Pandora's Ark (21 page)

CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE

Las Vegas
, Nevada
, The Following Day

It was
night in downtown Las Vegas and the canopy of the Experience was in full
cartoonish display with brightly lit images playing across the awning, as a
vintage Rolling Stones song served as the musical soundtrack.

Kimball stood beneath the canopy eating shrimp from his
parfait glass. Tonight he had chosen to work the swing shift. The bruise above
his eye drew inquisitive questions, which he deflected with untruths, saying
for the most part that he walked into a wall, or a cabinet, or an open door
with no two answers alike.

When the show ended and the overhead canopy winked off,
Kimball made his way home walking the seedy avenue of Freemont Street. The
whores, the pimps, the homeless and drug dealers staked their territorial
claims—living within the same dark corners and the same dark recesses with
their faces obscured by half shadow and light.

Kimball ignored the calls of the bartering pimps, refused
their offers, and dismissed the pleas of hardened meth whores looking for their
next fix without so much as acknowledging their existence, when they shared the
same sidewalk.

Sirens and lights of two police cruisers passed him,
stopping at a nearby motel advertised as a daily, weekly or monthly rental
when, in fact, they served as places of ill repute.

Taking the steps to his apartment, Kimball suddenly felt a
glaring shift in awareness the same way the hackle of an animal rises after
sensing great danger. The windows were blacked out, the place looking as he
left it, untouched. But he had learned to trust his senses long ago.

He tested the knob with a slow turn, locked.

Nor did he carry his weapon of choice, a commando blade. It
was inside, hidden.

With careful prudence he inserted the key, turned, the
click audible only to his ear, and swung the door open with ease.

The apartment was dark, a mistake on his part. By working
the swing shift he had forgotten to turn on the lights before he left, the sun
still shining at that time.

As he took a step inside shadows pooled around him, his
eyes trying to adjust, to focus, to see if the darkness within was taking on a
life of its own and edging closer with the intent to kill.

He saw nothing.

But there was definitely a presence.

He then stepped back onto the landing before the doorway, a
slow exit, the animal instinct in him telling him to take flight rather than
fight, to come back to live another day.

And then a light went on from inside, the lamp on the
nightstand casting a feeble glow.

Kimball stood at the fringe of the light’s cast and noted
the man who sat in a chair with his legs crossed in leisure, a smile on his
face. For a moment he thought his heart would misfire.

Isaiah sat there in full Vatican Knight regalia including
the beret, the Roman Catholic collar and mixed military array. On the pocket of
his shirt was the embroidery of the Vatican Knights, the shield and silver
Cross
Pattée
. Beside him sat an aluminum
suitcase.

If Kimball was happy to see his old friend he didn’t show
it. “It’s a little early for Halloween, isn’t it?” he asked, stepping inside
and closing the door behind him.

“You knew I was here.”

“I knew somebody was here.”

“That’s good,” Isaiah said evenly. “Your senses are still
sharp.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t kill you.”

The moment Isaiah gained his feet Kimball crossed the floor
and the two men embraced each other. As they backed off Kimball took appraisal
of his former second lieutenant, taking in the man’s dress, saw the whiteness
of the clerical collar and the memories it suddenly wrought.

“Why are you dressed like this?” he asked. “I thought you
were going back to the orphanage.”

Isaiah returned to the seat. “I did,” he answered. “Up until
yesterday I was tilling the soil in the garden. Now . . .” He let his words fall
away as he held his arms out in an act that said it all:
Now I’m here
.

There was a momentary pause between them. But it wasn’t
awkward by any means. It was more of an intake of a cherished friendship, an
umbilical tie between brothers reconnecting. “As good as it is to see you,” he
finally said, “I need to know why you’re here, Isaiah?” He looked at the
suitcase. “Are you planning to move in or something?”

“No, Kimball. Or would you prefer to be called J.J.
Doetsch?”

Kimball smiled. “You’ve been keeping tabs on me.”

“Actually, no, I haven’t. But the Vatican has. And as for this,” he said, sliding the suitcase forward. “It’s for you.”

Kimball stepped forward. “Well, I have to admit,” he told
him, “that I like a man who bears gifts.”

“Then you’ll like this one.”

Kimball studied the suitcase.

“Go ahead,” said Isaiah, “open it.” He then slid the
suitcase across the floor until it rested at Kimball’s feet.

Kimball gave him a suspicious, sidelong glance.

“Open it,” he pressed.

Kimball bent down, laid the suitcase on the floor, undid
the clasps, and opened the lid. A black clerical shirt with the Roman Catholic
collar already fitted around the loop of the shirt’s neckline lay neatly
folded. The emblem of the Vatican Knights stood brightly against the shirt’s
pocket. 

Kimball just stared at it. Whether he was transfixed,
confused, or in simple awe, Isaiah couldn’t quite decipher Kimball’s reaction.
“It’s your uniform,” he finally said. “Bonasero is calling us home to serve the
Church once again.”

Kimball knelt beside the case with the stillness of a
mannequin for a long and silent moment before closing the lid with mechanical
slowness. He then locked it shut. “I can’t,” he said softly.

Isaiah tilted his head questioningly. “What?”

Kimball looked him squarely in the eye, gained his feet,
then went to the refrigerator where he grabbed his bottle of Jack and took the
seat opposite Isaiah. “I said . . . I can’t.”

Isaiah fell back in defeat, his face drawing amazement and
shock, his mouth wanting to say something, anything, but words were lost to
him.

Kimball opened the cap and took a long swig before coming
up for air. And then: “Do you remember the day when
Ezekiel
tried to kill me?” he said. “When
Ezekiel
betrayed us all?”

Isaiah obviously accepted this as rhetorical, so he
remained silent and waited as Kimball drew a second pull from the half-empty
bottle before setting the container on the armrest.

“It was then that I realized something about myself,” he
continued. “When I served as a Vatican Knight I believed that I was serving the
Church to maintain the integrity of the Vatican by protecting its sovereignty,
its interests, and its citizenry. I killed only as a last option because I
believed that even God recognizes the fact that good people have the right to
protect themselves, or to protect the lives of good people who can’t defend
themselves. I really believed that. And then I realized that it was nothing
more than a feeble justification for killing another man. I led myself to
believe that I killed because I
had
to, not because I
wanted
to.
But after
Ezekiel
killed my old team of the
Force Elite, when he murdered members of the Vatican Knights to cover his
deeds, it was then that I realized who I truly was.” He turned and stared at
the bottle, the muscles in the back of his jaw working furiously as if
containing his rage. “I learned that I wanted to kill
Ezekiel
so badly that I could taste it. I didn’t want to kill him
because I
had
to. I wanted to kill him because I
wanted
to.” He never
took his gaze off the bottle. “It’s just the way I am, Isaiah. The difference
between me and you and the other Knights is that I
want
to kill.” He then
looked at the hard shell of the suitcase, thought of the uniform inside, what
it used to mean to him as he sought his own salvation. “I don’t deserve to wear
this,” he finally said, then kicked the suitcase back to Isaiah. “Take it
back.”

Kimball tipped the bottle back and took another swig, the
liquor going fast.

“Kimball,” Isaiah’s voice was beseechingly calm. “
Ezekiel
did what he did because he was filled with anger that had
festered over a period of time.”

“And I was the one who fostered that anger because
I
was the one who killed his grandfather. Tell Bonasero that I love him and that
I’m sorry. But it is what it is. And the truth is, Isaiah, is that I kill
because I want to. Not because I have to.”

“You’re selling yourself short and letting your emotions
warp your sense of reasoning.”

Kimball snapped the bottle away from his lips angrily.
“Really, Isaiah? Is that what you think?”

“Kimball, you tried to save
Ezekiel
, not hurt him. He was the one who lost his way. Not you.”

Kimball stared at him, his face betraying nothing. And
then: “I still plan to kill him,” he said lightly, “when I find him.”

“You plan to find him at the bottom of that bottle?”

Kimball took another long pull before setting the bottle
aside. “Maybe,” he answered.

“I so looked forward to being your second lieutenant once
again.” Isaiah appeared dour, his face hanging with incredible sadness within
the cast of feeble lighting. “And so was Leviticus.”

“He’s retuning to the fold as well?”

“We all are,” he said.

“No. Not everyone.”

Isaiah sighed. “I wanted to return to the Vatican with you as a team member. Perhaps we could talk tomorrow when you have had a
little bit less to drink?”

“Don’t count on it.” He sipped from the bottle again.

Isaiah stood.

“Don’t forget the suitcase,” Kimball said coolly.

Isaiah declined. “I’m leaving it here,” he told him. “Maybe
you’ll change your mind when you sober up.”

“I’m not drunk yet.” He held the bottle out to him. “But
I’m working on it.”

Isaiah was deeply saddened. Kimball could see it on his
face. He didn’t intend to hurt his friend by driving a wedge of disappointment
to the very core of his soul. But Kimball knew in his heart that he was not fit
to don the uniform with a mindset that would offend God, the Church, or
Bonasero Vessucci.

I kill because I
want
to
. . .
Not because I
have
to
.

I kill people . . . It’s what I do . . .  It’s what I’m
good at.

“All I ask is that you think about it. That’s all I’m
asking. Try on the uniform. Get the feel of it. And remember all the lives you
saved while wearing the collar. Remember the good, Kimball. All you have to do
is remember the good. If you do that, then the rest will take care of itself.”
With that he nudged the suitcase back to Kimball’s direction with the toe-end
of his boot, the aluminum case sliding next to Kimball’s chair.

Kimball refused to acknowledge it.

After tipping his head in a gesture meaning good-bye Isaiah
left the apartment, leaving Kimball to stew alone with his bottle of Jack.

#

Once
Isaiah left
Kimball did not drink. In
fact, the bottle remained untouched beside the chair. He sat there with a
detached daze looking straight ahead. The activity playing out across his
mind’s eye, however, was clear and crisp. He visualized old memories—saw the
battles he partook while in the Philippines and in third world countries where
innocent people such as children, women and old men who could not protect
themselves had looked upon him with impossibly large eyes, imploring eyes that
were slick with the glassy onset of tears begging him to become their champion,
to save them.

They were good people who wanted to till the soil and to
raise their children under a friendly sky, to embed values of goodness to pass
on to subsequent generations in order to create a better standard of living, a
better place to live.

But there were hard-line factions, there were always
hard-line factions, who yielded to personal hatreds and prejudices warped by the
interpretations of religious texts or the hardcore ramblings of religious
extremists. The subversives tended to lean toward annihilation, the cost of a
human life insignificant.

And Kimball reveled in these moments, laying down his law
as a Vatican Knight to save those who could not save themselves, fighting until
his adrenaline caused his heart to palpitate with raw excitement. In the end he
was fulfilled by the dark cravings of battle that served as sustenance. Not by
the plight of salvation he so badly sought.

And here was the problem: He was by nature a killer and
resigned himself to that fact. Therefore, he was not fit to wear the uniform of
a Vatican Knight.