Sinners and Saints

by Rick Jones

  “Find the canister, Bosshart, and handle it the way it should be handled.” Then Kimball ambled his way toward the doorway in a manner that exposed a growing weakness in his legs.

  “Where are you going, Father?”

  Kimball looked into the corridor to examine the wide slice in the train’s hull, a neat cut. Then he called to Bosshart over his shoulder. “I’m not a priest.” Then he made his way to the forward cars with his hand over his wound.

  Chapter Sixty

  Just about everyone onboard the train was communicating with loved ones via their cellphones just as Bosshart had suggested, with no shortage for Kimball’s taking. In F-Car, Kimball slid aside a door and found a middle-aged women speaking on a smartphone. When she saw him her eyes flashed, her surprise sudden when she saw the priest enter. Then she saw his wound and the blood pooling around the foot of his damaged side, as he stood before her.

  The priest held out his hand. “The phone,” he said. “I need it.”

  Obviously the woman didn’t speak English, so Kimball pointed to the phone and then to his ear. “The phone. I need it.”

  She handed it over to him.

  Nodding in appreciation, Kimball accepted the phone and leaned against the wall for support, his face an unhealthy shade of gray. With the point of his bloodied fingertip, he dialed the number to the Holy See and gave the responding bishop a specialized code, who in turn directed him to the office of the SIV.

  It was Father Auciello who handled the call.

  “I got your message regarding Bosshart.”

  “And the particles?”

  “Safe.”

  “And the hostiles onboard?”

  “Neutralized.”

  “All of them?”

  “All of them.”

  “Kimball, we’re getting word that the train’s engineers are not responding, nor the equipment onboard. Engineers in Milan are trying to remotely commandeer the computer system to stop the train, but are having no success.”

  “That’s because the system was taken out by the faction, which happen to be members of Office Thirty-Five, by the way. As for the engineers…” He let his words hang for interpretation.

  “We know about the North Koreans,” said Father Auciello. “We’ve sent a unit of Vatican Knights to rescue Bosshart’s daughter. We’ve also retrieved data connecting Office Thirty-Five with the Reconnaissance General Bureau. They wanted Bosshart and the particles to bolster a program strictly for the use of military applications and as a fuel source, we believe, to transport these weapons once they’re fully functional. But Kimball…”

  Kimball grunted before speaking. “Yeah.”

  “Can you stop the train?”

  “Negative. And we’re approaching the coordinates where the Aeronautica Milatare plans the missile strike to take us out. They do understand, of course, that it will also set off the particles, don’t they?”

  “The train will be in a desolate area between Rome and Milan. No matter what, Kimball, they cannot allow a runaway train to put the lives of nearly four million people in jeopardy, when the cost can be minimalized to four hundred.”

  Kimball understood the ideology of sacrificing a few in order to save the whole. But he didn’t want to be a part of the collateral damage either, especially when he believed that there was a solution for everything. “Advice on how to proceed?” he asked the priest.

  “I’m going to connect you to Jean Pierre of Interpol,” Father Auciello informed him.

  After a few clicks and then a pause that sounded like open space, he was finally connected to the Interpol agent.

  “Kimball Hayden, I’m glad that you were able to neutralize the situation,” said Pierre.

  Kimball looked at his wound. But not without a cost.

  Then from the Vatican Knight: “The Aeronautica Milatare?” he blatantly asked.

  “The engineers?”

  “Dead.”

  “The control panel?”

  “Gone. Wiped out by the North Koreans.”

  Then there was silence.

  “You there?” Kimball finally had to ask.

  “Yes, Mr. Hayden. I’m still here.”

  “The Aeronautica Milatare?” Kimball repeated.

  “Mr. Hayden, we cannot remotely control the train since the brain of the computer system onboard has been rendered inoperable.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “The manual override has also been disabled.”

  Kimball was beginning to lose his patience as his peripheral vision started to turn black around the edges. “So WHAT are you saying?”

  “Mr. Hayden, I know you’ve been informed as to the reason why that train can never reach Rome. The impact of a runaway train to whatever barrier it hits will destabilize those elements. We can’t have that happen. The train will not stop because the hostiles have disabled the computer and manual overrides. That leaves one of two options, with that option being a missile strike.”

  “And the other?”

  “Every car is connected by what is called a ‘knuckle,’” said Pierre. “On that particular train, you’ll need to manually go underneath the platform and disconnect the hoses and pin that connects the engine compartment from the rest of the cars. The engine will continue on and will be purposely derailed along the route to bar any damages as it closes in on its final destination of Rome. Eventually, the cars will lose momentum without the pull of the engine and slow. In time, the cars will stop altogether—equal and opposite reaction of push and pull. Once the engine compartment is separated, then the Aeronautica Milatare will pull back.”

  Kimball looked at his wound, which was draining him physically. “And if I can’t disconnect the car? If the knuckle doesn’t give?”

  “Then everything goes on as planned. The Aeronautica Milatare must keep those particles from reaching Rome.”

  The blackening edges around Kimball’s were growing inward. “Tell me how to proceed.”

  “Are you between the engine compartment and the second car?”

  “No. But I will be in a minute.”

  “Make your way to the area,” said Pierre. “I’ll connect you to a master engineer who can walk you through this.”

  “Give me a minute.” Maybe two, Kimball thought, the way my strength was ebbing.

  Once he reached the platform area he fell to his knees, the power in his legs all but gone.

  “Mr. Hayden?” It was the master engineer.

  Kimball put the unit on speaker phone and placed it on the platform. “Can you hear me?” he asked.

  “Perfectly. Are you at the platform?”

  “I am.”

  “Do you see a square hatchway in the middle?”

  He did. But it was screwed in at the four corners. “It’s screwed in,” he said. Then he removed his KA-BAR from his waistband and looked at it. Though it had many uses, turning it into a screwdriver was not one them.

  “Inside the engine compartment,” stated the master engineer, “you’ll find a drill made specifically to remove the screws and lift the hatch. You’ll find it directly beneath the console.”

  Kimball got to his feet and became dizzy, his sight wavering, and then stumbled-walked his way into the engine compartment, nearly falling over the body of a dead engineer. Leaning against the console in such a weakened state, Kimball thought he was going to vomit. But he maintained himself as he found the door, turned the lever, grabbed the drill, and returned to the hatchway.

  Kimball held the drill up. “You still there?” he called out, the Vatican Knight starting to slur his words.

  “Right here, Mr. Hayden. Do you have the drill?”

  “I do.”

  “Use it to remove the screws.”

  Kimball’s sight began to blur, the lines on the screws’ heads becoming difficult to discern. After a few attempts to line the flathead of the drill to the line of the screw, he pressed the trigger. The screw turned in perfect revolutions until it popped free, then Kimball fo
llowed through and removed the remaining three. “Done,” he said.

  “Remove the hatchway.”

  Kimball couldn’t maneuver his fingertips into the seams where the hatchway and the surrounding platform met, so he popped it free with the point of the knife. Once the hatch lifted, he could see the framework of the train underneath, a wild tangle of black hoses, and a fast moving landscape. “Done,” he said.

  “Now here is where it gets a little tricky,” said the master engineer. “You’re going to have to climb down onto the framing and disconnect the hoses. This will release the knuckle of the second car from the engine compartment. Can you do that, Mr. Hayden?”

  Kimball watched the train travel over the railroad ties which hardly seemed like railroad ties at all, but passing distortions of what they really were. “The train’s moving fast,” he commented. He didn’t know why he made such an obvious statement, he just did, his mind beginning to lose focus.

  “Mr. Hayden, you must disconnect the hoses. You haven’t much time.”

  Kimball looked at his watch, the face all fuzzy. But he could still see the LED readout, though the numbers seemed to waver a bit. What the master engineer was telling him was that the train was minutes away from the strike-point, and that the Aeronautica Milatare was closing in on a final run.

  As a wave of nausea passed over him, Kimball worked his way into the hole and situated himself along the metal framework, his body less than two feet above the passing landscape. And then he saw the hoses, nothing but black-looking coils that seemed too many to count, all in wild jumbles. Then he removed his KA-BAR, gripped it as tightly as he could, and began to cut, the blade going through some coils like a hot knife through butter, while struggling with others. As he reached for the final hose, one that appeared farther than he could reach, he tried to extend his arm. But he lost his balance and slid to one side, his feet nearly scraping against the passing terrain. At such a speed, Kimball knew that any impact with a fast-moving surface would break the bones in both heels. So he repositioned himself using whatever reserves of strength he had left, and resettled himself. Then with a final stretch of his outreached hand, and with the blade of the KA-BAR contacting the hose, he sawed away and breached the line that caused a final hiss of breath. When he severed the hose, it became a writhing serpent in the open air, spinning with agitation until it finally went limp. And then came the final stage as the knuckle separated, the engine compartment releasing from the rest of the cars and putting distance between them.

  Kimball offered a weak smile. There would be no collateral damage today, he told himself.

  And then his sight began to diminish, the edges closing in fast with tunnel-vision. And then everything seemed to grow distant as he was beginning to lose his grip, his power fading as his fingers seemed to go numb, his body suddenly weightless, the man falling away to a distant shore that was consumed by growing darkness.

  And there at the end of a hollow tunnel he heard a distant voice, one that seemed so far away. “Father,” it said. “Can you hear me?”

  Kimball could see the outline of odd shapes, silhouettes. “Faaaatheeeer?”

  Darkness was closing in from all sides.

  Father?

  And in the end, there was no Light for Kimball Hayden as he let himself go to whatever fate awaited him.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Gemelli Hospital

  Rome, Italy

  Following Day

  The ceiling.

  The banks of fluorescent lights.

  The surrounding walls, white and antiseptic.

  The rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor.

  When Kimball Hayden woke, the last thing he recalled was slipping into darkness.

  “Welcome back.” It was Father Auciello. He was sitting in a chair next to Kimball’s bed with one leg crossed over the other.

  Kimball batted his eyes and focused. “Where am I?” he asked.

  “You’re at Gemelli.”

  “I’m home?” Then after smacking his dry lips, Auciello served him a small box of juice, which Kimball drank from the straw. Easing back into the pillow, he asked. “What happened? The last thing I remember is hearing a voice while falling away into darkness.”

  “You almost bled out,” Father Auciello told him.

  “The gunshot wasn’t that bad until everyone saw the wound and started to pound the hell out of it. But I don’t remember much—just a voice.”

  “Right after you cut the last line,” said Father Auciello, “Ásbjörn Bosshart and a few others pulled you through the hatchway. They said you were losing consciousness and nearly lost your grip.”

  Kimball recalled hearing a tinny voice as if someone was calling him from the end of a long tunnel, far off and hollow. “It was Bosshart who was calling to me,” he commented more to himself than to Auciello. And then, while turning his head on the pillow to look at the priest, he asked: “What happened after I lost consciousness?”

  Auciello kept his rigid posture in the chair, back straight and chin high, and spoke with the refinement of a well-educated man. “Once the cars slowed and stopped without the pull of the engine compartment, everyone onboard was removed from the train and transported to Rome. You, however, had to be medically evacuated by chopper. The engine was purposely derailed about two hundred kilometers from Rome to counteract any possible threat of harm or injury, should the runaway train reach city limits.”

  “And Bosshart?”

  “The man was taken into custody…And the particles were secured by the authorities.”

  “He was just a pawn.”

  “That will be something for the courts to decide.”

  “And Frederic Becher?”

  “His service will be held two days from now inside The Chamber of the Vatican Knights. Once the ceremony is complete, he’ll be buried beneath the basilica.”

  He’s earned that right, thought Kimball. Then solemnly, he stated, “I’ll be there.” Then he grimaced against the throbbing pain in his side—even as high doses of morphine cruised through his veins. Once the pain leveled off, he reached for his cellphone on the nightstand beside the bed, the unit connected to its charger. Since the phone needed to be charged every three hours, it was time for another, he considered. Especially when it had an unsightly cracked face.

  “Let me get that for you,” said Father Auciello, who disconnected the charger and handed the phone to Kimball. “Is this call going to be one of privacy?” he asked the Vatican Knight.

  Kimball nodded. “If you don’t mind.”

  Father Auciello stood and brushed a hand against his shirt as if to wash away a wrinkle or a pleat only he could see, and left the area.

  Once Kimball was alone, he dialed a quick-call number and placed the phone to his ear.

  It rang three times before someone picked up on the other end.

  It was Shari Cohen. Obviously she had Caller ID. “Kimball.”

  “It’s been a while,” he told her. “I hope you’re feeling better.”

  “I am. And you?”

  Kimball looked at the squared gauze pad covering his side. “I’ve had better days,” he said.

  “Why? What happened?”

  “It’s fine,” he told her. “I really called to see how you were doing.”

  There was a pause over the line. Then: “I’m working on it.”

  Shari Cohen had become the target of a home-grown terrorist, and was caught within the crosshairs of the assassin’s rifle after he had taken away the lives of her entire family: her husband and two children.

  “Shari, you know I’m there for you if you need me. I can come see you. I can—”

  “That wouldn’t be a good idea,” she cut in. “I lost my family, Kimball. It’s not that I don’t want to see you…it’s that I can’t. When I lost Gary,” she started to break at this point, “and my two little girls, that’s when I lost everything inside me. Can you understand that, Kimball? There’s nothing there. I’m empty. I can’t feel any
thing…Not even for you.”

  Kimball closed his eyes in an attempt to squeeze back the tears. He had always loved her. And she had always rejected him. Shari Cohen had become his Ayana the same way that Ayana had become Becher’s. A love that was distant and forever out of reach.

  “I just want to help you through this,” he told her.

  “I know. And for that I love you…But there can be nothing more.” After a slight delay, she added, “Good-bye, Kimball. I do wish you the best. And please be careful. I know what you do is dangerous. If I ever got a call from the church saying that something terrible had happened to you…I’d be devastated. And I don’t want to go through that again with you as I did with my family. It would be too much for me to bear. Please understand this.”

  And then Shari hung up, the click barely audible to Kimball’s ear. He tossed the phone on the sheets of his bed and looked ceilingward at the acoustic tiles.

  My Ayana, he remembered Becher saying when referring to his lost love.

  My Shari.

  * * *

  After setting her phone aside, Shari Cohen broke into tears. She cared deeply for Kimball, but differently from her husband and daughters, now gone, with the aftermath of their loss leaving a gaping wound inside her soul that was as deep and dark as a fathomless pit.

  Inside her living room, Shari was going over family photos thinking how this could serve to be something medicinal. She leafed through image after image, smiling when she saw her husband and children at the beach, at a picnic, at the playground or at locations throughout the world when they had been vacationing.

  A family.

  And then that smile faded to an agonizing grimace as dark memories suddenly crushed her.

  Placing the photos aside, she reached into another box to grab photos of her Grandmama, the one person who could always make her feel good despite the moment, though she had been gone these past few years.