The Lost Cathedral

by Rick Jones

  “The way you have leaned on the church? Or perhaps a loved one such as Bonasero Vessucci, the father you never really had?”

  “He gave me a chance,” Kimball returned. “And so did the church.”

  “Yet you continue to go against the doctrines of the very same church to achieve the means that suit you best by applying your particular brand of justice over the laws of social convention.”

  Kimball was becoming taxed. “So what you’re saying is that I’m damned?”

  “Did you kill these people when you returned to Brazil?”

  There was a long pause between them.

  “Kimball?”

  “I did what I had to do to save the life of the pope. As long as they existed, so does the treat.”

  The monsignor nodded his head, receiving his answer. I see.

  “The threat has been completely defused,” Kimball added evenly. “Whether I’m absolved of my sins or not, I do what I do because in the end I know I’m good at one thing. It’s just a matter on how to apply it.”

  “And what would that be?”

  Kimball leaned forward and through clenched teeth said, “I kill people. It’s what I do. It’s what I’m good at.” With that the Vatican Knight stood and looked down at the monsignor. “Like I said, it’s just a matter on how to apply it.”

  Before the timer that would mark the end of the meeting sounded off, Kimball took it upon himself to end the session early and returned to his quarters.

  When the door to the monsignor’s office closed behind Kimball, the cleric was left sitting in silence as smoke continued to curl from the cigarette that was wedged between his fingers.

  EPILOGUE

  Kimball was laying on the bed inside his quarters with his hands pressed behind his head as a makeshift pillow. He was staring at the stained-glass image of Mother Mary and the way she held her arms out to him in invitation.

  The monsignor had questioned him hard with his tone accusatory, which was unlike him. Yes, Kimball killed those who were the catalysts of perpetuating everything that was wrong in this world. Would God continue to condemn a man such as myself for trying to right the wrongs in this life? Or deny me the right to be that good man who reacts so that evil can no longer prevail? Does God recognize this? Does God recognize me?

  Kimball sighed as he laid there. Things with his team and Bonasero couldn’t have been better, with everybody glad to see Kimball once again manning the team. Talks about Bonasero’s past would be discussed at a later date when both men were up to speaking about such matters. The ABIN was notified of the society deep inside the jungle, where they found numerous cowls scattered across the chamber floors with no one to don them. So a good job there in disbanding the order. But the monsignor made him question himself—to look deep inside and try to understand the differences between law and justice, between right and wrong, and to find a happy medium with more than just a simple desire to kill a man no matter how black his soul may be.

  But to Kimball there was no alternative: Some men simply deserved to die in order to quell the spreading of disease.

  He continued to look at the stained-glass window—at Mother Mary. There was no light coming through, no beams of warm illumination willing to pull him closer to God. There was nothing at all.

  Turning towards the wall and bringing his knees up in acute angles, Kimball waited for sleep. As he lay there a continuous thread of thought continued to race through his mind:

  . . . I kill people . . .

  . . . It’s what I do . . .

  . . . It’s what I’m good at . . .

  Kimball slept.