by Rick Jones
After parking the vehicle in long-term parking and using a credit number that was attached to a Vatican account, Jonah and Nahum were able to board a flight that would arrive in Boston one hour later. During the trip, Nahum spelled out the incident of meeting Kimball inside the MENS ROOM, a collision really, as if fated. He went on to say that he had never seen eyes so filled with cold detachment, the eyes of a seasoned killer. And both men questioned the judgment on Bonasero Vessucci on this one, with the two asking: What was he thinking of with this guy?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Malden, Massachusetts
Three Days Later
Soon after Kimball Hayden landed in Boston, he returned to his hometown of Malden, a city and a suburb a few miles north of the capital city. The weather was cool, damp and gray, the telltale signs of a coming storm. From the airport, Kimball had taken a cab and was dropped off at his former home, a two-story unit that had vinyl covering instead of the paint-peeling wood he remembered. The door was different, newer, and the windows updated. The cracks that lined the once wooden stairway that led to the porch was now a brick staircase. Wrought-iron banisters now replaced the old wooden ones. And the rose bushes he remembered flourishing in the front yard had been substituted with privet hedges. As he stood there recalling the memories of a few years ago, a misty rain started to fall, causing him to hike the collar of his jacket for guarded comfort. In just a few years, he thought, someone had taken this home and covered it over with something new, something that made the home appear less aged, less hospitable. Everything Kimball remembered had been washed away, the home now establishing new memories with new hosts. Here was the house that his mother was murdered in. A year later it also became the home where his father had died after cancer ate him down to such bare bones, Kimball could lift him off the sheets with one hand when necessary. And then when the house became empty and cold and without life to sustain it any longer, Kimball sold the residence and joined the military. Like Thomas Wolfe said: ‘You can’t go home again,’ because the home you remember is not there anymore. Feeling a driving chill, Kimball shrugged against the cold and moved on to a small home that discreetly catered to overnight travelers, if the pay was right. For the compensation he would receive his own personal bathroom, clean linens and two hot meals. Anything additional meant added costs. The room was small and spartan that contained a single-sized bed, an empty bureau, and a pair of token wall pictures. After putting his clothes into the drawers, Kimball sat on the edge of the bed, which protested under his weight, and stared out the water-drop-dappled windows. The rain was coming down harder as it worked its way to becoming torrential sheets. Then he closed his eyes to recall memories and his childhood when life was easy under his mother’s care, when life was carefree until it became all too real. Life was taken for granted such as the ease of waking up and going to school, when playing sports was his passion and homework an unforgivable chore. Then as the years passed by, the true and ugly head of reality began to rise up. Family and friends started to die around him, either by their hand or by the hands of others, some from sickness. Stresses became very real, causing anxieties that regulated emotions that were usually toxic to the soul. And when Kimball lost everyone around him that he loved, it was then that a truly ugly world began to prevail and take dominance. So, he lifted his shield high against these dark emotions to hold them at bay and kept them there. Sighing, Kimball felt alone in a world which he believed was controlled by
the hands of those who controlled the bloodied hands of others. Looking at his own hands, though clean, he could not count the times he had to wash them dry of the blood of those he had killed. Men, women, and now children. No one was immune to his touch. Another sigh. Reaching into his wallet, Kimball pulled out a black-and-white photo of his parents that was taken when they were young and happy and in love, the two smiling which was why this photo had become his favorite. The picture had aged creases in it and white lines, but they did not spoil the effect of their faces or pleasant grins. Tracing a fingertip over his mother’s face, he remembered her kindness and the gentle way she managed the household, always with a smile and a temperate manner. And then his father, a man who ruled with such strict guidelines that a line between should never be crossed, had unfortunately divided them. It wasn’t until his mother had been murdered that the line finally dissolved and the cold truce between them gone. The relationship had warmed up to the point that saying ‘I love you’ was no longer considered a vulgar statement between them. Hugs were no longer considered less manly or effeminate. And then life’s cruel twist of fate intervened and robbed him of a father who rotted from the inside out from cancer. Kimball’s Rocks of Gibraltar were gone, leaving behind a void that became the only way of life that Kimball had come to accept. Returning the photo and then placing his hands palms down against his lap, Kimball Hayden watched the rain until the sky grew dark. The windows remained rain-dappled with drops, which warped the outside images such as the streetlamps, which had cast an odd lighting from them. And as he sat there with the stillness of a statue, Kimball did not move for the rest of the evening, fearing that the ghosts that plagued his dreams would appear once again. Especially the ghost of his mother . . . and the darkened Shape that watched over her.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Forestdale Cemetery
Malden, Massachusetts
The Following Morning
Though the cemetery lanes for cars to pass by remained wet and the puddles deep, the sky was remarkably blue with not a single cloud to be seen. But the air had a snap to it, a cold crispiness that caused Kimball to once again raise the collar of his coat. As he stood before the tombstone of his mother and father who shared a single lot, carnations that had once been bright and full were dead, the petals having browned with decay while their stems had become little more than dry kindle. Brushing them aside, Kimball was able to read the dates of their birth and death, both taken too soon. Retrieving his photo from his wallet, Kimball brought the image to his lips and kissed it softly. Then he rested the photo upon the headstone, placed a small stone upon it, then stepped back to regale over the fine craftsmanship of the marker, which had angels and cherubs along the sides and an image of Jesus with His arms open in invitation. Mom, I need to know if you’re OK. A pause. Then a moment later: I need your help. I need to know if I’ve been a disappointment to you. Have I? Silence. I see him standing over you in the Darkness, waiting. But you’re protected by a diminishing Light. He says you’re fading because of what I do, what I have become. He also says that my actions, in time, will make the Light that guards you fade until you belong to him. Is this true? Are my actions the cause of your torment? Kimball sighed through his nostrils. Then he closed his eyes and envisioned his mother caught beneath the conical beam of light that was once so great that she flourished inside of it. Now the light was growing weaker. She was growing weaker. Her skin, once taut, had become corrupted to the point of becoming crepe, and then withering, her limbs almost as thin as broomsticks. And her eyes, once bright and brilliant with the flame of hope and goodness and the Light, were now smoky and black. Kimball opened his eyes. You always wanted me to do the right thing, he thought. You always taught me to do what’s best for others. After a beat, he added: I killed a mother and her daughter because they were unprincipled people who threatened to bring down a good man who helped others. He told me that my actions would benefit the many. And yet you continue to waste away. Then a niggled voice spoke at the back of his mind as a soft whisper. You’ve killed men, women and children in the name of ‘good.’ You’ve robbed people of their lives. You’ve stolen the lives of siblings. You robbed a mother and father of a child. Or perhaps you robbed a child of their mother or their father. And yet you see goodness in all this because of the achieved means behind your actions. Kimball was trying to put a finger on the voice, couldn’t. Depending on the guidance you receive, Kimball, I can tell you that there are two sides to every war, two charges who will direct you in a way th
at serves their means. And despite the opposing forces, I can guarantee you that each side believes their cause to be the just one. Each man will use you as a method of achievement, no matter how heinous the act. Killing innocent people, Kimball, in order to achieve certain goals because to believe that you’re doing good instead of evil, is simply a misunderstanding of your moral conscience. People will often use and redirect. And people often become the puppets to the puppet-master, such as you. Look deeper into yourself, Kimball, and see the entire picture. See who could benefit the most by way of a moral compass. Do you really believe this man who governed your actions to kill these people meant so for the good of the whole, or for the good of the one? Kimball thought about this. And then: I thought I was doing the right thing. You’ve killed people in Russia because they posed a threat to the nation, even though they worked for the good of their nation. You’ve killed people who threatened to compromise your position of an operation, good people who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. You killed in the name of your government to protect its sovereignty and a way of life. All proposed things considered good, though the measures taken were dark.
Who are you? I am the One who is in the Light with your mother. I am the One who guards her from the Other. The Other? You mean the Shape who watches over her? Yes. I don’t see You within the Light by my mother. That’s because I am the Light, Kimball. I am everywhere. Even in Darkness. To some I am the Redeemer, the One who stands beside those who consider themselves lost or too far gone. I am the Darkest Light. There’s no such thing. Darkness is the absence of Light. Yet here I am with your mother inside this void, a place where the Shape lingers and watches while hoping to snatch the soul of a good person. Your mother withers because she believes herself to be damned by what she has brought into this world. And for each day she’s distraught with guilt, her Light fades because the guilt, which is a plied trade of the Shape, is beginning to overwhelm her. It must be the Light of her faith that reignites the flame. I can only do so much and protect her for so long. She must do the rest. And the rest, Kimball, is up to you. Even though Kimball never heard the voice before, it sounded oddly familiar. It was warm and coaxing, the voice having a serene and soothing effect to it. After a pause the Voice added: If there’s one thing you must remember, it’s that for some it’s often difficult to determine acts between good and evil, and that it’s good intentions that truly pave the road to Hell. Consider your actions wisely. Consider your ramifications between the two since there is a fine line that divides them. Eventually, Kimball, you’ll have to choose a side, if you haven’t already, whether to operate in the Darkness or the Light. But there is a world in between, yes? That fine line you just mentioned. The calm voice remained silent. Then from Kimball: It’s the Gray. Perhaps I’m to work in Darkness to better serve the Light. After a moment of quiet, the Voice said: To serve the Light from the Gray, Kimball Hayden, even then you must look at the consequences. Salvation can only be achieved if the Light benefits.
That’s what I’m doing.
No, Kimball. You’re being misled and manipulated by the puppeteer’s strings into believing that you are. You mother has become a barometer to your actions, a slow but steady decay. You must choose wisely or forgo your moral compass. If you continue this path, then someday, Kimball Hayden, you and your mother will suffer side by side for eternity within the shadow of the Shape. My mother will be fine. When no response came, Kimball repeated mentally: My mother will be fine. The Voice was gone. Sighing, Kimball leaned over and kissed the headstone of his parents. Then shuddering against the briskness of cold weather, Kimball left the gravesite never realizing that he was under the watchful gaze of studious eyes.
* * *
From beyond a fieldstone wall, Jonah and Nahum maintained a close watch of Kimball Hayden as he stayed close to the headstone of his parents. There were times where he seemed at peace by standing still, whereas other times he appeared agitated by constantly shifting his weight from leg to leg as if he was at war with himself on some personal level. After Kimball left the site, Nahum contacted Vatican Intelligence via satellite phone to update them about the target’s actions. So far, the assassin’s actions were benign. But that was about to change.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Meeting Chamber of the Senate
The Capitol Building
Washington, D.C.
During an assembly of senators upon the Floor, statesmen continued to mill about after the vote on a bill. Senators Rhames and Shore were standing together talking about the next bill’s pros and cons when a nicely dressed senator with wizened eyes, a semi-bald pate, and a sizable paunch intervened. He was well dressed in a tan suit, a matching vest, and an expensive tie made of the finest silk, and wore spit-shined shoes. Everything about him expressed power and money. But it was the way he smiled that spoke volumes, that Machiavellian grin that told everyone that he was the master of the political realm. “Gentlemen,” the senator stated. Senator Shore nodded acknowledgement before greeting flatly, “Joe.” Senator Joseph Cartwright was a seasoned veteran who made enemies within his own party and someone who wielded his unscrupulous methods like a sword to get what he wanted. “Good to see you both on this fine day. A pair of naysayers on the last vote, I see.” “You have a problem with that, Joe?” Rhames asked him. “Not on that bill—no. But as you both know; the next bill is one I helped create. A bill I think will benefit the masses within my constituency greatly.” “Yeah, well, your bill, Joe, has a lot of problems to it,” said Senator Rhames. “For one, it’s too costly.” “It would be easy enough to extract funds from one program and add it to mine.” “And who do we take money from this time?” asked Senator Shore. “The Veteran’s Fund? Mental Health? Or perhaps from something different but hugely necessary?” Senator Cartwright stared at them both, the pause between them tight. And then from Senator Cartwright whose smiling lips moved marginally whenever he spoke, said, “I need a handful of votes to pass the measure. I would greatly appreciate your assistance in seeing this happen. And I am talking to both of you.” “In all honesty, Joe,” said Rhames, “it’s going to be a ‘no’ from me.” “Really?” “I’m afraid so. Yes.” With his cunning smile, Senator Cartwright leaned into the two senators for close counsel and stated softly, “I understand that you dodged a bullet about the alleged tape with your supposed liaison with a minor, which is no longer a threat to your candidacy. Funny how that happens, don’t you think? I mean, the mother and daughter discovered dead in their home, both the victims of a robbery. And then the Chief Editor suddenly dies by apparent suicide and a journalist dead by a terrorist attack onboard a bus that just happens to be leaving D.C. And what about the editor? Ms. Woolery. I understand her body was discovered in a landfill with just about every bone in her body broken. The thing is, nobody can figure out how her body got there since there were no foot or tire prints discovered at the scene. And then there is, of course, the intern. I believe
they discovered his body in gangland territory. Apparently, he received two shots to center mass and one to the forehead. Sounds more like a professional hit to me than gangland retaliation. What do you think?” “What’s your point, Senator?” Rhames spit back angrily. “Now it’s Senator? Not Joe?” “What’s . . . your . . . point?” “My point, Senator Rhames, is a simple one. It seems to me that there are too many coincidences regarding those who were hellbent on taking you down, all of a sudden finding themselves dead within a twenty-four-hour period. But I suppose that happens when you’re a big believer in coincidences, which I don’t happen to be. It seems more like the wetwork design of the Pieces of Eight to me. Have you been calling upon the Handler to do your bidding?” “That’s your point? That I kill civilians when the pressure becomes too great?” “Don’t believe for one second that you’re out of the boiling pot just yet,” Senator Cartwright threatened. “I can easily resurrect the story about these series of coincidences and direct certain journalists in the proper direction of invest
igation that will keep you on the darkside of the headlines, which, of course, would negate any positive press you might have received today. I understand that the journalist,” the senator made the sign of the cross as a mock gesture of false sincerity, then added, “and may God rest his soul, wrote a heart-felt retraction.” “Are you insinuating that we commissioned the Pieces of Eight to get involved in events that caused their deaths?” Senator Shore asked him. “Do you deny using them in such matters?” “Absolutely.” Senator Cartwright’s manner became more authoritarian. “Lend me your votes on the upcoming bill, gentlemen—and yes, I’m talking to you both—or so help me God I’ll set a pack of journalistic wolves that I have in my pocket who will dig deeper into a matter which, at least to me, appears highly suspicious. Even if they don’t find anything, the press will drag your reputation through the mud long enough to kill your chances as a nominee. With that said, you can either play ball and vote for the bill’s passage . . . Or you can die a slow death inside the political field of combat. The choice is yours, gentlemen. And I’ll need both of your votes, not just one. I hope I’ve made myself quite clear.” “What you’ve made clear, Senator, is a straight-on threat. I had no hand in what you called a series of coincidences. None whatsoever.” “That may be true. But as I said before, Senator, there’s enough there for me to send my journalistic foxhounds on the hunt. Between now and the time it comes to nominate a party member for the highest political seat in the land, your name will be smeared across the pages enough to not only kill your chances as president . . . but maybe as a senator come next election.” The muscles in the back of Senator Rhames’s jaw worked uncontrollably. “It appears that I may have struck a chord with you, yes? I hope the reason why is because I have left you no position otherwise. Pass my bill, gentlemen. It’s not a favor I’m asking of you. It’s a demand tied to severe consequences should you choose differently. After given the facts that I just outlined to you; I expect you two will choose wisely and follow through.”
