Original Sins

by Rick Jones

  “You want to talk about it?” “It’s nothing I can talk about.” “Every man can cleanse his soul through admission.” Kimball set aside his glass, leaned forward, and winged his arms across the bar top. “That may be so, Father, but what I want to know is how I can tell the difference between the Darkness and the Light. Right now, I feel absolutely lost between the two.” “Maybe it’s not for me to say since this type of discovery is yours to determine on your own. Perhaps you need to find a middle ground between the two in order to evaluate the differences between the two.” “There’s no simple answer? “The only answer is to seek the differences on your own and make a definitive choice. Perhaps in order to do this you’ll need to operate within the area that divides the two . . . until such a choice can be made.” “Between the Darkness and Light is a Gray area.” “Then so be it, if that’s what it takes.”

  Kimball appraised the priest for a long moment, which was something that made Roman wonder if had said something to draw suspicion, a slipup. Then from Kimball, “Can I ask you something else?” “Of course.” “Who are you?” Roman smiled. “My name is Father Andrew Redmayne. I’m pleased to meet you. And you would be?” “Who are you?” Kimball repeated in a not so friendly way. “Excuse me.” “Your attire. You’re dressed as a priest from the waist up . . . but as a soldier from the waist down. Military pants with cargo pockets and GI issued boots. You want to explain that?” Roman suddenly felt pinned in. Though he had combat skills that rivaled the best of the best, Kimball Hayden was reported to have matching, if not spectacular, skillsets of his own. “Priests are not entirely bound to wear the conventional clothing of the

  Church,” he answered. “Nor are we bound by conservative rules of drinking alcohol or smoking. We abide by the laws of God, which has nothing to do with the way we appear outside of Mass.” “Really?” Kimball sounded skeptical. “You know, I would normally believe that if it wasn’t for the fact that I bumped into a priest a few days ago at the airport, one who was similarly dressed. A priest from the waist up and a soldier from the waist down. I thought it was odd then, and I think that it’s just as odd now. So again, who are you?” Roman set his glass aside expecting a full-out brawl. “I told you. My name is Andrew Redmayne. And that is the truth.” This time he omitted the word ‘Father.’ He only gave his true Christian name. Roman was his Christian call sign. “Well, Andrew Redmayne.” Kimball stood up, the man as tall as he was wide, and began to approach Roman who white-knuckled the edge of the bar, as if readying himself to pull away and engage. But Kimball stopped and leaned into him. “I don’t know who you are or why you’re following me—why any of you are following me. But if you continue this operation of surveying me for much longer, I will kill you. You’re lucky that I’m standing within the Light of my emotions as I make this decision. Lucky you . . . I could have been standing in the Shadows, waiting.” Kimball eased away. “Nice talking to you, Padre. And keep in mind that I’ll be watching from here on in.” Without adding anything additional, Kimball exited the tavern while leaving a full glass of Coke on the bar top. When he saw the full glass, Roman knew that Kimball had led him into the bar to feel him out. He had taken the bait and paid the price. Somewhere, a patron coughed with a hot and phlegmy sound, the type of sound that came from sickened lungs After a moment of realizing what had just occurred, Roman slapped the bar hard with the flat of his palm, the man disgusted with himself as he called himself an idiot, out loud, which brought on the attention of others close by. Knowing he had to make the admission of his faux pas to the Vatican after Bonasero Vessucci told them to never engage Kimball under any circumstance, he knew that he would be admonished at the highest levels.

  “Idiot!” More coughing, obviously from the same person, a wet rattle from deep inside his lungs. After he finished his drink, Roman left the bar with every intention of standing tall before the magistrate of the Vatican.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Kimball Hayden never made the connection between the priests until he saw Roman at the bar. That was when he realized that he was being tracked. The question was: why? Parting the drapes just enough to offer a slim view of the street, Kimball Hayden saw no one that drew suspicion. He had no concept of being stalked since he had always been the hunter, the predator who tracked his prey. People in the sheep’s clothing, he thought. Priests. What better way to approach your subject by dressing as someone who was regarded in social conventions as being trustworthy? Letting the drape fall back, Kimball took a seat and stared at the imaginary point on the wall across from him and glided toward a state of meditation. Thoughts poured through him as his eyes remained fix. He had no enemies, no one who knew what he was or what he did. Yet he was the central piece and focus of someone’s investigation. Why?

  He knew the Handler had nothing to do with the two priests, if they were priests at all. This he was sure of. Normally, Kimball would have taken charge by killing the man on the spot not only to neutralize the threat, but also to send a message to others who were maintaining a watchful eye from a distance. But when Kimball saw the cleric’s collar, the idea of killing a pious man held back this side of Kimball. He was no longer that brutish killing machine who stole away life as if it had little value or worth. But the moment he saw that collar about Father Redmayne’s throat, he remembered his mother, a deeply religious woman who prayed and attended Mass as weekly rituals. You’re a very lucky man, Father Andrew Redmayne, he thought, or whoever you truly are. If not for that collar, you’d be a dead man. But the priest’s comments and the advice he gave was clinically precise, the words of a wise man. And since Kimball had been walking a tightrope between the Darkness and Light, perhaps it would be best to operate in the Gray until the advantages and disadvantages of both sides had become clear to him.

  Nevertheless, Kimball Hayden would keep his natural antennae raised because men who come dressed as priests may have the face of an angel, but the intentions of the devil. Kimball continued to meditate.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The Vatican

  Vatican City

  Though Bonasero Vessucci was displeased with Roman for breaking protocol, he did not admonish the Vatican Knight for one simple reason: the conversation between Roman and Kimball Hayden revealed that Kimball was beginning to question his actions, the assassin now standing on the fine line that divided Darkness from Light. Instead of relieving Roman from duty and calling him back to the Vatican, he informed Roman to remain as a surveyor who was not to be seen or heard by Kimball Hayden. Be careful, he told him. Stay alert and stay close to the shadows. After he cut the call, Bonasero Vessucci, who was at his desk, turned to face the crucifix. Jesus’s head remained at a tilt towards His right shoulder. His eyes had the flash and sparkle of quicksilver to them, like mirrors. And his somber look was that of someone whose personal cross to bear was done so in sacrifice for others. “It’s unlike Roman to go against the mandates of the Church,” he said to the image. “Was that Your doing? Was that a sign telling me that Kimball Hayden is beginning to see life differently?” Silence. The crucifix offering nothing but the silvery glimmer of His eyes. “It is, isn’t it? Kimball questions himself because he doesn’t yet understand the difference between the Light of Candor and the Imposter of Lies. He’s close, perhaps. But something else needs to happen, doesn’t it? Something that will bring him an epiphany that will finally push him over the edge.” More silence. The room remained as quiet as a tomb. And then a shallow smile surfaced on Bonasero’s face, that smile of enlightenment. There was no doubt that the messages he received came by way of divine intervention—that subtle nudging and directing of the mind that told one to move forward in a positive manner. “I was right about him, wasn’t I? He’s someone who’s pertinent to Your needs, isn’t he?” Silence. “All he needs is direction, which is something I can provide him.” And then: “You have made me his Light of Candor, haven’t You?” The eyes that were the color of quicksilver appeared to glow like igniting embers, brief flashes of a
cknowledgement. Whether it was the passing of clouds that allowed the sun to reflect off the image, or if it was the cast of true divinity, Bonasero hoped for the latter. Removing himself from his desk and heading towards the hanging of the crucifix, Bonasero Vessucci measured the eyes that had a mirror polish to them and considered them to be the windows to the soul. “If Your intent is to save this one man for whatever reason,” he stated to the image, “please allow our fates to intertwine so that it will benefit the Church.” In time, Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci would get his wish.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Residence of Kimball Hayden

  Washington, D.C.

  In the three days that Kimball Hayden waited for instructions, he had not slept and had eaten little. When he did sleep, he envisioned those he had killed over a lifetime, the reanimated corpses whose bloated bodies the color of gangrene called out to him, all begging the question ‘Why?’ He saw the faces of innocent people who were at the wrong place at the wrong time, those who accidently compromised his position and had to pay the ultimate price for doing so. He had killed women, children, old men, people who lived normal lives, people who were living the American dream, innocent people. Then there were those moments as the Shape stayed close to his mother while she withered beneath a fading light, her soul up for grabs. She wailed and screeched and cried out for forgiveness. In the shadows Kimball could hear the Shape chuckle with malicious amusement, waiting. And this was where Kimball bolted upright in bed in a cold sweat before realizing that an hour, at most, had gone by. He had eaten little, perhaps a TV dinner or two, something easy for the microwave, while waiting for instructions as how to proceed against his next targeted killing. Long days turned into even longer nights. There were no signs of the priest, perhaps the man waiting deep inside the shadows, if he was there at all. Then on the third day, as promised, he received an encrypted email. Kimball downloaded the information onto a CD, wiped the email from his PC by sanitizing the trail, then placed the CD into a separate and independent unit that was about the size of a cereal box, and brought up the decrypted message. It gave details about his contact in Syria who would guide him deep into the hot zone of Iraq. A GPS system with all the coordinates would also be handed to him with the necessary points to reach his target in Baghdad.

  He would need nothing but the clothes on his back. His contact would provide him with the essentials needed to see the mission through. Also mentioned was his flight plan, a one-way ticket from Washington, D.C. to Paris, then from Paris to Rome, and then from Rome to Damascus, a very long flight. Once the mission was completed, then he was to meet up with his contact in Damascus for instruction regarding his return to the United States. There was a photo of his contact, an Arab, as well as the meeting point and time, which was a restaurant inside the city. After memorizing the data, Kimball destroyed the CD. And as the Handler had instructed, Kimball, with just the clothes on his back and money in his wallet, looked over his apartment one last time. Here was the place of his memories over the past few years, and his refuge where he stayed comfortably within his own personal darkness. Against the drawn curtain with its wings fluttering was the moth. Kimball went to the drapes and held his hand out for the moth to climb on, which it did, the small creature perhaps finding an odd comfort with this alpha predator who had the power of God over it. Going to the door and opening it, Kimball lifted his hand in such a way that the moth took flight to greater elevations until it was gone. It was no longer bound to Kimball’s apartment, a place of darkness. It was now as free as the light that shined against its wings and its winged eyes, which flashed against the glittering dust that coated them. Taking one last look at his apartment that seemed more like a dungeon, small and cramped and spartan, with natural light that was more of an enemy than a friend, Kimball knew that he would not return. Closing the door softly behind him so that the bolt registered with a soft but final sound, he sighed heavily through his nostrils, descended the steps, and headed for the taxi queue down the street.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Washington, D.C.

  As discussed with Bonasero Vessucci, Roman was to be careful from here on in by being out of his target’s sight and mind. When Kimball left his residence, Roman left the vehicle behind due to the one-way streets and narrow lanes, which would have made it difficult to track Kimball, and stayed well behind the assassin. Off came the Catholic collar and cleric’s shirt. Roman was now wearing a hat whose brim kept a portion of his face hidden. Staying close to the shadows, Roman watched from a distance and took note of the times Kimball turned to see if he was being followed, which he did at least a dozen times, meaning that the assassin had his internal transmitters running high. It was obvious to the Vatican Knight that Kimball Hayden didn’t feel completely without eyes on him. When Kimball turned a series of corners and reached a cab queue in front of a high-end restaurant, he got into a cab, which made its way east.

  Roman immediately raced to the queue and flagged a cab, which pursued Kimball from a safe distance in an alternate lane. The movement of traffic was neither fast nor slow but held at an average speed required by law. Kimball’s cab, however, often wove from lane to lane. It was a tactic used to see if another vehicle mirrored the actions of the first, which indicated a tracker. But Roman told the cabbie to maintain his lane as long as he had a visual on the vehicle he was following. It was obvious to Roman that Kimball was applying all the tactics necessary to assure that he wasn’t being followed. But the heavier-than-usual traffic had retarded his cab’s capability to maneuver from lane to lane with the speed and quickness needed to draw a great distance between them. A plus. Twenty minutes later, when they reached the Ronald Reagan Airport, Kimball exited his cab and entered the terminal with nothing more than the clothes on his back. The first thing that came to Roman’s mind was that he was going to a locker to retrieve a dossier regarding his next mission. After giving the cabbie an additional twenty on top of the meter fee, Roman made sure that he was centered within the milling crowd as a face among many. Keeping eyes on Kimball, he saw the assassin acquire a ticket at the counter and tuck it into the pocket of his shirt, then he neared the boarding gate. Knowing that his mission as a surveillance was over, Roman made his to a payphone, removed a card that had prepaid codes on it, and dialed a direct number to the Vatican. After a series of clicks and whines that normally came from fax machines, Roman was finally connected to the connecting line, after the sequence of coded numbers he had punched in were verified. “Roman.” It was Bonasero Vessucci. “Kimball Hayden is getting on a plane at Ronald Reagan Airport. I can’t go any further unless I compromise my position. And the subject is going empty.” Going ‘empty’ was a term meaning ‘without luggage.’ “If he’s going empty, it means that he’s being supplied at his point of destination. There’s nothing more you can do, Roman. Come home. Your mission is over. From here on in I’ll have Vatican Intelligence monitor his movements. We’ll start with the manifest after we discover his flight and track him from there. I believe he travels under the name of Donavan.” “Cardinal Vessucci?” “Yes, Roman.” “I have to ask: Why him?” “A feeling. Something I believe will turn out to be a blessing in disguise.” “If I may be so bold, Cardinal, I think you’re wrong. This man has no conscionable soul. There’s nothing in there.” But Bonasero’s response to Roman’s was simple. He repeated: “Come home.” And then there was a disconnect on the other end, which left Roman holding the receiver while a drone buzzed from the earpiece.