by Jones, Rick
But for the most part, Ian McMullen was hardly noticed.
“Please, can anyone spare change for a veteran . . . Change for a vet . . . Any amount will help.”
While halfway through his chant a man slapped a bill into McMullen’s gloved hand. “For a few moments of your time,” he told him. And then the man curled McMullen’s fingers over the money, hiding the amount of its denomination. “All I ask—if you’ll grant me the privilege—is a few moments of your time.”
McMullen withdrew his hand and opened his fingers. Inside was a crumpled fifty dollar bill.
McMullen quickly evaluated the man who was rugged in appearance with strong features that were rawboned and angular. Around the neckline of the man’s shirt was the pristine white collar worn by the clergy.
“And what can I do you?” He placed the fifty into the side pocket of his overcoat.
“Please,” said the clergy, “I have a parish on Fourth Street. Can we talk there?”
“I’m no trick, man.”
The cleric smiled. “It’s not like that.”
“It better not be.”
The cleric gestured his hand in the direction for McMullen to take. “Please.”
Both men began to walk.
“So, what is this about since it’s worth fifty dollars of your hard-earned money, Father?”
“Insight,” he said.
“Insight? That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Well, Father, you’re in luck. Today I have a special. Fifty dollars for all the insight you want.”
The cleric smiled. “Then let’s begin with why you have chosen to live like you do.”
The Irishman hesitated, as if searching for the proper words. Then, “It’s not as much as a way of choice as it is fate,” he finally said.
“So you’re a fatalist?”
“I believe a man creates his own fate by the actions of his past. And sometimes a man has entrenched himself so deeply that no matter what, he can never dig himself out.”
“I see. So what you’re saying is that you’re so deeply entrenched, that hope and salvation is well beyond your reach.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
They walked slowly towards Fourth Street, a quiet moment passing between them.
“May I then ask why you gave up the right to seek redemption—to better yourself?”
McMullen shrugged. “I’m not a good person.”
The cleric stopped. “Why do you say that?”
The one-time assassin stared him directly in the eyes. “If somebody says that they wished they could turn the clock back and do it all over again, then they haven’t lived life the right way. A day doesn’t go by without me wishing I could do it all over again.”
“But isn’t life full of struggles?”
“True. But my life, Father, jumped the shark years ago.”
“Jumped the shark?”
“It’s a term that means that something has lost its way and no matter how hard you try, there’s no real way back.”
“So you’re lost?”
“For some time now—yes.”
“You do know that confession is good for the soul, don’t you? It opens the doorway to redemption.”
“Yeah, well, even God turns away those who don’t care or give a damn.” He faced the clergyman. “I’ve done horrible things, Father. So horrible that God Himself would send me to Hell on a first-class ticket without so much as to look at me.”
“Nobody is that far gone.”
“Really.” The vagrant stepped closer to the priest, the stench of his body rising off him like a battery of heat lifting off the pavement on a hot summer day. “I killed people, Father. I killed innocent people because they were in the way. And I did so without impunity. And you want to know something else?”
The clergyman stood idle.
“I liked it,” he said. “I liked it a lot.”
The priest raised his hand slowly, gesturing to McMullen to continue the walk.
“What? No comment.”
The priest sighed. “Even people who kill do not choose to live like this.”
“I told you, it’s not so much of a choice as it is fate.”
“So you have no remorse? None at all?”
McMullen faltered with a hitch in his step. “I did in time,” he finally said. “And I found my salvation in a bottle. I still do.”
“Alcohol is no substitute for God.”
“It is for me.” He stopped once again, looking at the priest. “It got to the point when I saw the faces of those I killed, the terror in their eyes, the sobs of their pleading; it ate away at me like cancer. Mind you now that I always liked my booze, but it came to a point when becoming addled with alcohol washed away the images, made it OK for me to get buy.” He began walking. “And that’s why nobody wants to give a lush like me a job or an opportunity. Nobody wants to hire somebody who can’t make it through the day without imbibing. I’m simply trading the demon of alcohol for the demon of my conscience.”
The parish sat on the corner of Bridger and Fourth. Yards away an alley separated the church from a defunct wedding chapel.
“The alleyway will take us to the back door,” said the priest.
“How much insight do you want?”
The clergyman remained silent as they made their way to the rear of the parish, which was gated.
“I’m afraid I don’t have a key,” said the priest.
“Then I guess we’re done.”
“Actually, we’re not,” he said. From a back pocket the clergyman pulled out a silver cylinder and held it up in display. “A man who truly feels repentance for the things he’s done gives him the right for redemption.”
The pick shot upward and outward.
“What are you doing?”
The priest moved closer. “I’m going to give you the opportunity to meet God and to ask Him for salvation.”
“Are you nuts? You’re a priest!”
“Actually, I’m not.”
And as promised, he gave McMullen the opportunity to ask God for the chance to enter His Kingdom of Light and Loving Spirits.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Vatican City
Pope Pius stood before the mirror in the bathroom. His face was pale and pasty like the soft, white underbelly of a fish. The lines along his forehead, the countless intertwining creases along his face appeared longer, darker, deeper, a scrimshaw account of the burdens he carried over the past several years. In the whites of his eyes laces of red stitching interlaced throughout, giving them that thick, rheumy look of fatigue.
After a cursory examination of his own depleting reflection, the pontiff turned the handle of the faucet and watched water pour from the mouth of a polished-brass spigot in the shape of a large-scaled fish, and into the basin. After spooning cool water onto his face with cupped hands, and then patting himself dry with a towel, Pope Pius made his way back to his chamber in a gait that was disturbingly labored, his steps short, shuffling, the movement of a geisha girl.
Sitting before the papal desk with a manila envelope in his hand sat Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci, who waited patiently.
The pope entered wearing his everyday dress which included the full-buttoned cassock of the floor-length sottana; a sash; the hooded cape of his mozzetta; red slippers, the pantofole; and the skullcap of his zucchetto. However, the garments seemed to weigh the man down, the fabric hanging loosely as if the material was too large for his frame.
“Please, forgive me, Bonasero. The amount of work I’ve been putting in is beginning to wear on me.” He positioned himself over the seat and let his legs buckle, the pontiff falling into the cushion of soft Corinthian leather. He pointed to the envelope in the cardinal’s hands. “Is that from the SIV?”
Vessucci nodded and opened the envelope. Inside were 8x10 photos of a crime scene in Las Vegas. He placed the photos in front of the pontiff.
What the pope was seeing was a spread-out galle
ry of Ian McMullen in the pose of death. There were several photos taken from different angles of the man laying prone on the pavement with his arms aside—but not quite in mock crucifixion—with the material of his overcoat ripped from the tail to the collar and parted, revealing the man’s naked back. The letter ‘A’ was carved into his flesh.
“Ian McMullen,” said the cardinal. “He’s the last man in Kimball’s unit positioned in the top row of the photo. He is the letter ‘A.’”
The pope sighed, examining the photo with earnest study. From left to right the red circles surrounding the faces of Kimball’s old unit were filled in with the letters I-S-C and now the letter A, leading to the reasonable hypothesis that the assassin would now begin the final leg of his journey by killing those on the bottom row, beginning with a Native American and ending up with Kimball.
“That’s four down,” the cardinal said dourly, “with four to go.”
The pope tented his fingers and bounced them nervously against his chin. “I’m terribly worried about Kimball,” he said. “Has the SIV found any of the knights on holy sabbatical?”
“Not yet, Your Holiness. But they’re using every possible means to find them.”
“I would feel much more comfortable, Bonasero, knowing that he had the support of the Vatican Knights, rather than the backing of his old unit.”
“We could always call in Leviticus or Isaiah.”
The pope nodded. “They’re committed to the salvation of innocent people elsewhere. To call them back when the citizenry of the Church needs us most would be a grievous sin not only on my part, but also on the part of the Church. No, Bonasero. As much as I would like to, I can’t take them away from their rightful duty as Vatican Knights . . . I’m afraid Kimball’s on his own for now.”
The pope grabbed the photos and spread them out on the desktop before him: Walker, I; Grenier, S; Arruti, C: McMullen, A.
“I know what he’s spelling,” said the cardinal.
The pope nodded. “So do I.” He traced his finger over the photos. “I-S-C-A,” he said, and then fell back into his seat. “He writes of the one who betrayed Jesus for thirty pieces of silver.”
“Judas Iscariot.”
“Judas Iscariot,” he confirmed.
“But why?”
Pius shrugged. “Does a mad man ever need a reason?”
“Or perhaps mad men. We have no idea how many are involved in this. All we know is that whoever did this is probably in Las Vegas. He, or they, may even be waiting on Kimball.”
“When does he land?”
“Within the hour,” he answered. “But I’ve got somebody waiting for him the moment he arrives to apprise him of the situation.”
“Let’s just pray that Kimball doesn’t walk into anything he’s not prepared for.”
“Kimball’s elite. It’s in his blood to be attentive.”
“He’s also alone.” The moment the pope gained his feet he wobbled in his stance and fell forward, his world a dizzying spiral as he used the desk as a crutch to hold him upright.
Cardinal Vessucci reacted quickly, aiding the pontiff back into his seat, the pontiff’s eyes seemingly detached, distant and lost. “Your Holiness.”
The pontiff reached out with a hand that appeared as feeble as a bird and laid it upon the cardinal’s forearm. His breath was labored, as if he had just committed himself to a long sprint. “I’m fine, Bonasero. Really. I just got up too quickly, that’s all.”
And then Pius went into a coughing jag, his lungs wet with a phlegm-like rattle, his face crimson, eyes bulging and teary as he coughed into the sleeve of his white sottana. When the coughing subsided he could only stare at the sleeve blankly. It was marked with the splashes of blood.
Cardinal Vessucci took a disjointed step forward. “My dear Jesus,” he said. “That’s not good.”
The pope faced him. “Get me to Gemelli.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
McCarran Airport. Las Vegas, Nevada.
To the child the man was like a mist that broke apart then coalesced, always in three places at once, the shadows his camouflage.
“Again!” The voice was harsh and authoritative, that of a mentor who expected nothing less than perfection.
From the shadows to the boy’s right, the blade of a wooden katana shot forth and struck the boy across the shoulders, then disappeared back into the darkness as quickly as it appeared. The strike in itself was hardly perceptible against the child’s skin, but the noise of the wooden blade striking his flesh sounded off like slapstick.
“Again!”
The boy turned toward the point of attack holding his own wooden katana, frightened, the shadows pooling around him.
This time, from his left, came a similar strike, extremely fast, the wooden blade striking the small of the child’s back.
The boy pivoted on his feet, listening. Straight ahead he heard something move—the mere shuffling of a foot being drawn across the floor, something close, the figure using the darkness as camouflage. Then in quick reaction the child struck out with his blade, centering on the point of his attacker based on the central spot of the sound.
From the wall of darkness the blade of the wooden katana shot forward and deflected the child’s blow, blades colliding with a clack that echoed throughout the darkened chamber beneath the Vatican. And then his mentor’s blade disappeared beyond the fringe of light that was granted by the flames of distant torches.
“Very good, Ezekiel,” came the mentor’s voice, that of pride. “Always rely upon other senses where others fail you. What you can’t see, then you must listen. What you can’t hear, then you must smell. What you can’t understand, then you must reason.”
The boy held the katana straight before him in a firm grip, waiting and listening.
His mentor once more moved through the shadows, gearing himself to strike.
And the child listened, shuffling upon his own feet but maintaining his balance, his blade ready to defend.
“Good, Ezekiel, you’re showing excellent poise. However, I’m behind you.”
The mentor’s blade struck once again from the wall of darkness, this time a glancing shot across the boy’s back in a slashing motion, a kill strike.
Disgruntled, the child tossed the wooden katana to the ground and fell petulantly down onto his backside, sobbing in defeat.
Kimball watched the child from the shadows for a long moment before treading carefully to Ezekiel and taking to a bended knee beside him. With a sweeping motion of his arm he pulled the boy close to him. “It’s all right, Ezekiel. You’re doing fine.”
“I suck!”
Kimball couldn’t help the smile. “No you don’t.” And then he took a seat on the concrete next to him. “I’ve been in this arena training kids a lot older than you. And do you want to know what?”
Ezekiel looked up at Kimball, the lines on his face dancing eerily with the movement of the torches’ flames.
“Believe it or not,” said Kimball, “you’re showing me incredible skills of self-defense far above those who are much older than you.”
A slight grin surfaced upon Ezekiel’s tear-streaked face. “Really?”
Kimball nodded. “Absolutely. In a few more years you’ll be an expert. I guarantee it.”
The boy’s shoulders slumped in defeat.
“What?” asked Kimball.
Ezekiel sighed. “By then I’ll be twelve or thirteen. I’ll be old.”
Kimball laughed. “What you’ll be, Ezekiel, is a fine young man who will be at the top of his game. Just be patient and never give up, OK? Remember what we talked about earlier about quitters and losers.”
The boy nodded. “Quitters never win and winners never quit.”
“That’s right. And you’re a winner, right?”
“I guess.”
Kimball mimicked him sportingly. “I guess.” And then he grabbed the wooden katana and handed it back to the child. “Quitters never win and winners never quit.”
/> The boy looked briefly at the sword, sighed, and then gained his feet holding the katana before him in a firm grip. “Quitters never win and winners never quit.”
Kimball got to his own feet and receded back into the shadows. Once he was totally eclipsed by darkness he shouted one word. “Again!”
And the child attacked.
The moment the plane touched down at McCarran Airport in Las Vegas, the images of him mentoring Ezekiel in the early stages of the boy’s life had vanished. And perhaps the monsignor was right after all by assessing the fact that Kimball was trying to absolve himself of his sins by usurping the life of this child and nurturing him in compensation for the lives of the children he had taken as an act to gain redemption. Take a life, raise a life.
After disembarking, Kimball grabbed his luggage and made his way to the taxi queue. Standing outside, with the heat hitting him like an oven blast, even at night, was a diminutive man with a conservative haircut, black-framed glasses, and the cleric’s outfit with the white band of a Roman Catholic collar around his neck, hardly a warrior.
The man approached Kimball who stood out like a beacon with his cleric shirt, Roman collar and military-styled pants and boots, an incongruous combination. “Mr. Hayden? Kimball Hayden?”
Kimball faced the priest. “Yes.”
The man pulled out his wallet and flipped the cover, showing his ID as a member of the Servizio Informazione del Vaticano, the Vatican Intelligence, or the SIV. “I’m Father Michael Sebastian. I have a car waiting.”
The men made their way to the moving walkway that led to the short-term parking area of the garage. Just as they secured their seatbelts and got the vehicle in motion, Father Sebastian handed Kimball a manila envelope. “I’m sorry to say that you will not like what you’ll find there in those photos.” And then, “I’m sorry about your friend.”
Kimball withdrew photos of a crime scene—that of a man lying face down on the pavement with an ‘A’ carved into his back.
