Cain (19 page)

There was a dead silence before
Soloman replied, "All right, Marcelle, you're saying that Cain is afraid of some kind of event that he has a limited window to meet? What would that be?"

Marcelle frowned. "You told me that Cain said something mysterious and confusing when he was in the water treatment plant." He began to stroll, lighting a cigarette. "Perhaps the answer lies within those words. Can you tell me what Amy—is that her name?"

"Yeah. Amy Milton. She's asleep in one of the bedrooms. Her mother is in there with her."

"Yes, I thought so. In any case," the priest continued, "can you tell me what Amy repeated? Can you tell me what Cain said to her before you engaged him in battle?"

"She said Cain talked about the moon and planets. It sounds like some kind of Black Magic or something. And since Cain says he can't remember everything he needs to remember, that fits with our theory on
The Grimorium Verum
."

"I agree." Marcelle concentrated. "And I believe that there is one within the city who may throw even more light on this mystery. A man of great learning, and great wisdom."

"Who?"

"The Archbishop of the Jesuit Order, Superior General Anton Aveling. He is knowledgeable about all things occultic, ritualistic and demonic
– more knowledgeable than I or any other." Glancing down at his watch, the priest added, "In a few hours the child will awaken. Then, with your permission, I could ask her a few simple questions. I believe I can accomplish the task without undue disturbance, and perhaps overturn a stone. If we are fortunate, the answer may reveal something of merit."

Soloman
waited a moment before he nodded. "All right. We'll do it after Amy's good and awake." Bowing his head, he rubbed his eyes. "Right now I've got to get some rest … while we've still got time."

Feeling the numbness of the morphine taking an edge off his
concentration, Soloman picked up his shotgun and walked to the door, opening it to step into the cold heart of an utterly shadowed and dooming night.It was frosty on the porch, and Soloman zipped up his jacket as he moved outside.

Malo, motionless, was close beside the door, leaning on a rail. He'd lit a long cigar, smoked meditatively
, and Soloman mirrored the lieutenant, leaning against the opposite post. He didn't especially want to talk to Malo right now but there was no place else to go.

None of them were straying very far from the safe
-house.

Four of the Delta unit were snatching sleep and one was in the front yard, roving. A sixth was out back and the seventh was monitoring an array of starlight and infrared cameras in the attic that covered every approach to the house, providing them with a small sense of safety.

Finally Malo looked over, chewing what looked like a Cuban cigar. Then the big Delta commando silently took another one from his jacket, offering. Soloman stared a moment into the impassive face and cigar and accepted with a grateful nod.

He also took a lighter from the lieutenant that had the lightning bolt of the 101st Infantry emblazoned on the side. After a brief silence Malo exhaled and spoke, his voice remarkably subdued considering the short period that had passed since his outburst.

"So, Colonel, where to now?"

Soloman
continued to light. "Not sure, Lieutenant. Maybe New York. It's too early to tell."

"Huh. Been there."

"Yeah, I figure you have." Soloman blew out a long stream of smoke, felt a faint buzz from the cigar mingling with the morphine in his veins. Yeah, it was Cuban.

"How did you get this thing?" he
muttered, gazing down.

"Got a buddy in Miami. Customs." Malo stared into the faraway
morning light that vaguely articulated skeletal trees against a cobalt-blue sky. "He comes in handy sometimes."

"Is that where you grew up? Miami?"

"No," Malo responded distantly. "Monterrey. The Chipinque Mesa beneath the saddle. Left after my folks died in that cement shack and made my way north when I was about six years old. I crossed the Rio up around San Diego back when the PD was still running BARF squads through the night, trying to catch the bandits. It was a real serious experience – for a kid."

Sc
owling, Malo shook his bearded head and Soloman knew he was remembering the horrific confrontation with Cain. "But that was nuthin' compared to this, Colonel. Even Delta qualifications seem like a keg party compared to huntin' this guy. The general's right about one thing, for sure. This don't belong to the military. It belongs to God."

Soloman
decided not to fuel the fire. "So who took care of you after you reached the States?" he asked.

"An uncle in Miami. He's history now." The reply held deep emotion calloused by time. "Yeah, they're all history. Been dead awhile." He paused. "Anyway, when I was eighteen I got my GED and put my mark on the line." He moved his mouth around the cigar. "Been in since."

"It worked out well for you."

Malo laughed—an unusual expression for such an impassive face. "Yeah
, I figured shootin' and lootin' was all I was good at so I might as well get paid for it. And it went better than I anticipated. Eventually got myself a college degree to qualify for OCS, made light lieutenant. Got recruited for Delta a few years back and it's been good work, good pay. I ain't got no complaints."

"You're a good soldier,"
Soloman said. "And I know, 'cause I've seen a few."

"Yeah, I figure you have." Malo turned his head to meet
Soloman's gaze. "Colonel James L. Soloman. Annapolis graduate. Former commander of the 72 Rangers. Supposed to be a super grunt with the mind of a scholar. A Renaissance Man. Soldier. Philosopher. Killer. Speaks German and French and Spanish and a couple more. Commanded at Albany. Lejeune. Okinawa. You were being groomed for the JCS but you passed it over to run a top-secret program to hunt rogue counterintelligence agents. Worked in a blacked-out unit of SEALs and Special Forces and Force Recon with full authority and command – all of 'em world class shooters. And, word is, you were the keenest hound to ever run in the pack. Could track a ghost through a fog, a fish through water." He placed the cigar back in his mouth, looked out. "Yeah, everybody who's a stud knows who you are, Colonel. You're something like a legend, I guess. Just like we all know why you got out. . . I'm sorry about your family."

Soloman
revealed nothing. "It's in the past. Right now we need to stay centered."

"Yeah, for sure
," Malo grunted. "We're in badass Indian territory on this one."

Indian territory
;
hostile ground
.

Soloman
smiled; it'd been awhile since he'd heard that one. "Well, we're down but we're not out. I think we might turn the tables on this guy if we get the chance."

"Think so?" Malo was keen to it, as if he'd seen too much of the bad. "Why do you say that?"

"Well, Winston Churchill said it best," Soloman continued, quoting. "'War opens the most fruitful field to all human virtues, for at every moment constancy, pity, magnanimity, heroism, and mercy shine forth in it, and every moment offers an opportunity to exercise one of these virtues.'"

There was silence as Malo considered it.
Finally he muttered, "That's almost poetic."

Soloman
laughed and thought of the Delta commando's curious ex-change with Marcelle. "I didn't know you were Catholic," he said quietly.

Malo spat out a sliver of tobacco. "I grew up Catholic 'cause my mama was Catholic, God bless her heart. I know the rules, the prayers, when to stand and kneel
and all that. But I don't do it no more. I just don't care anything for it, I guess. But you know what they say: There ain't no atheists on a battlefield. And, anyway, it's best to cover yourself. Can't lose nothin', for sure." They were silent a long moment until he said, more morosely, "You really think we can take him?"

There was a faint disturbance in the question, a cold realization that they might not, in the end, have what it took to finish this fight. It was something
Soloman had expected to hear eventually after Malo calmed down from the initial adrenaline rush.

"Yeah,"
Soloman said, steady. "I think we can take him."

Malo didn't look back.

"We'll see," he whispered, black eyes narrowing to subdue a shadow of vivid fear. "We'll see."

***

Reptilian sounds, sounds of slow water and subterranean life, moved over him so loud in the gloom that concealed his form, and he heard his burned tendons grating against blackened bones. He moved slightly, growling at the agony of such horrible, searing wounds, and snaked a ravaged arm over his body, finally finding purchase. Then he began to crawl deeper into the darkness.

He knew that he should be dead, for surely nothing could have survived what he had somehow survived. But he had, indeed, survived, he
realized with vengeful satisfaction, as he crawled slowly, so slowly ...

Darkness caressed him and the shadows seemed very much like the home he'd forgotten in the flaming trauma of his defeat.

What defeat?

In the depth of his wounds, he
could not remember. He only remembered the dark flaming current and being swept along in blazing pain as he tumbled alive in the dark light that hurled him into the sea . . .

The sea?

No ... No ...

Not the sea ...

With a severe act of will, he opened his eyes.

No, he knew, not the sea; he was far from that sea where he had been hurled and where he would one day rise again, the apocalyptic image of pain and death and
his long-awaited bloody deliverance. Yes, he was still far from that, though he knew it was coming ... one day.

Moving, he tensed his ravaged muscles in a fantastic sphere of agony that would have made him scream had he been less. But he would not scream
.

N
o, he would never scream because that would acknowledge his defeat. So in order to mock it he would feast on the pain, despising what was his only claim, his only take from this hated loss.

Air flowed over him, cool and chilling, and he remembered where he was
and how he had come here. He saw the darkness of the tunnel again as he tumbled beneath the water of the river, once again knew the fiendish struggle to gain the underwater entrance in the cascading current as his fingers locked desperately on the iron grate. Then he remembered swimming through the hideous burning, the breathless race to find a place to hide before the pain would be too great to overcome and he would collapse.

And he had claimed his victory, finally raising himself above th
e water level where he had fallen on his face in the slime, slithering as a serpent, moaning and rolling in the tormenting prison of his pain until, exhausted, he fled into sleep, escaping the agony. And now he must feast, he knew, for this body, tremendous and magnificent though it was, could not overcome the damage without more blood.

Yes,
Soloman was skilled and savage – a superior fighter from a superior realm lost to the world for so long that even he could not remember the true greatness of it.

Growling, he remembered facing only one other—the son of Jesse— who fought with such will. One who never retreated, knowing only attack with such purity of purpose. He closed his eyes as he remembered the sweeping black blade weaving a wheel of steel before him.

He'd sought to escape the wrath of the warrior-king but he had failed and finally turned on the rampart, each challenging the other as the Temple of Dagon burned down around them. Sword in hand, ignoring the flaming timbers that crashed like trees, the Hebrew had advanced like a sea-king of old, unyielding and unconquerable to the last to claim a victory that was not of this world.

Their swords met, fire flying from the clash.

Iron against iron . . .

David roaring before him.

Blow after blow . . .

David spinning, whirling the great black blade.

Such
strength
!

Attacking, attacking
.

Fire and sword
. . .

A blow struck true, drawn
.

Agony
!

A blazing bearded image of righteous rage.

Retreat
...

The black sword rose high, a kingly roar descending as it fell to—

Darkness.

He shook his head, snarling.

No
!

Enough
!

I will not be defeated again
!

It cursed him that he remembered so well how it came to pass. For the
body of the gigantic Gadite, resurrected from death by Egyptian sorcery in the sacred ritual of Saturn and Mars, had been the single physical form he'd managed to possess during the long ages. And he had wreaked havoc on the Hebrews with that almost unmatched strength, defeating great Benaiah, Abishai, and even the legendary Jashobeam who once slew eight hundred men in a day's fighting, in single combat.