Cain

by James Byron Huggins

  Approaching, he tried to have the composure of an adult.

  "I thought you might want to say goodnight to me," Amy said quietly.

  "Why, of course I did," Soloman smiled, sitting with casual smoothness and adjusting the quilts, returning by long-unused reflex to another part of himself that had been utterly dead until now.

  And in the moment it seemed as if he'd never been in the desert at all, as if he'd been right here through it all. "Thanks for playing Monopoly with me," Amy added, her face serious. "That was nice."

  Soloman smiled warmly. "Oh, I had fun, Amy." He was surprisingly comfortable with closeness, leaning on an arm. But he wished he wasn't laden down with weapons. The pistol on his chest felt out of place and intrusive. "We'll do it again," he said. "Maybe tomorrow."

  She said nothing for a long time, finally laying a hand on his.

  "You know something?" she whispered.

  "What?"

  "I never had a daddy."

  Soloman didn't know what to say. He held her hand lightly. "Yeah, well, you're gonna be just fine, kiddo," he whispered, compassion compelling him to look her in the eyes no matter his pain.

  It would have been cruel to do any less.

  "I'm not going to let anybody hurt you,” Soloman added. “I'll be here all night. And I'll be here when you wake up in the morning."

  Suddenly a tear rolled down her face and she became infinitely, infinitely sad. It was a moment that changed everything. Soloman leaned forward, gently wiping it from her face. He hovered close.

  "Don't worry about it, darlin'," he said softly. "He's not going to get to you. I'll protect you."

  "I know," she whispered.

  Another tear fell as she closed her eyes.

  Soloman’s teeth clenched and before he knew what he was doing he'd lifted her, holding her tight as she cried into his chest, so afraid. Silent, he wrapped his arms around her to comfort her. Then he laid her down, everything slow and natural, both of them comfortable. After a moment she closed her eyes and rolled to the side, relaxing.

  And, like that, it was over.

  Soloman sat beside her to let her know he was going to be close. Then he lowered his hand to the bed as he realized that life, as he had known it for so long, would never be the same.

  Something had been shared, and it couldn't be taken back.

  Nor did he want to …

  When her breaths were deep and rhythmic—the breaths of a child who'd finally fallen asleep—he rose, careful not to disturb her, and moved toward the door. He paused to glance at her once more, assuring himself that she was fast asleep. And he was careful to leave the hall light on, the door cracked …

  Lest she awaken.

  ***

  Deep beneath the Earth, they convened.

  Archette waited at the foot of the table, beholding each pale countenance. Six wore the rich scarlet robes that signified their exalted rank. But Lazarus wore a robe of the purest white with a single gold eye intricately embroidered on the chest.

  Moving his arms to adjust the luxurious folds, Lazarus lowered his head at Archette, who had come as soon as he had returned from Los Angeles because Lazarus despised impersonal communication. Furtive for a moment, Archette glanced about and saw none of the black-cloaked bodyguards, but the shadows were thick in the far reaches of the cavern.

  "And?" Lazarus asked in a threatening tone.

  "And so, it is almost finished," Archette replied steadily, gathering himself before the feel of such power. "Soloman has only forty-eight-hours to complete the mission. But he cannot complete it in so short a time. It is impossible. Our Lord is far too powerful to be caught so quickly – if at all. So, in practical terms, Soloman has been eliminated.” He nodded. “As I promised."

  Nothing could be read in Lazarus's burning black eyes, and the rest of the Family turned to gaze at the inhuman, coldly composed figure. For a long time there was silence, and then a reply.

  "Remember whom you serve, Archette. Your earlier errors were grave, but they were not mortal.” Lazarus paused. "You are blessed, my son. We are not as the rest. We do not dream empty dreams. Our power is real. Our purposes are laid deep, and brought to substance. And our will is the stuff of life. We have held the secrets, and the power, within the Family for five hundred years building empire upon empire, and continue. And we share our knowledge only with a cherished few, so know what benefits you shall receive.” There was a slow nod. “You are welcome once more."

  The torches crackled.

  "Come closer," intoned Lazarus.

  Nervously relieved, Archette moved closer, glancing at the surrounding faces, feeling himself forgiven. He had failed in the experiment, yes, failed by releasing the Master before the transformation was complete.Before they could prepare him and they could prepare the way. And he had justified himself by also eliminating Soloman, so … perhaps ...

  Lazarus continued in a low voice.

  "Your redemption is almost complete." He folded hands before his face, contemplative. "But now you must find our Lord. Or he must somehow remember, and find us."

  "Of course," Archette said, and began to thirst.

  "You will be rewarded," Lazarus said with no tone. And as he rose Archette could taste the delicious pleasure, the rapturous night that had vividly emerged from within him. Just as he knew that his power, long cultivated, would not be taken from him.

  Lazarus gestured, turning into darkness.

  "Tonight you shall possess your dreams," he murmured.

  ***

  At midnight Ben returned. He appeared disheveled and pale and surprisingly haggard for someone of such prosperous proportions. He also appeared to have suffered distinctly unsettling stress, his sweat-slick forehead glistening in the light of the kitchen.

  As he passed Soloman and Maggie he waved dismissively, in no mood to speak. Then, with the direct purpose of a man who seriously needs a drink but has held off too long, he headed for the cabinet above the sink.

  "Is the kid asleep?" he grumbled, opening the cabinet.

  Soloman smiled. "Yeah, Ben, she's asleep. Go ahead and pour yourself one." He looked at Maggie and she nodded, pushed back her bangs: "And pour one for each of us."

  Ben mixed a small pitcher of vodka martinis, poured three glasses, and collapsed in a chair. He leaned back, loosening his tie with a fatigue that almost made Soloman laugh out loud. He waited until Ben took a heavy hit, watched while he shook his head as if he could still hear a host of attacking voices. Ben's mouth moved in a silent, obviously obscene reply to someone who was not there.

  "So?" Soloman smiled. "It went well?"

  Ben muttered, "But this is what happens when you work with a bunch of boot-licking pencil-pushers. Old Bull, warrior that he is, stood like the Rock of Gibraltar. But he can't keep it up. That wreck on the bridge really set 'em off, boy. And that fiasco at the museum was almost too much, what with the destruction of twenty-five million dollars in irreplaceable art." He was staggered. "God Almighty, it was like the Inquisition. You should have heard Blake Hollman, the NSA guy." He attempted a broad imitation, "'Who the hell's gonna pay for it? The city? No! The Army? Hell, no! The State Department? Good luck!'" He paused. "I told him that I didn't know and I didn't care but it sure as hell wasn't gonna be me! Then they started in on the rest of it. Seven dead soldiers, each with a million dollars' worth of training, a seriously pissed off Los Angeles Police Department which, by the way, can kiss my freckled butt. And the fact that this wholesale media orgy over a bunch of mutilated bodies is about to reach an orgasm that's gonna make blood run out their ears and curl their toes up over their knees."

  Maggie laughed beautifully.

  "You're going to be all right, Ben," Soloman winked. "I think we've come up with a plan to lure Cain out of hiding. With any luck, we'll get him trapped in a free-fire zone with two AH-64s that'll open up on him with mini-guns. We'll pump the cycle to four thousand rounds a minute and just let 'em go." He raised his glass in a toast. "Fire at w
ill, boys."

  "Are you kidding?" Ben stared.

  "Nope."

  "You're serious?"

  "Yep."

  "You really think you can kill him with this?"

  "Yeah."

  "Jesus."

  Soloman laughed.

  "But," Ben managed, "... but when did you come up with it? Why didn't you tell me about—"

  "We didn't come up with it until after you left," Soloman answered. "But it's a good plan. Malo and five of the men are in Warwick, New York. It's about sixty miles from the city. There's an abandoned basilica there surrounded by about ten miles of swamp of every side. When Cain comes for the manuscript at the Museum of Natural History, which he will, we're going to leave him clues as to the location of Amy. Then he'll come for her." Soloman paused at Ben's abruptly deadened gaze. "We're going to use Amy as bait, Ben."

  Ben looked at Maggie Milton. She nodded, cupping the martini tightly in her hands. And when he regarded Soloman again he seemed to have trouble coming to terms with the concept.

  "Sol, maybe we ought to think about this."

  "It's a good plan, Ben."

  "Well – maybe. But they think you've already pushed this thing too far into the daylight. And ... and I'm not sure that I disagree with Bull and the some of the others. That stunt at the museum ..."

  "I know," Soloman agreed. "I pushed it. But this is a solid plan, Ben. We can catch this guy in the open and liquefy him. And Amy's not even going to be there when the shooting starts."

  Only silence answered, a sea of silence that no one seemed eager to break. Ben stared at his already empty glass, unhesitatingly poured himself another. "You really think it'll work? I mean, this SOB ... he ain't human, Sol. Jesus, I don't know what he is! And if there's more collateral damage, we're finished. Even as it is they're only giving us forty-eight hours to take our best shot."

  With a weary sigh Soloman lowered his eyes. "Yeah, there's some unknowns. But there's always going to be unknowns. Only one thing is certain. Cain won't stop looking for Amy and he is not indestructible. Nothing is indestructible." He took a slow sip. "I'm gonna find how much the boy can take. Right down his throat."

  "Are we gonna stick with the team?"

  "Yeah."

  "And the priest?"

  "Is cover. The only complication is that we have to let Cain get to the second manuscript in the museum without getting anybody killed. We have to devise a way to associate her with it without arousing Cain's suspicions because I want Cain to think he's got the advantage of surprise." He grunted. "Then I'm gonna give him the last surprise of his life."

  Ben warmed to the idea, or maybe it was the vodka. "Yeah, it might work, Sol. But we have to—"

  Emerging ghost-like from a nearby hall, Sister Mary Francis passed through the room, moving with silent strides toward the kitchen. Ben watched her walk past him with the most obvious disbelieving gaze and then closed his eyes as he shook his head. "Jesus, Sol ..."

  "We might can use her, Ben," Soloman replied blandly.

  "But Sol, if you only knew what I've gone through today ..."

  "What?"

  "Don't worry about it." Ben rubbed his eyes, leaning back to release a slow groan. "Anyway, as I was saying before ... before the entire Vatican arrived, we're gonna have to have that perimeter covered like a blanket. I don't want that thing coming up my six."

  "Malo's taking care of it. He won't make any mistakes. But I'll double-check everything to make sure."

  "And then?"

  "And then ..." Soloman paused, gazing into the bottom of the empty glass. "Then we'll send Cain back to wherever he came from."

  ***

  Moonlight streamed through the curtained window.

  Amy opened her eyes in the dark to see a silhouette kneeling beside her bed. The lean image did not move but her hands held something. Her head was bent but Amy knew it was the old nun, praying beside her. For a long moment the figure was bowed, her eyes closed as her fingers began to move lightly over the object. And as Amy's eyes adjusted to the night she saw that she held a string of red and black beads, small silver beads separating them. There was a crucifix.

  Then the old nun raised her head and opened her eyes, as if realizing Amy had come awake. For a long time they stared, and Amy was comforted by the kindness, the true love glowing in the pale face. Then with a small hand she reached out and touched the crucifix, lifting it slowly as the nun gazed in silence.

  Jesus' head hung in death, eyes closed and arms stretched out in surrender, nailed to the sacrificial wood. His body, slender and silver, seemed ... so real.

  Amy stared a long time, and then Mother Superior Mary Francis spoke softly. "It is a crucifix." She waited as Amy blinked. "I have carried this one for many years. It has given me much comfort."

  "I've never seen one," Amy whispered.

  "It is the image of Jesus, our Lord, on the cross," the old nun added in a stronger tone. "But of course we know he is on the cross no more."

  "Where is he?"

  "Why, he is with you, child!" Mary Francis laughed lightly, placing a warm hand on Amy's forehead, smoothing back her blond hair. "He is always with you because he loves you!"

  Amy focused on the crucifix. "I'm scared."

  "Oh, Amy," Mary Francis replied, "always remember that you are never alone. He is with you even in this darkness. All you have to do is pray, and he will comfort you."

  "If he loves me, then ... then why is he letting this happen to me?"

  The old nun smiled gently, closing her hand over Amy's hand and the crucifix together.

  "An enemy has done this, Amy. But he is a dog on a leash. Always remember that. He is a dog on a leash. He can go only so far, and no further."

  The crucifix was warm in Amy's hand.

  "Does he really love me?"

  The old nun's voice was close.

  "Yes," she smiled gently. "More than life itself."

  ***

  Soloman tried to sleep but couldn't, and some time before dawn he was awake again. He was amazed that he still had so much energy, considering how long he'd been on his feet. He'd forgotten how long the body can go without sleep, driven by adrenaline and insomnia and the ceaseless battle mind-set that comes in prolonged combat.

  Stiffly he arose from the couch, tossing off a blanket to hear Ben snoring loudly in a recliner. And as he stood he felt the pain in his legs, his hips. His back was also tense, pained by each move. But he knew it wasn't from too much exertion; it was from a lack of it.

  His legs were accustomed to ten miles a day over the dunes, his arms conditioned to pounding the heavy-bag until they fell limp at his sides, each muscle exhausted by the weights and blows. Yet for days now he had not truly used his body, save for the conflicts with Cain, and his body had reacted to it.

  An image passed through Soloman's mind of a thoroughbred racehorse he once saw retired. The stallion, stabled until it could be transported to a pasture, was virtually crippled within three days, its legs swollen and stiff, almost unbendable. Its owners thought it was dying until the veterinarian told them to take it out and run it for a day. And, as he predicted, at the end of that day it was in peak condition again, the muscles sleek and strong, generating its own steam. The memory gave Soloman comfort; he knew there was nothing wrong with him but a lack of exercise.

  On sore, stiff muscles he moved to the door, looking outside. Then he felt a chilled early morning fog swirling around him as he walked onto the front lawn, searching cautiously. He knew that it wasn't completely safe, but there was no way to exert energy inside the house.

  When he was a few feet into the yard, the door safely closed behind him, he bent and stretched, trying to relieve the woodenness as he sensed a blood-red sun rising behind dark clouds. And he remembered the old line – red sky at morning, sailors take warning.

  He cursed silently as he sensed a thickening of the thin air; a storm was coming. Then to release strength he moved with a kick, a punch, a combination of slow
ly hardening martial techniques that loosened him little by little. Within a few minutes he felt the blood flowing again, acute reflexes sharpening more and more, warming.

  After ten minutes he was at it even harder and faster, coming into the flow while keeping his senses alive and alert to every surrounding sound, making his mind not only perform the movements with perfect balance and poise but heating his mind to catch every— Owl's cry to ...

  His fist struck hard into the air as—

  Sky shadow against stars ...

  He whirled and kicked, following with a spinning backhand to— Wisp of wind ...

  Over-reaching and correcting—

  Forest falling quiet ...

  Punch and kick, spinning into—

  Dewdrops rising ...

  He worked long, punching and kicking before—

  Forest stillness ...

  Feeling all of it with merciless concentration, Soloman pushed himself to find the perfect angle, the last measure of skill in the moves, giving himself no respite, no rest between blows.

  No ...

  No surrounding movement.

  Grunts exploded from him as he whirled and struck, testing his body to see what it could really do, and he was savagely pleased, finding something in the moves that escaped him in rest. In another minute sweat was dropping heavily from his brow and still he didn't relent, throwing complex combinations of punches, imagining Cain in front of him, grunting as he hurled blows to tear down that bestial strength.

  Finally he paused, breathing heavily, and maybe a bit too heavily. In days, he realized, he had lost endurance, his lungs lessening for the lack of constant conditioning. Then he resumed and in the midst of a combination of kicks and punches heard the front door whisper open. He spun to see a small figure standing in the frame, the steel panel vanishing behind her.

  Amy.

  Behind her, he saw Ben in the chair, snoring like a chainsaw.

  Amy rubbed an eye with a fist, staring.

  Soloman was moving toward her before she blinked twice, smiling gently so she wouldn't be afraid. And she seemed to know that he was about to usher her back inside. He mounted the steps, opened his mouth to speak.