectfully amazed as Marcelle proceeded.
"Ah, yes," he repeated. "Yes, well, that is such an old saying, Amy, the water of the moon." He laughed. "But, of course, we both know there is no water on the moon"
Cain Page 18
