Cain

by James Byron Huggins

  "What's the book?" he asked, sitting.

  " The New Face of War. Found it on a shelf."

  "How is it?"

  She smiled. "I wouldn't call it entertainment."

  Soloman laughed, leaning forward. It was one of the few restful moments they'd shared since they'd been joined in the underground bunker at White Sands. And Soloman thought, strangely, that it was the first time he'd laughed in a long time. Then he remembered Amy and the transparent smile and light in her eyes. It seemed as if he was moving further with every moment he spent with the two of them, and he began to wonder where it would end.

  "I can barely see those guys out there," Maggie said. "Those what-you-call-it suits really make them blend."

  "Yeah," he replied. "The suits help." He took a sip. "But those guys are good. They don't make too many mistakes."

  With a more tender expression she turned to him. "I'm sorry about what happened to your guys last night, Sol. I feel sorry for their families."

  He paused, frowning. "They were good men, but they knew the risks. Just like the rest of us. They were willing to die for what they believed, and they did. And I think that Cain—or whatever he's become—remembers a lot about tactical response, counterattack, whatever. It's like some sort of reflex instinct that his brain retained. He always does the right thing at the right time."

  She gazed at him a long time before she said quietly, "I heard about what you did. Heard the Delta guys talking about it. They said it took a steel spine to pull a stunt like that."

  Soloman shrugged. "It happens. You get caught up in the moment and lose your temper." He winked, "Just don't let your temper get you killed."

  She smiled wanly, turned to look out. "I just wanted to thank you," she continued, "for spitting in Cain's face."

  "Yeah, well, I didn't finish the job."

  "Have you always been a soldier?"

  "Yeah, pretty much. I grew up in New York. My football prowess got me into Annapolis."

  "You played football? Really?"

  "Yeah."

  "What position?"

  "Halfback," he replied. "I wasn’t tough but I was fast.” He smiled. “Ben’s never forgiven me for beating Army my last two seasons."

  She laughed.

  "Anyway," he continued, "after graduation I joined the Corps. Went for Force Recon, qualified. Made captain and major in record time, then commanded in Beirut, the Philippines, Panama. Ran a few companies after I made light colonel."

  "Why didn't you go ahead and make full bird colonel? Or even general or something?"

  "Or something?" Soloman smiled."Like President?"

  She laughed and Soloman felt that she was truly lowering her guard. But then, suddenly, he didn't really want to talk about his life. He turned to the trees, scanning by zone. He took another sip of coffee, cleared his throat.

  "So?" She waited.

  He shook his head, staring into the woods. "I didn't make full colonel because I took early retirement."

  She waited a long time before she followed up with, "Am I pushing you?"

  He didn't reply.

  "That's okay," she said dismissively. "Everyone's got their secrets."

  "You've got secrets?" he said, with a slight smile. "Miss Prodigal Genius with degrees out the wazoo has secrets?"

  "Everybody's got secrets, Soloman," she said, almost sad. "Especially us goody-two-shoes doctors who act like we've got so much control. I knew girls in med school who hooked at night just for a break. Then they'd go into the lab the next day like Einstein-come-again. They were as smart and sweet and gorgeous as could be and they had entire graveyards in their closets. Big surprise. But they had to get rid of that part of themselves that was so stifled and so dead in the lab. You'd be surprised at the madness I've seen."

  Soloman revealed respect. "No, Maggie, I don't think I would." Then for a while they said nothing, and Soloman casually crossed a line. "So, what does Amy's father do for a living?"

  She became quiet, morose, and placed both hands under her chin as she answered, "Dave, or Amy's father, left us to fend for ourselves a long time ago. Found greener grass."

  He grimaced, pausing. "I'm sorry, Maggie. I didn't know."

  "That's all right," she said. "Dave was just a weak man. He supported us well enough, I suppose. But he didn't like being tied down – didn't like the responsibilities." She shook her head. "Or the same old thing every night. So I come home from med school one day and he meets me at the door and says he's leaving. Just sign the papers when you get 'em." Her laugh was sad. "Left me when Amy wasn't even a year old. She's never known a father."

  "You've done well with her."

  "Well, I think she's taken it harder than it looks. She's always wanted a father. And it's sad, really, because she's such a sweet kid. Never did go through the terrible twos. Went right over them."

  Soloman understood her pain, just as he understood Amy's. He wondered if Malo was watching and decided that he didn't care. Her next question was hesitant as she turned to him: "And you?"

  He looked slowly away. "I, uh, had a little girl. A wife. We got married out of high school. And Marilyn ... was a good woman – the best. Put up with me, put up with the Corps." He paused. "Yeah – the best – but they're gone now. They were killed when Lisa was only six years old." His frown hardened. "Some people sanctioned them because of my job."

  "Oh, Sol," she whispered, almost reaching out. "I'm so sorry. What happened to the people that killed your family?"

  Cold, he stared into the forest.

  "They died."

  ***

  Ben had expected this to be a ball-bashing fiasco; he was glad that his powers of anticipation were still sharp.

  After the disaster at the museum, the Trinity Council had been unable to contain the meetings to cold computer screens. So early this morning Archette had demanded a face-to-face evaluation of procedures and progress and they had flown to Los Angeles.

  It was noon when they convened in the Los Angeles FBI field office, the largest law-enforcement office in the world, and securing themselves in the soundproof communications chamber located in a third-level basement. After the meeting, Archette explained, he would take a Central Intelligence Agency jet to New York to prepare backup failsafes.

  That had also been something Ben anticipated, reading that the psychiatrist had been laying careful groundwork. And now, finally, he understood that the CIA man had been covering all the bases so that no matter how things went down he would be on record as either an advocate or an opponent, following the wind.

  "Foolish, foolish, foolish," Archette continued. "I vaguely perceived the dangers of allowing these two men, General Hawken and Colonel Soloman, to work together in a highly compromising covert mission, especially when their mutual history is so littered with scandal and—"

  "Now wait just a minute," Ben growled, eyes dangerous.

  Patient and professional, Archette said, "Emotions are out of place in a deliberate assembly, General, and are not conducive to—"

  "Save it," Ben said. "The truth is, Archette, you don't know anything about the military. You don't have a clue about combat radius or maintainability or defense systems or strategic zones. So you're not qualified to tell me whether my tactical judgment was correct or not. My men used a secure fire zone until it was violated by the objective. We used closed communications and reconnaissance and backstopping—tell me if you know what any of this means—and air support and surveillance and highly trained commandos to execute a coordinated tactical assault. But this was a battlefield and a battlefield always contains vulnerability factors. Nobody in this room can guarantee the outcome of a conflict. That's the nature of war. And we are in a war. I'm not going to back down to you or anyone else who doesn't know the rules. Further, my personal feelings toward my men are none of your concern. I don't know what your agenda is, but if you try to debate the execution of my attack, you're going to lose."

  Archette was unfazed. "General, as I said, pleas
e control yourself. We have a situation of compromised national security and a threat of global contamination. And we must decide whether the Trinity Failsafe is equal to the task of neutralizing the danger. I also state that Colonel Soloman is obviously inadequate for the assignment and should be replaced by a more proficient operative, someone who is not as impulsive or uncontrollable."

  Staring over a cigar, Ben was grim.

  Bull, seated at the head of the table, frowned. And Ben decided to attack on a different angle, knowing he was losing the battle. He placed two burly forearms on the edge and stared at Archette. "Dr. Archette," he began coolly, "I want to ask you something."

  "Yes?"

  "Who authorized the creation of Genocide One?"

  Archette paused. "Why, I did, of course. Genocide One was an Agency operation from the beginning."

  "And who authorized the Trinity Failsafe?"

  A pause.

  "I believe that is obvious," Archette said. "It was one of three fail-safes designed by the Agency to contain the project should it violate a secure perimeter."

  "Correct," Ben continued. "You approved Trinity as a failsafe but Trinity has to be controlled by Pentagon command because it uses military hardware in populated areas. So don't complain about it. Plus, you knew from the beginning that this would be a search-and-destroy mission just as you should know that search-and-destroy missions always involve collateral risk and compromise and public exposure. But now you're balking because of a personal grievance against Colonel Soloman and—"

  Archette's tone unexpectedly sharpened. "My personal feelings against Soloman have nothing to do with—"

  "Military exercises always involve casualties," Ben pressed. "Even training. Because this is a dangerous business, and it requires men at home with danger. Colonel Soloman is an educated man, yes, but he is also a highly skilled professional soldier. And if this ... this council can agree to stay out of Colonel Soloman's way for another two or three days, I think he can reacquire the target and destroy it. But lamenting over collateral damage and media attention is only stalling this freakin' manhunt."

  Archette stared as other voices joined in. And, staring back, Ben saw that the CIA man was heading slowly but inexorably in a direction to make Trinity fail. Abruptly, Ben wondered why and couldn't conceive of a reason.

  If Archette possessed such a secret grievance toward Soloman, why had he been so slow to stop Trinity? Why had he moved in such a zigzag pattern? It didn't make any sense because, as it was, Archette was going to waffle to the very end and then there would be no time left to initiate another failsafe; Cain would get away clean.

  With a grimace Ben looked away and knew somehow in his soul that Archette was playing more cards than he revealed. Ben felt it come over him in a cloud, silencing the debate. And he knew something else, settling into it tightly as he hardened his fists.

  This time he was going to know the truth.

  ***

  Marcelle quickly gathered the sacred items he sought, relics that were blessed as sacred weapons. Then he made a studious visit to the archives and was told that they had yet another thirty thousand manuscripts to catalogue and realized it might be days before they could conclude anything.

  As he made his way back through the silent shrouded corridors he caught the austere sight of ancient Aveling leaning over a desk. A glass of red wine and an apple rested before him and the old man's face revealed nothing as Marcelle came slowly forward, gently setting the bag on the table. At the sight, Aveling asked quietly, "Artifacts?"

  "Yes," Marcelle replied. "Artifacts that I fear will avail us nothing, Noble Aveling. But they have been of use to me in the past and might yet serve some purpose." He paused, composing himself. "And now I need something from you, my old friend."

  "Speak, Marcelle." The old gray eyes gleamed with keen discernment and the faintest shade of humor, enlivened by the request. "You know that you need not ask my permission."

  Moving quickly around the table, Marcelle glanced across the chamber to ensure their isolation. He continued in a colder tone, "I confronted our adversary last night, Father."

  Aveling's eyes widened. "And?"

  "He is a formidable enemy." Marcelle's teeth gleamed in a grimace. "He is cunning. Strong beyond measure." He shook his head, seemingly overcome. "Many of the criteria have been met. His command of sacred language is complete and he knows things no man should know. But he is also somehow ... uh, confused, it seems. By some mysterious phenomenon he has lost a measure of what he was. He cannot remember all that he knew."

  "So he was not destroyed?"

  "No, Aveling. He has escaped us."

  "He cannot escape us, Marcelle."

  "No," Marcelle agreed. "No, not forever. But I am certain now that it is in our enemy's mind to evoke some sort of incantation for a purpose unknown. I know only that it has something to do with the water of the moon, Saturn, and Mars. I also believe that it has something to do with human sacrifice but I can find nothing in my reference materials. In truth, I do not even know where to begin, except to know that the spell is probably contained somewhere within The Grimorium Verum. Yet you have the benefit of greater years and experience, Aveling. Do these things mean anything to you?"

  The old priest smiled, and he regarded Marcelle as if he were the returning Prodigal Son. He waited a long time to speak. "You have come back, Marcelle," he nodded with a kind smile. "You have become, again, what you once were. Even your aspect is once again fierce and formidable."

  Marcelle paused grimly. "I have found what I had lost, old friend."

  "And what is this thing, Marcelle?"

  "It is . . . what I am." Marcelle's face softened. "I have once again found my faith."

  "And what is faith?" Aveling smiled as a father.

  "Faith it is the substance of things hoped for, Aveling. The evidence of things unseen."

  "That is the biblical answer, and correct." The old man's stare did not waver. "But what is faith to you, my son? What is faith to the son I love more than all my others?"

  The hard lines of Marcelle's face faded. "I don't know, Aveling. It is my life. It is all I have. I cannot live without it, though I fall in it. But I continue to search, to hope, and to pray. Sometimes I do not know, and then, sometimes, it seems to come to me as ... as—"

  "As God comes to you?" Aveling muttered with a compassionate gaze. Marcelle saw no condemnation—only the love and kindness of one who has been there, and knows.

  "Yes, Aveling – as God comes to me."

  The old man nodded. "Then all is well. You have been to the desert and returned, my son. As all of us must." Then he closed his eyes, concentrating. "Now," he added, "let us proceed with your mystery so that we may unravel it. As we surely will."

  ***

  Hidden in the basement dark, he gently felt his oozing wounds, wet to the touch. Needles pierced his skin at the soft pressure and he leaned his head back, teeth clenched, enduring what he was forced to endure before he could return to the hospital far above. He had taken only enough blood to leave his victims unconscious. He had killed no one because he did not want attention drawn to the building.

  No, he needed absolute solitude so he had taken just enough blood to begin the transformation – the healing. Doctors would be confused, he knew, and investigate. But they would probably not see the needlelike marks. And by routine procedure—so predictable—they would prescribe medication and transfusions and tests and wait until tonight to see the result of therapy.

  Tonight, yes.

  When he would emerge . . .

  Even in the ravaged aftermath of the battle he had known it was too early to battle again. First, he realized, he must reconstitute. He must enhance his strength through the long day with the molecular synthesis.

  And then, tonight, he would kill them all one by one to regain strength and renew his battle with . . . with . . . Soloman.

  Fangs emerged in a growl.

  Somehow, despite his immeasurable rage
, the name struck him with a fear he would never reveal. And his eyes glowed in the subterranean depths as he remembered the savage confrontation, seeing once again the fierceness of the warrior as they battled inside the museum.

  Yes, in that moment he'd realized that there was no fear in this one; no, this one was different from the rest. He knew only attack, attack, attack, like the cursed desert king of old who struck and struck and refused to retreat until victory was finally won.

  David …

  How he hated the name.

  A warrior-poet, they called him; a warrior-poet who slew tens and tens of thousands; who wrote the Psalms; who conquered the most savage empires the world had ever seen and brought the tribes together at last to unite the priesthood and kingship upon a single throne, something not done since the days of Aaron and Moses.

  His endless hate gave him strength as he clenched his fists, feeling skin splitting in blood. And he promised the pain to another, vowing it, feeling it already delivered. For David had returned to the dust from which he came, and was beyond even his reach. Yet here was another, an equal, to take his place. Yes, an equal who could receive the vengeance he'd failed to deliver against the Hebrew king's raging, defiant strength.

  Volcanic pain made him twist, contorting him for a long, spellbinding moment and he moaned as he endured. Then it lessened little by little and he finally rested, utterly still, and he was more certain that he would recover soon.

  Yes, very … very soon.

  Then he would ascend with the night to deliver his dark, fatal touch to those lying so helplessly above, to those who still had hope . . .

  Hope ...

  It made him laugh.

  No . . . Not tonight ...

  Tonight there would be no hope.

  ***

  Marcelle went over the facts, leaving nothing out. He spoke quickly and Aveling's aged visage revealed that he followed. Sometimes the elder priest would nod to himself, discerning and sifting and eliminating what was irrelevant to the more important causes.

  "Yes," Aveling said finally. "Yes, Marcelle, I know vaguely of this spell. It is from the old country of the Druids – a place of new sorcery and old where those forest priests still worship the world of the dead."