Cain (30 page)

The lion struck and he lashed out to grab the clawed foreleg, hauling the beast into the bars, defying the animal strength that surged wildly against him.

The lion screamed.

He laughed.

***

When Delta Flight 349 from Los Angeles to New York landed at Kennedy Airport at 4:30 P.M., security personnel were immediately requested by the captain. Advised of the situation, trembling police armed with shotguns and backed by a formidable animal-control team cautiously opened the bay.

A search was carried out and the lion's cage was soon discovered, the steel door broken. But it took shocked security another minute to find the lion itself, gutted as if it had met a beast infinitely more savage, infinitely more powerful. And even more mesmerizing was the lack of any evidence of a struggle, as if the lion had been killed so quickly that it never struck a blow.

Its blood had been completely drained.

Ultimately there was yet another mystery discovered: a titanium plate previously anchored to the wheelbase had been violently torn away and cast aside, providing an easy escape route for whoever—whatever—had so ferociously killed it.

***

Archette exited the limousine that efficiently delivered him to his New York penthouse in the closest, darkest hours before dawn.

He inhabited a four-thousand-square-foot two-level expanse that offered a sweeping panorama of the city and Central Park and he smiled
silently to himself as he rose in the elevator.

His reward, yes, had been beyond measure.

He could barely remember the endless orgasmic pleasures of the night, such was its purity. Anything, anything at all, he knew, could be sacrificed for such pleasure. For it had been no illusion; it was real. The power of the Family made it flesh, and he felt no shame that he would go back to it again, and again, and again ...

As he entered the apartment he saw that the security system was not activated and set
tled himself, pouring a sedative Scotch. Then he moved slowly to the tall picture window to gaze out, contemplative.

He had fought with such fierceness at the meeting in Los Angeles that he feared he
might have revealed his true motivation to Hawken. But he was avowed; he had committed himself as a member of the High Council, and so was committed to the risk.

He could barely remember how it had begun so long ago; how he'd been drawn deeper and deeper into that hidden world of shadowed majesty. But it was only when he discovered the Family that he had come to know the true meaning of power. And,
truly stunned at the power of their world, he had avowed allegiance to the One who ruled from Darkness;
He
who offered unimaginable pleasure;
He
who could give them the Earth …

Utterly seduced, he found a life he never believed possible. It was in-credible, he had thought, that such rapturous experience could have escaped him for so many years and he had seized it at once, knowing also a rapidly orchestrated rise through the secret corridors of power, an ascent assured by his benefactors.

Then there had been the request for the experiment and he had personally overseen it. He never truly believed that it would succeed, for it had been based on myth and legend. But it had, indeed, succeeded. And now He was among them, and would soon—

He felt it before shadow or sound approached. And, bracing, Archette took a
hot sip of Scotch. Nor did he turn or tremble – as he had been warned.

He waited a long time ... to silence.

"Speak," Archette said finally. "I know you have come."

Stillness; silence.

"
Speak
!" he repeated. "I have summoned you! You must answer me!"

A laugh.

To reveal the measure of his calm, Archette raised the glass in a dead-steady hand. "The Circle is in place," he said. "Kano can make the necessary arrangements. I will provide him with facilities so that you can consummate your plans." He straightened with a frown. "Only remember our bargain! You must give what I covet!"

The presence drew closer.

Tightening against his will, Archette did not turn.

Then a galactic image was reflected in the window before him, silent behind his shoulder. It was dark-haired and lordly and imperial, gigantic in strength. Cloaked in black, it stared down over him. Black eyes gleamed in a strange, alien intelligence. Jaws glinted in pale light, fangs sharp even in shadow.

Ice cubes collided in Archette's glass.

"I
... I have made a covenant with you!" he continued. "You owe me a debt! Is that not understood?"

"Mortals
,” It laughed. "Always in debt."

A trembling silence.

"I promised that I would complete the experiment!" Archette gasped, suddenly gripping the glass with both hands. "But none of us knew whether it would succeed! It was based on legend! On myth! I ... I never anticipated that it would be a success! But now you have come! And the High Council is prepared! We ask only what was promised! For the power! For the world! Was it not your pledge? Will you now refuse us?" His hand clenched to still the shaking. "Will you not honor your debt?"

A long silence.

"Your debt was paid so long ago," It whispered. "But you never knew." It paused. "Give me the place of Kano, for I need him. There is much to do before I can give what you so zealously crave."

"Yes!" Archette whispered. "We want to rule the world beneath you!"

"Of course you do," It murmured in a tone of truest amusement. "As you will, my pet. For are you not a member of the High Council? A prince of my true church? And yet you harbor a weakness I cannot tolerate."

Scotch sloshed over the lip of Archette’s glass, the ice rattling
wildly. “
What weakness
?"

"You fear
Soloman."

"
Soloman! He is dangerous! He is not like the rest! He does not fear you! He ... He has already planned an ambush in this city! Our resources at Fort Bragg have verified it! Soloman will be landing by helicopter tonight in Central Park!"

"
Soloman is only human, child."

Archette stiffened. "But we worked for years to set your empire in place! And
Soloman hunted down everyone we recruited! So we began to fear! Something had to be done! No! No, my Lord! We could not let him stand between us and our deliverance!" On impulse Archette turned and stared into depthless black eyes, horrified beyond anything he had ever known—

B
efore knowing glory.             

"We did it for you!" he gasped. "We did it for you!"

A taloned hand settled on his shoulder.

A fanged smile fell.

"It was not in vain," It whispered.

* * *

CHAPTER 16

It was a strange and lonely sight on this late afternoon in October.

The basilica—more like a medieval monastery—was isolated in the midst of a cold moor that stretched to distant, dead trees drowned in lifeless black water. It silently dominated the storm-clouded day, brooding massively on a skull-like hill, hauntingly out of time and place.

Soloman stood on the steps and stared out, resisting the despondent sensation inspired by the place. Concentrating, he studied what Malo had done until he was satisfied; he could see no overt weaknesses.

There were no motion detectors visible among the distant water-logged stumps and putrid sedge. And heat sensors located on each corner of the square, two-story edifice were shielded with black curtains.

Alone in the courtyard entrance, feeling the soundless dying of the day, Soloman felt like he'd stepped a hundred years back in time, to a world where places like this once commanded true respect, and power – a time when it was both an honor and a privilege to kneel on the stones or pray inside the hard gray granite walls.

Behind him he heard hushed steps and turned to see Marcelle approaching, with Mother Superior Mary Francis a
t his side. Marcelle nodded curtly, all business, and Soloman returned the greeting.

"All is ready, Colonel," he said, gesturing to the nun. "Sister MaryFrancis will attend to the needs of Amy and her mother while the rest of us wait for the inevitable. When will you be leaving for the museum?"

"In a moment," Soloman responded, grim. "It's only a twenty-minute flight and the museum doesn't close for another two hours. Cain won't be making a move until then."

"They know that you are coming?"

"Yeah, they know." Soloman turned to stare into the land surrounding the basilica, finding his tactical mode. "Ben's been there for three hours preparing."

Once again he studied the lay of the land and saw that there was only one reliable means of entry
– a two-lane paved road that led past the church which Malo had wired, just in case. So if Cain didn't want to get cremated on the highway he would be forced to use the swamp.

Malo had concealed the two Apaches, designed for tank killing, in a field near Sussex. The choppers could sweep in three minutes after activation. But until then they'd have to handle Cain themselves and
Soloman hoped they could pull it off. Three minutes could be a long time in a fight like this and he was beginning to get a bad feeling, sensing he'd forgotten something.

He mentally reviewed it: Snipers were located in each tower, hidden from Cain's uncanny night vision by thick gray stone and curtain. Every approach was monitored visually and electronically, motion detectors set for height and heat sensors set to detect any atmospheric change.

Overall, Soloman reasoned, it seemed like a good plan. They might actually stand a chance here. At least as much of a chance as anyone could have in a standup fight with this thing. But he was still uneasy, unable to place what disturbed him. He shook his head, frustrated.

Mary Francis's eyes narrowed at the movement. She spoke quietly. "It is a place of ghosts, don't you think, Colonel?"

He slowly turned his head. Searched her eyes.

With a slow blink she stared once again over the desolation
as she added quietly, “Yes, a place of memory, and regret. But also of redemption. Yes ... we should let the past claim its own penance."

Soloman
frowned, said nothing.

Her next words were a whisper as she turned away. "But battles can also be fought
and won by such things."

Wordless,
Soloman stared after her as she left, noting the demure demeanor, hands tucked into the plain black habit. She was so old, yet seemed to carry herself with such strength.

Marcelle walked up, hands behind his back. "Sister Mary Francis has
seen much in her lifetime, Colonel, of both good and evil. She does not frighten easily. In fact, sometimes I think she has too much faith for her own good. But, in truth, she is the probably the rarest of all things."

"What's that?"

"A genuinely holy person."

Soloman
looked at the priest. "You know," he said finally, “if you had any sense, you'd be out of here – both of you. Because, despite all this techno-crap there's still a chance Cain can slip through our defenses."

"Yes," Marcelle replied calmly. "But then I have taken a vow to protect the child, and
so I will stand beside her. We must all decide what we are willing to die for." He gazed at Soloman. "Or live for."

Soloman
was grim.

"The child has grown fond of you," the priest continued
as he slowly removed a cigarette. "The fact that you have defended her has, in her mind, spoken more than words. She knows instinctively that true love requires sacrifice." He paused, beginning something. "You are a haunted man, Colonel. I can see it in your eyes and in your words – in everything you do. I do not know what haunts you but I know it is the essence of what you are. And this, I think, is what makes you fight so fiercely. You do not fight only against Cain. You fight against what you are. Or what you have become."

Soloman
said nothing for a moment. Then he muttered, “You don't know anything about my past, Marcelle."

"No," the priest replied. "I know only that you carry a great aura of
sadness with you. And I perceive it is because of love, for love always brings the greatest sadness. But now I see hope in your actions. I see that the man has not died – that he hopes to live once more. For you, it is something I will pray for. Even as I have prayed for myself."

Silent,
Soloman glanced at the horizon. He saw the sun dying a slow death, heavy darkness softly descending to shroud dead trees in an air of gloom, foreboding night.

He heard himself say, "Do you think God really cares about any of
              this, Marcelle?"

Soloman
half-expected a typical Jesuit response – something obscure and incomprehensible. It was the kind of question a sane person never asked because there was no way to truly answer.

Marcelle's black eyes glinted as he spoke.

"Yes, Colonel, I believe that he does truly care."

Such simple words, but
Soloman knew that Marcelle had spent thirty years dissecting the mystery, twisting his way through a labyrinth of questions surrounded by madmen and madness, endless suffering and despair.

No, not so simple.

Despite Soloman's awe at this affirmation of hope and faith, his expression remained unchanged.

"Take care of Amy until I get back," he said, bending to retie his boots. "Malo and the guys are on security,
so just keep Maggie and Amy calm. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"They will be comfortable."

Soloman lifted the Desert Eagle and walked outside the church to chamber a round, out of earshot of Amy. The Loach was heated up and he climbed in. As he strapped himself in, Marcelle stepped forward, his voice rising over the roar.

"There was a time when I did not believe," he called out. "But I do believe ... once more."

Soloman paused, nodded. Then he lifted the chopper hard into night, casting a single glance to see the lonely black silhouette of Marcelle standing in the middle of a cold and dying land.

Believing what he believed.

***

Marcelle moved inside the slate gray stones of the basilica as the Loach passed away over a lake of lifeless water, ascending quickly as the sun set.

Cold swept over the massive building at Soloman's departure and when the priest finally closed the wide wooden doors against the chill he saw Sister Mary Francis serving hot tea to Maggie and Amy. He moved forward and in moments sat casually among them, calmly resting hands on his knees as Mary Francis poured him a cup. Maggie, regarding him with affection, asked, "Has Soloman left for the museum?"

"Yes," Marcelle answered without any hint of nervousness. "He has gone to prepare the deception. But I believe that General Hawken has already been there for several hours, also making arrangements. They are being quite thorough, I think."

She glanced at Amy. "Will anyone be inside the museum when Cain comes for the book?"

"I believe that only
Soloman will be inside the museum," Marcelle replied, confident. "He intends to ensure that Cain is appropriately deceived. But he has advised me that he will take every precaution." He nodded. "Yes, Soloman is a very cautious man – a very
wise
man. He is prepared for every contingency." He didn't even glance at Amy as he added, "Yes, for certain, I believe that Soloman will be quite safe."

Without reply Maggie sipped her tea, swallowing slowly with a distant but solemnly disturbed gaze. Whatever she pondered seemed to give her no comfort.

It was a moment before Amy, saying nothing, stared him directly in the face. He accepted her gaze, smiling slightly in response.

She didn't smile back.

With a hint of sadness Marcelle set his tea and cake on the table, placed his hands firmly on his knees, and sought to read every emotion that passed within the depths of the glistening blue eyes. He smiled, finally nodding.

"Yes, Amy," he said quie
tly. "I truly believe it."

***

Autumn wind howled over his batlike form, raising his cloak against the darkness like vast black wings as he crouched on a ledge of the Empire State Building, watching with a devil's patience.

And finally it arrived, coming like an armored locust from the west,
descending as it neared to fall and fall into the midst of a pitched forest. Crimson eyes narrowing in rage, he watched it settle near a large lake of water, memorizing the location. And he waited another moment, allowing them to set their plan in place.

Mortal foods
...

You think you can defeat a god
...

He shook his head at the idea that they would even think to defy him.
He had been defied before, and somehow defeated. But he would not be defeated tonight.

No
,
not tonight …

Tonight he would rewrite what was written, would add and subtract
as the Almighty had cursed those who would dare to change his words – for the Word of God could not be broken. But he was already cursed, so he cared nothing for the Wrath of God.

Crouched like a massive, brooding gargoyle, he stared down from
heights that could never near the heights he'd once ruled. His rage was pure. His intent was hot, blood-thirsting and murderous.

"
Soloman," he whispered, "I come for you."

***

There was almost nowhere to land the Loach close to the museum but Soloman found a place beside Croton Reservoir and took a police escort down Central Park West to enter. He found Ben waiting in the lobby, sweat glistening on his forehead.

"Where's the chopper?"
the general asked.

"NYPD is guarding it at the reservoir,"
Soloman answered. "Have you finished?"

Ben nodded, swaying with excite
ment. "Yeah, yeah, we did everything like you said. But they didn't cooperate easy, Sol. They didn't like us messing with their stuff. They were claiming that we didn't have any jurisdiction until the mayor called and told them to start cooperating. He really put the hoo-doo on 'em."

Soloman
laughed. He'd expected trouble; he just hadn't expected the mayor's office to be so cooperative. "Why'd they do that?" he asked. "Those clowns usually move like a glacier to cooperate on federal situations that involve the use of city materials."

"Th
is Cardinal – excuse me –
the
Cardinal of New York City apparently made a few phone calls." Ben lowered his voice. "I think Marcelle's got some real serious pull, buddy. Where it counts."

"I figure."
Soloman smiled. "Let's get on with it."

They moved quickly past a glossy display of European medieval armor and weapons and in minutes entered the ancient-literature section of the museum, a chamber dominated by a huge glass display case, which was empty.

A large note lay where
The Grimorium Verum
had been:
This ancient book of black magic, known for two thousand years as The Grimorium Verum, is not currently on display. It is being packaged for shipment to authorities
.

The note was dated today, obvious and glaring.

"Good enough," Soloman said and they moved together through a nearby door marked "Shipping Department." Upon entering, Soloman saw that a single large table in the center had been totally cleared, leaving the book neatly enclosed in an airtight container sitting in the middle of the table as if the job could not be completed by day's end.

Beside the container were two notes. One specified that the book should be sent to Father Jacob Marcelle at the Basilica of St. Angela in Warwick, New York. The second letter came from
Soloman, via the Pentagon. It explained how to ship the book and the purpose of acquisition. Nothing too obvious, but it would be enough to indicate that both Soloman and Marcelle were involved.