Cain (11 page)

"Aye, sir," the pilot said as Soloman hefted the SPAS-12. The murderously heavy shotgun was already chambered because, by training and experience, he never went into battle with an unchambered weapon. The .45 on his hip was also cocked and locked, ready to fire the instant he flicked off the safety.

As they hit the ground they were on night vision and
Soloman divided Squad Two into three-man teams, one moving east, one west. Then with Chatwell behind him he stood in the middle of the field, studying the situation, the lay of the land. He knew the girl would be frightened and tired, moving as quickly as she could because she would want to put distance on Cain, to outrun him even though there would be no chance of outrunning him.

Then the chopper was airborne again, carefully trying to keep the harsh spo
tlight off them and on the woods. And Soloman vaguely admired the pilot for his presence of mind, because he hadn't reminded him to do it. Obviously the kid was a smart flyer, someone he would have taken on any high-risk mission.

Angry, drenched in sweat,
Soloman stared fiercely over the terrain, trying to slow his thoughts to cold logic and reason. He held the shotgun hard and close and crouched dead-silent and dangerous in the middle of the field, desperately trying to find the mind of a child.

The field was ringed with illuminated trees that seemed suddenly safe in the lamps of the Hueys but
Soloman knew the forest had been black as pitch when Amy had fled through here. And, like any other child, she would be instinctively scared of the dark. She would have stayed as close to the light as possible, falsely comforted by the sense of safety.

Soloman
began to sense her probable direction but it was a desperate idea and he didn't have time to waste, not if Squad Two had found any track at all. He touched his neck microphone. "Apache One to Malo."

A pause.

"Malo," was the whispered reply. "Anything?"

"Negative. We're moving three by three in a pathfinder spread. We haven't found anything."

"Copy. Out."

Twisting his head,
Soloman gazed up. A full moon was visible in the night sky and he knew that the blaze would have made this long oval field seem like broad daylight only a few minutes ago. It would have looked like a heaven of light through a blackened forest.

Intuition; the path a child would take ...

Soloman grimaced.

Intuition! The path a child would take!

It was all he had.

Come on
!
Move
!

Without hesitation he low-ran the center of the waist-high delta,
moving in a serpentine pattern. He switched the Nightwing goggles to dual infrared-starlight imaging and tried not to break a leg with the sudden lack of depth perception. Increasingly desperate with each second, he fiercely hunted the blood trail in the dark but continued to see nothing and began wondering if Cain had been hit at all by the FBI agents.

Moving, moving, legs strong in a crouch.

Moments passed and Soloman savagely fought the panic.

No, no, she had to come this— As he saw it.

He'd almost crossed over again before he realized what it was; a faint red glow on the side of a small shrub, something picked out by the thermal enhancement of the goggles. Not much, but enough. And with the sign Soloman spun to Chatwell, raising a fist.

Chatwell
full-stopped at the gesture, crouching and raising his weapon. But Soloman shook his head, pointed to the bush. Then he was moving forward fast as Chatwell raised the radio, speaking quickly, and Soloman knew that within minutes the commandos would be converging on this zone to pick up the sign. But he didn't have time to wait for them.

He ran low and cautious, holding the heavy SPAS more easily than he'd ever held it before, and he knew the rush of adrenaline was giving his strength a quick edge. Slowing only slightly as the dense woods loomed before him,
Soloman followed the trail into the maze.

Through the wall of trees he could see nothing—the goggles couldn't read heat through solid wood or metal—and he knew that if Cain were inside the wood
-line he could walk straight into the giant's arms: instant death. But Soloman didn't think Amy had stopped running, just as he didn't think Cain had stopped pursuing.

If Chatwell was close behind
, Soloman couldn't hear it because his hearing had instinctively modified itself to mid-tone ranges, his vision tunneling more and more as he got closer and closer to the conflict. And although he hadn't felt the sensation in a long time, he found himself acclimating quickly, at home.

Placing his back against a tree, he took a moment, breathing deeply, trying to slow his thoughts and lock
out narrow vision until the confrontation. But it was impossible to ignore the possibility that Cain could be upon him in seconds.

Then in that strange and uncanny moment that often comes over men in combat, his mind turned to something that has nothing at all to do with the battle itself. It was the kind of phenomenon that you couldn't avoid and often got you killed. And, for the space of a breath,
Soloman was shocked that he cared at all about dying.

No
!
No time for thought
!

Find her
!
Find her
!
Find her
!

Knowing that almost every untrained person moved angularly in the forest, disoriented by the lack of reference,
Soloman selected the course Amy probably would have followed, taking it in a heartbeat. He moved quietly downhill where the brush was thinnest and in moments picked up Cain's blood trail again.

Smiling savagely,
Soloman moved over it, sweat burning his eyes that narrowed more and more in an unquenchable rage that reached back to a place he couldn't even remember in the darkness that had become his life.

***

Amy ran to the large water tunnel that bordered the woods, looking up as she came to the entrance. She had played here so many times that she knew these tunnels by heart, but that had been in the day.

Now the tunnel was deep in blackness, and frightening. She felt her legs tremble, couldn't catch her breath.

No, maybe ... another place
.

She turned to see something terrible in the far darkness and then she heard the horrible voice roaring.

"Come to me, child! Come to me!"

Crying out, she ran into the tunnel.

***

Soloman held the SPAS close, using its weight for balance the same as a tightrope walker uses a pole. Following Maggie's advice, he'd set the massive shotgun on semiautomatic so it would fire its full arsenal of twelve double-ought buck rounds as fast as he could pull the trigger.

Each round contained eight balls of lead, impacting into the target
like eight nine-millimeter rounds fired at once. At close-range, he knew from experience, a single shot would vaporize a man's torso. It was one of the most effective weapons ever made.

Soloman
saw the tunnel looming up and glimpsed—or thought he glimpsed—the surreal image of Cain moving into the blackness, and he raised the SPAS for a shot. But the darkness caused him to shift the sights, searching, and then he knew Cain had entered the inky blackness of the huge drainage pipe.

Behind,
Soloman heard steps and turned to see Chatwell coming through the wood-line, staggering with fatigue. Soloman motioned silently for him to hurry and Chatwell was heaving like a racehorse as he reached the entrance, falling against the side with a Remington 870 shotgun held low in his hands. His face was weary, drenched in sweat from running through the humid woods. "Did you get a visual, Colonel?" he gasped.

"Yeah, I got one,"
Soloman said steadily, enraged and livid with combat acuity. He had found his way back to this world without even trying; everything seemed twice as sharp, his mind already at computer speed. "Wait here for Delta and then follow the blood trail!"

He moved on it.

"Colonel!" Chatwell grabbed at him. "Wait for Delta!"

"No time!"
Soloman tore his arm free and went quickly forward. He stalked into the gigantic tunnel as fast as caution allowed and glared down to see the mud marred by footprints. But the blood was a better trail, painting the circular floor in red heat.

Chatwell was far behind him giving frantic radio instructions to the Delta soldiers who were converging at the entrance.

As a little girl screamed.

* * *

CHAPTER 8

Soloman flicked off the safety and was charging before Chatwell could even yell for backup. Moving quickly, he sought face-to-face battle, all caution forgotten as the horrified cries of the child flooded over him.

Screaming, screaming that was hideous and haunting; a child's scream.
He smoothly leaped a small ravine and hit running, his mind at combat speed.

Faint mist raised from his heated breath fogged the goggles in the increasing humidity of the pipeline as he followed the glowing red blood. And very, very quickly he was both amazed and terrified at the thought of how Amy could have found her way through this frightening maze without any light at all. Then the goggles were lit with white and he squinted up to see a surface grate.

He bent his head and realized that this was where the underground facility could be accessed from the ground. High above he heard the faint sound of a passing vehicle and realized he was beneath a road, past the interstate.

As the screaming stopped.

Clenching his teeth Soloman turned into a tunnel where the screams still echoed, something rising inside him to overcome his fear with a purpose pure and vengeful, seeking deliverance.

***

Blinded by tears, Amy looked up.

Bloodied, the giant stood over her, staring down.

Cowering against the wall, able to see him only in the dim light of the grate above them, Amy hugged her shoulders and cried uncontrollably. She'd come to this place because it was so deep inside the tunnels and she could easily climb the ladder to get back out and she had never guessed that he could find her here because no one had ever found her here, not ever. But he had found her and now he stood over her like death, black and silent and infinitely frightening.

Even in her fear Amy knew the giant should be dead because the FBI men had shot him again and again. But he wasn't dead; he was a monster, a monster and he was alive and he was with her in the dark, staring down, glowering, and she knew with all that a child could know that she was about to die.

Silence.

Then, suddenly, he staggered, lowering his head to lean against a wall. He grimaced in pain, shaking his face. Then his fangs—fangs incredibly long and sharp—gleamed frighteningly in the faint light as she heard his words.

"How horrible," he rasped, "that this frail blood could be my life." He swayed. "One who made the nations tremble has fallen ... to this inglorious state."

He almost collapsed and Amy thought she heard the cave growl of a beast as he bent his head even lower. And in that moment of skin-crawling threat she would have fled farther if it were possible, but they had reached a ledge where a raging river of water swept beneath.

In the light of the grate Amy could see the current carried into a nearby tunnel, dark and roaring. She crouched fearfully at the edge before the man suddenly turned his head. He stared long into the water as if listening ... or remembering.

Time passed.

"Yes," he whispered finally, "of course that is why I seek it. The castle is the place of power ... That is why I sought it." A pause. "Yes, now I remember
The Grimorium Verum
."

His smile was metallic and Amy saw more clearly the sharp fangs
gleaming. And then she truly wanted to scream but couldn't scream so that the silent cry erupted inside her, overflowing into horror.

"Underworld," the man whispered, staring down with glowing red eyes. "Skyworld, earthworld, and ground that holds copper to strengthen the spell. And deep water that hides ... yes ... that hides the treasure that I need to destroy ... the millennium."

Silence struck like thunder as he smiled slowly. The smile grew moment by moment until he threw back his head to laugh, a roar with tiger fangs flashing in the light. And the horrific black mirth continued long until the giant released a deep breath, exhaling slowly. His voice was distant and satisfied.

"No ... no force could equal my pride," he said. "But I need neither pride nor force to kindle rebellion on this loathsome sphere ... this loathsome sphere that harbors that most cherished flesh of your flesh."

He smiled hatefully.

"Hell hath not my equal,
and you know," he spoke. "Not Hell, or Earth, or even Heaven. Together, the dimensions behold my pride with amazement and horror. Not even baneful Moloch, warring with me eternally even as you, can match the height and depth and breadth of my spite. And my wrath is a curse to him as long as fear shall last. But hear me, Old One, hear the words sworn on the secret name you have taken from my mind lest I mock you, that all war before this was only a parade to the war now raised, for my banner is hate, and is uplifted. And you yourself shall curse the day you withheld your arm from my destruction.

"From the graveyard of your celestial might I will watch your wind
scatter the flesh and bones of your beloved dead, and I will laugh. Because I am among the sheep you adore so foolishly, and they shall not last the conflict." He snarled. "And because you will not dishonor yourself by undoing the folly these fools have wrought, you will be destroyed with them! For not even you can violate your... your justice!' Silence and darkness descended, breathing.

Amy stared. "Wh-wh-who are you?" she whispered. "Why ... why
              do you want to hurt me?"

The man lifted his head, as if he'd forgotten her in remembering so
much else. Then he smiled, standing away from the wall to step closer.

His voice rumbled past the grating fangs.

"Don't be afraid, child," he said, and Amy saw the fangs slowly, silently sliding back into his jaws. "Now I remember ... and remember well." He paused. "We must travel far from here. But when we reach the place of power you will see such a world that mortals dream of, yet never know. And when the moon is aligned with Saturn and Mars I will reclaim all that was mine. I will once again be what I was; Lord of the Earth."

She couldn't contain her tears.

"What are you going to do to me?"

"Yours shall be the denouement, Amy," he smiled. "You will give me eternal life, and the blood you shed will resurrect a kingdom lost so long that not even I remember the glory of it."

Amy brought her knees higher, pleading. And, ignoring her cries, the giant raised his face to stare upward. White moonlight spilled through the metal cage that separated them from the world.

"
Du rosa raziel nopa padous
," he murmured. "The second pentacle of Saturn and Mars against the water of the moon to give strength ... against the greatest of adversaries." Frowning or smiling, he lowered his head, staring slowly over her. His eyes gleamed, malicious and evil.

He laughed as he bent to—

"
Cain
!"

Cain whirled as the man leaped into the tunnel and then the cavern exploded as Cain roared and staggered back.
Instantly the intruder fired again and Amy was screaming and screaming, endlessly screaming as she raised hands over her head.

***

Livid with rage, Malo whirled as distant gunfire reverberated through the tunnels. He searched frantically but couldn't pinpoint a direction and spun toward Chatwell. "Chatwell! Where did the colonel go!"

"I don't know!" the sergeant gasped, staggering with fatigue as he glared into the spot
-lit darkness. "He just vanished! He said he couldn't wait for backup!"

Malo
whirled back as sounds of shotgun fire and a wild animal roar collided. "Spread out and find the colonel!" he shouted to all of them as he ran forward. "Come on, come on, come on! We're out of time!"

***

Soloman fired point-blank into Cain's chest and Cain fully took the blast, staggering. He hovered on the edge of the ledge and Soloman advanced as he fired again and again, impacts of the SPAS-12 shredding the giant's torso in violent concussions that painted the white walls red but Cain didn't drop so Soloman kept firing.

Then with a galactic scream Cain staggered forward, lifting taloned hands to grapple and
Soloman roared in rage as he stepped into it, the SPAS ejecting spent rounds as quick as he could pull the trigger.

Taking five blasts dead-center to the chest Cain was moved back again by the onslaught to hover on the edge of the ledge. Then his face twisted with pain and fangs exploded from his jaws in a thundering god-roar as
Soloman fired the twelfth and last round from the SPAS, instantly dropping the shotgun to fast-draw the .45.

Before the shotgun struck the ground
Soloman fired to hit Cain in the forehead only to hear the .45 round ricochet into the dark, defeated by the titanium skull.

He fired five, ten, twelve rounds point-blank into Cain's head and chest and then the giant swayed on the edge of the abyss, his body hovering above the river.
Soloman shouted as he sighted between Cain's eyes.

Fired his last shot.

The bullet hit Cain's forehead center-mass and, like a mountain, the giant fell from the ledge, bellowing in rage. He hit the river hard where the impact was lost to the deafening roar of the river itself and then he was gone, taken by the current.

Sweating in the mist,
Soloman stared angrily from the edge of the river as he dropped the empty magazine. He slammed in another to instantly chamber a round and searched a long moment but saw nothing and realized Cain had been defeated by the river. He was gone.

Gone
into the darkness of the connecting pipeline.

Grave, breathing hard and heavy,
Soloman turned to stare down at the little girl, searching and concerned. But he saw she was unharmed as she whispered fearfully, "Did you . . . did you kill it?"

Soloman
was silent a long time, compassion and control giving tone to his eventual words.

"No, Amy. I don't think
that I did."

***

Marcelle gently touched the wall, feeling the deep talon marks torn in Hthe plaster of Father Lanester's room. The monstrous claws had raked with phenomenal power to tear furrows as wide and deep as his fingernail, clearly the work of inhuman strength.

The room had been almost cleaned by a single old nun, who labored yet. Working on her knees with a scrub brush, she stubbornly struggled to remove blood stains from the glossy wood.

She had looked up, unsurprised, as Marcelle emerged to stand silently in the door frame. Her wrinkled face was implacable, mouth set in a grim line. As one deeply inured to the secret ways of the Church, she seemed to know why he had come. Silently she nodded, closing her eyes and Marcelle gravely returned the gesture, also wordless.

Then she went back to her cleaning, tirelessly trying to defeat the blood as Marcelle fully entered the room, his quiet footsteps overcome by the sound of determined brushing. Ten minutes later Father Barth also appeared in the doorway. Although the old man spoke loudly and boldly to Marcelle, he did not enter the room.

"We have begun to catalogue the Archives against the last list of interred documents," he said. "The Archbishop has called Rome for assistance, and they are flying in the Librarian Superior and Superior General Aveling forthwith. He will be here by late tonight to assist us."

Marcelle indicated that he understood, not wishing to speak against the silence of the room—a silence broken only by the dogged work of the old nun so intent on her task. He was amazed that the walls had already been cleaned, for the chamber was not small. She had obviously begun at the top and worked her way down, where the blood had pooled. He could not even imagine how many buckets of blood she had already carried from the room, just as he knew that it had been a horrifying task. Though the horror of it seemed only to enhance, rather than dilute, her iron will.

He looked at the bed to see more talon markings deeply torn in the plaster, scratches that began low and rose to descend again, writing ... something. He studied it to translate and almost with the first letter, he knew. His mouth opened in a shock that even he could not conceal and then he sadly shook his head as he finished, knowing what he had long feared had finally come, as he always knew it would come.

"What is it?" asked Barth, noticing the change.

Marcelle's mouth tightened.

"Marcelle!" the old man repeated. "What do you see? Can you not tell me?"

"A word," Marcelle replied, teeth clenched. "A single word."

Braced by the presence of others, the old man walked into the room.
Even though he was of strong fortitude, this event – so horrible and in his own parish – had clearly shaken his constitution. He stared at the wall, reading the scrawl left by the claws. His voice was quieter when he spoke.

"Neshamah," he murmured, squinting a moment as if searching across a great gray distance, perceiving an enemy there. "It was written beneath the blood. That's why I didn't see it."

"Yes," Marcelle agreed coldly. "Always beneath the blood."

Barth could almost be seen searching his mind, the definition of the word coming to him slowly. "Yes, Neshamah. I know this word. It is old Hebrew
. It was used to identify ... yes, to identify the soul proper. It is meant to identify the essence of what is truly man. But what does it mean here?" He turned to Marcelle. "Why would it be torn into the wall beneath Father Lanester's blood, Marcelle?"