Original Sins

by Rick Jones

  And then the light to his study went out, the line obviously cut. Feeling his heart misfire inside his chest, the senator realized that the Pieces of Eight were coming for him. At best he had a minute, maybe two. Hunkering next to his desk with all the dossiers held within his twisted hands, the senator pressed a shoulder against the desk’s side panel and gave a nudge. The panel slid inward, then upward, giving approach to a small compartment the size of a breadbox. It was an area where he had kept the untold secrets of others and often used the information against them to blackmail, reshape, retool, or destroy the political lives of those who affronted his views. Now he would use it one last time, hoping that someone would discover the dossiers and use them to destroy the Pieces of Eight, as well as the Handler who drove their reins. After the files were placed inside, the senator pulled down on the interior panel and secured it. The seams of the wood matched so closely that the divide of the partition was barely perceptible.

  Laboring to his feet with pain beginning to cinch across his chest to the point of crushing breath from his lungs, the senator placed his knuckled hands against the desktop and steadied himself. Where are you? Beyond the blinds another stroke of lightning ignited: a quick and dazzling flash of pure, unadulterated light that poured in through the edges of the closed blinds and bled hotly across the area, the quick strokes catching movement across the room. The senator stood and waited, expecting the punch of a bullet to end his life. Instead, he received a comparable blow equal to a bullet’s impact; it was the voice of a preadolescent child crying out to him. “Grandpapa?” Oh, no! In the mix of his own fears he had forgotten about his grandson, the only living tie to his bloodline and the only family left. If the child was discovered by the Pieces of Eight, they would kill him without mercy as predicated by the same protocols he created. The senator got to a bended knee and beckoned his grandson to rush into his outstretched arms. Pulling his grandson close with his gnarled hands caressing the child, the senator kept repeating, ‘I’m so sorry,’ and wept into the wild tangle of the boy’s hair. “Grandpapa, are you afraid of the lightning, too?” The child sounded so innocent that the impending nature of what was going to happen to them crushed the senator’s blighted soul. “I’m so sorry,” the senator whispered as he buried his face against the crown of the boy’s head. “I’m . . . so . . . sorry.” In that moment he noted the shared features of his daughter within the boy as he appraised him, with the child possessing the eyes and lips of his mother, beautiful and petulantly full. “You look so much like your mom,” he told him. Oh, how I wish she was here to see how much you’ve grown. Two years ago, his daughter was driving along a causeway when a drunk driver caromed off a barrier and struck her vehicle head on, killing her the moment her body made its trajectory through the windshield. In the tragic aftermath the coroner painstakingly pieced her together. But it was not enough for the aesthetic appeal needed for an open coffin viewing. It was also the first time in the senator’s life where he’d been rendered completely powerless to reshape the outcome of an event. Even with all his command, the senator quickly realized that he was limited in capacity with resurrection regrettably not one of his strengths; therefore, this painful lesson drove him back to the status of a mortal with perceived weaknesses. But as a man of steadfast conviction, he tempered the loss of his daughter by burying his remorse deep and regained momentum, his power going unchecked as his sense of invincibility rose once again to the surface with the senator becoming a political demigod who ruled over others with the impression of impunity or consequence. Until now. The old man closed his eyes and rubbed a hand adoringly along his grandson’s back. Then taking on a more sobering appearance, the senator grabbed the child firmly by his triceps to let him know that anything less than undivided attention was unacceptable. “Markie, I need you to listen to me and I need you to listen good and hard. Do you understand me?” The boy nodded. “I want you to find a hiding place,” he told him. “I want you to hide from the lightning and from the thunder. And no matter what, no matter what you see or hear, you are not to come out from your hiding place. Is that clear?” “Grandpa—” “Is that clear, Markie?” “Yes.” The boy was obviously frightened, his chin shaking with a gelatinous quiver that prompted the senator to pull him into a hug. “I love you, Markie. Never forget that. I love you more than life itself.” And then he drew back and held his grandson in regarded appraisal for the last time, wondering what kind of man he might have become if he was granted time to live.

  From the area of the entryway came a sound, the tiny snicker of the bolt being drawn back, and then the subsequent following of the study’s doorknob turning slowly in the darkness. The senator directed the child with a mild goading toward the darkest area of the room. “Quick, Markie. Hide. And don’t come out.” As the child ran towards the darkest shadows of the study, the senator labored to his feet with the stiff joints of his knees popping off in protest, and waited with a warrior’s stoicism, with his chin held brazenly outward in defiance. The moment the door swung inward on its own accord, a silver-mercury flash of lightning exploded throughout the entire estate, divulging an empty doorway before the flashes died off. The senator swallowed; his throat as dry as old parchment. Then, in a warbled tone that sounded unlike the voice of a poised senator, he said, “Show yourselves.” Upon the utterance of his final word a stroke of lightning flashed on cue, igniting the world in a white-hot flare that revealed the Pieces of Eight. Each master soldier stood as still as stone sculptures before him. In their own unique design, they were eight elite commandos with each one possessing a very particular skill. Collectively, they were a deadly ensemble of skilled assassins. They were spread across the room, one soldier a facsimile of the other with waxy faces and stone-cold deadness in their eyes. No one moved. No one spoke. Their military issue was black adornment with unpolished boots and a black beret bearing the team’s insignia of two crossing tanto’s serving as crossbones beneath a grinning skull. . . . My children . . . Once the lightning died off, the Pieces of Eight became one with the darkness. “How can you do this to me?” The senator took a step back in an act of self-preservation. “I created you! I created all of you!” Outside, a loud report of thunder sounded off, which soon melted away to an awkward silence that seemed to last countless moments. And then with the bravado of an all-powerful senator, Joseph Cartwright said, “I demand you answer me!” The louvered blinds did little to block out the light as lightning once again lit up the study with a spectacular burst that was ethereal in its effects. In that moment the senator saw his assassin’s face inches from his own—could feel the shallowness of the man’s breath graze against his flesh and instantly noted the profound hollowness within his eyes. He never heard the assassin approach, nor did he hear the others leave the room. He was alone with his killer. “Where have the others gone?” the senator mustered as his head searched his surroundings. Was it possible for the Pieces of Eight to move so quickly, so quietly, and so fluidly without leaving so much as a trace that they had been there at all? “You know the protocol,” the assassin told him. “No one is to be left behind.” “Then they’ll be disappointed,” he answered, “because there’s nobody here besides me.” “There is the boy.” The assassin proffered this so coldly and without feeling or remorse, the senator knew they would complete their mission with unbiased obligation and kill anyone under executive order, even a child. “My grandson is not here,” he reported too quickly. Another stroke of lightning, the starburst moment providing a glimpse of the assassin’s face that held nothing more than indifference. His features were young and seamless, his skin taut over angular cheek bones and an even firmer jaw line; he was tall, standing six four with a physique engineered inside the weight room with arms, chest and shoulders defined by long hours in the gym. He was also a prodigy in a line of killers and the most junior of his team. “Please,” the senator whispered. “I created you. I created the entire team.

  Without me the Pieces of Eight would be nothing.” In the darkn
ess, the senator could hear the slow draw of a combat knife being pulled from its scabbard. “You overstepped your boundaries, Senator.” “So now you see it fit to be my assassin?” “I’m simply following orders from a higher command. You know that . . . And you know why.” The senator backpedaled with his hands held up in front of him in supplication and began to pat the air. “Please don’t hurt my grandson,” he pleaded in earnest. “All I ask of you is to let him be.” “If I did that, then I would be remiss in my duties.” “He’s a six-year-old boy, dammit!” “He’s also a threat.” The room flared up once again. In the assassin’s hand was a KABAR combat knife, a keen edge on one side of the blade and a serrated sharpness on the other.

  “I found you—made you what you are today,” the senator told him. “Will you destroy the one who made you the very heart of the Pieces of Eight and the lead commander?” The assassin said nothing. He merely edged closer with the blade poised to strike, to slash, to kill. Then, “As a courtesy to you, Senator, I’ll make this a quick kill.” With that he swept the KABAR in a horizontal arc and cut the senator’s throat, a deep gash that parted like a second horrible grin, the blood a pronounced color of red in the subsequent flashes of lightning as the senator brought a gnarled hand to his neck in eagle-clawed fashion. The other hand swept the darkness for the purchase of the desk’s edge, his world spiraling in a maelstrom of pooling shadows with a greater gloom meeting him from the depths. Just as he found the edge, the senator fell to his knees and drew his bloodied hand across the panel. It was his last act before dying, to mark a final score as a tenured politician. The moment the senator’s life bled out at the feet of his assassin; the killer began his search of the study. Those dossiers, he knew, had to be here somewhere.

  * * *

  The child had heard the exchange from his seated position within the cabinet space beneath the library bookshelves—had heard his grandfather plead for his life. And then he heard the horrible sound of a man trying to breathe through the wetness of his fount that arced through the ruin of his throat. Soon thereafter, the silence had become terrifying to the young child, the idea of not knowing what was going on beyond the cabinet door bringing a need to cry out to his grandfather, despite the old man’s warning. And then the footsteps: soft, light and weightless across the parquet floor, the footfalls coming closer to the bookshelves, toward the cabinet door. Grandpapa? Surrounding doors opened and closed, which encouraged the child to bring his knees up into acute angles and flush to his chest. And then he folded his arms across his legs to draw himself into a tighter mass. The act, however, was not just an exercise of self-preservation; it was also a futile measure as the door to the cabinet opened. The child looked over his kneecaps, his cheeks wet with coursing tears, his tiny chest heaving and pitching with silent sobbing. The assassin looked at him pensively for a long moment, their eyes meeting. In the whitewash of a lightning that lit the study, the boy saw his grandfather propped against the side of the desk with his eyes at half-mast and the front of his shirt glistening with the redness of a candied apple. Following the child’s gaze, the assassin noted that the boy’s sight was alighting upon the senator. And then he returned his focus back to the child. As the assassin looked in, as the child looked out, lightning strokes engaged in swordplay that seemed to light up the area longer than usual. In the assassin’s hand was the knife, which the boy directed his attention on. And then he understood: the knife, the senator’s blood-stained shirt, the man wielding the weapon.

  And then the boy shook his head violently from side to side in a gesture of ‘no-no-no-no-no.’ In that moment, the assassin reached into the recess, placed a soothing hand on top of the child’s head, then swept it downward into a gentle caress along the boy’s cheek. Without saying a word, the assassin withdrew his hand and softly closed the door, leaving the boy to wonder.

  * * *

  The boy was allowed to live. Several hours after the storm subsided, with the morning sky the color of slate gray and filled with the promise of more rain, the child emerged from the cubbyhole of the cabinet and crawled his way toward his grandfather, who lay against the blood-streaked desk. “Grandpapa?” The child grabbed the old man’s arm, felt the stiffness of rigor settling in. Within the dawn shade of morning light, he could see that his grandfather’s face was lunar in its paleness and the stark veins that shown against his flesh appeared to be filled with dark blue ink. “Oh, Grandpapa.” And then he began to weep, feeling entirely alone. After the child cried himself emotionless, he noted the blood stain across the desk panel which had become his hiding place so many times he and his grandfather played games of hide and seek. It was the panel of secrets. Moving the panel, he saw tied folders within, the secrets of monsters. Pulling them out one by one, he studiously peeled back the pages of the folders and committed the photos and histories of those within to memory. Even at the age of six, he vowed that he would never forget their faces. In time, this boy would grow to become a man. In time, he would become a Vatican Knight. And in time, he would become Kimball Hayden’s greatest foe who would take on the Biblical name of Ezekiel.

  * * *

  The senator’s residence had been combed over and the files went undiscovered. After this had been communicated to the Handler, the team returned to home base in silence knowing that only half the mission had been completed: the threat that was Senator Cartwright had been eliminated. No one knew of the boy because Kimball had never mentioned him, never informed his team that he knowingly had broken protocol. Within his mind’s eye, Kimball could see glimpses of the child’s face in between the lightning flares, saw the terror mounting within the child’s innocent eyes, and felt his heart crumble beneath the weight of the child’s purity. When he saw the boy’s eyes open to the size and color of communion wafers, he knew he could not perform to his duty requirements. The child, by his determination, should not fall victim to the sins of his grandfather. Kimball Hayden had allowed his conscience to surge which was an unforgiveable sin not only in the eyes of his teammates, but also in the eyes of his Handler. And because of this he knew that in their judgment he had sinned by showing weakness. In silence, during the drive back, Kimball wondered about the consequences.

  He would soon get his answer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Meridian Hill Park

  Washington, D.C.

  Following Morning

  Meridian Hill Park is a twelve-acre park with a cascading waterfall in its lower area, a wooded area in the upper tier of the landscape, which was spotted with the extraordinary statues of Joan of Arc, Dante and President James Buchanan. Senator Rhames walked through the park with a copy of the Post tucked beneath the crook of his arm, took a seat on a bench along the walkway, then opened the paper by snapping the pages. Less than thirty seconds later, a man wearing a fedora sat next to him and placed the hat on the bench between them. Rhames, who continued to hold the paper up to mask his face, said, “I’m sure you’ve read the headlines in this morning’s paper, yes? About the murder of our illustrious colleague, Senator Joseph Cartwright.” The man turned to read the day’s breaking news:

  Senator Cartwright Murdered in his Home

  Grandson Witnesses Death

  “Grandson witnesses death,” said the senator, who continued to hold the paper at eye level. “You want to tell me why your team neglected to follow through with protocol? Do you have any idea what this means, should the kid’s memory of his grandfather’s murder becomes front-page news? According to the Post he saw the killer, even described him in detail. Sounds a lot like our boy Kimball Hayden.” The Handler turned away and stared out over the park. Parents were playing with their children and people picnicked on the grounds. After a beat he stated, “I won’t make excuses for him. He disregarded protocol.” The senator lowered the paper and folded it on his lap. While looking over the masses with the same thoughtful eye as the Handler, he stated, “Question is: What are you going to do about it?” Then he pointed to the paper on his lap. “What
are you going to do about this?”

  “Kimball Hayden is an asset to the team. You’ve seen his work firsthand.

  He’s quick, efficient, and has always sanitized his trail.” “There was a witness,” the senator contested. “A six-year-old boy who stated that his grandfather’s assassin reached into the cabinet where he was hiding and patted him as if he was some kind of pet. To knowingly go against such protocols demands immediate attention.” The Handler continued to look over the people inside the park. “So, what are you asking me to do? That I should make the boy a targeted killing, is that it?” Senator Rhames sighed as if his patience was being taxed. “You don’t get it, do you? The kid isn’t a problem here. People in position will listen to what he has to say, but we both know that members of the unit will never be ferreted out. Insiders will spin the story that he was killed during a failed robbery attempt.” “What you’re saying is that you think that Kimball’s the problem here.” “Am I wrong?” The Handler remained quiet for a long moment before answering. Then:

  “No.” “When a man in this business begins to find his conscience,” the senator stated, “then that man becomes a liability within the field of operation, which was evident last night. Liabilities need to be dealt with.” And then: “I assume you communicated with him about last night?” The Handler nodded. “Team members had no knowledge of the boy. Kimball’s reasoning was that the boy would never pose as a future threat.” “But you do agree with me that Kimball Hayden knowingly broke the code of behavior despite his reasoning to you, yes? That no one, not even a child, survives the operation which”—the senator raised the paper— “is now FrontPage news. What we didn’t need was for the spotlight to get any brighter.” “A senator’s death would have made the headlines, regardless.” “Again, you’re missing the point. The point is, Kimball Hayden let up on his duties by allowing a threat, even if the threat was a child, to go on. And we both know why. The man is beginning to question operational methods, which we both know is unacceptable in this business. We tell them what to do and they do it without question. And you know what that tells me?” The Handler continued to silently look over the grassy knolls and at the families that played upon them, especially the children. “It tells me,” the senator continued, “that Kimball Hayden can no longer be trusted.” “He’s the master helmsman of the Pieces of Eight.” “He’s a child in a man’s body who’s beginning to find a soul. I thought you trained these people so that something like this wouldn’t happen, that their souls would be scrubbed clean until nothing was left.” “That child in a man’s body, as you stated, happens to be a physical freak of nature who moves like no other. His skills are unmatched, even by members of his team.” “Are you defending him?” “I always support members of the team. You know that.” “Don’t be blinded by the facts,” the senator rebuked sharply. “The man placed the team in a position of jeopardy by not following through with the mandates of the organization. So, ask yourself these questions: What happens if he does it again? What happens if he finds his conscience once more, only for it to fall back into our laps? Perhaps something we can’t explain or hide away.” “We’ve nothing to fear.” “Easily said until something happens, and it does. I cannot afford to be cast in any negative light. You know that.” “All right,” stated the Handler, “you’ve made your point known. Now you’re going to propose a solution, I assume?” The senator nodded. “Unfortunately, we need those who are willing to perform without questioning any part of the operation. We provide the orders, and the unit responds accordingly to the mission plan. That’s it. End of story. The members of the Pieces of Eight do as required of them without difficulty except for one.” Easing back against the bench, the senator added, “And, of course, the weak link in the group just happens to be your golden boy Kimball Hayden. And you know what must be done with the weak links, don’t you? The ones who are losing their backbone.”