The Assassin's Prayer (19 page)

Kain
parked the Ranger on the shoulder where Silas had run off the road. As he
stepped out of the truck, the cold rain pelted down on him and the wipers
continued to keep their metronomic beat as he scanned the long, flat stretch of
road in both directions. There was no one coming. He and Silas were alone.

He
kept his gun ready as he approached Silas, but it wasn’t necessary—Silas wasn’t
going anywhere. Kain crossed the ditch in front of the wrecked Tacoma. Steam
hissed out from under the accordioned hood. Cold rain sizzled on hot metal as
he went and stood over Silas, who stared up at him with his one good eye filled
with pain. Kain tried not to feel sorry for him, tried to find the hatred that
had burned inside him for so many years. Tried … but failed.

“Hey
… Kain,” Silas said, the words slow and thick from the blood on his lips.

“Don’t
talk,” Kain said. The .45 hung loosely in his hand, down by his side. Stretched
out under the dark skies like a crucified martyr, Silas had no shelter from the
rain, which began to come down harder, diluting some of the blood from Silas’
wounds. But not all of it. It would take a downpour to get rid of all the
blood.

“Why
… not? I’m gonna … die … anyway.” A spasm racked Silas’ body. He arched his
back against the agony. The movement caused the barbs to burrow further into
his flesh.

Kain
stood still and silent as a thousand memories flashed through his mind, all of
them from better days. He saw the tiny trailer park he and Silas had grown up
in, the fields in which they had played, the schools they had attended, the
cars they had driven, the girls they had loved, along with all the other sunny
images of childhood that the mind never forgets, no matter what darkness comes
after. Shoulders hunched against the rain, Kain stared down at the man he had
once loved as a friend and then hated as an enemy. Now he was caught between
the two extremes, unsure of how to feel or what to say. Nameless emotions
formed a cold, hard ball in the pit of his stomach.

Silas
tried to smile and somehow, that was the most sickening thing yet. “Hey ... Kain,”
he said. “We ... sure had some ... good times ... huh?”

Kain
lifted his head and looked at the sky. Nothing but gray as far as the eye could
see. The thick, swollen clouds hung motionless in the sky. Looked like things
weren’t going to clear up for a long time. He lowered his head and looked at
Silas again. “Yeah,” he said, feeling a cold ache inside. “I guess we did.”

“I
really am … sorry … for what I did.”

Kain
told himself it was just rain on his face, but who was he kidding?

Silas
tried to say something else, but it turned into a scream. He clenched his teeth
so hard that the muscles of his jaw stood out in stark relief. But as Kain
lowered his eyes to Silas’ most mortal injury, he couldn’t blame him for
screaming. The barbed wire had ripped open his belly and his insides bulged,
wet and glistening, from the gaping gash.

Kain
lifted his eyes back to Silas’ face, seeing not the man who had betrayed him,
but the boy who had been his dearest friend. He also saw the utter hopelessness
on Silas’ face. Silas knew he was a dead man, knew that his gut wound would
kill him as surely as a bullet to the brain, but it would be a slow, agonizing
death. In a world of bad ways to die, it was one of the worst. “Kain,” Silas
gasped, “kill me ... please ... I’m begging you … I can’t take ... this pain …
please.”

Kain
said nothing. He had expected the grim request. Not only because he would have
asked for the same thing if the situation was reversed, but because he knew
Silas. Knew him the way you only know someone you have loved and hated.

He
stood, still and silent, the rain soaking his skin, the wind curling around
him, but felt nothing save the chaos in his own soul. He gripped the .45 more
tightly, feeling the dark promise of its weight. Yesterday, killing Silas would
have been about revenge and retribution. But what did it mean today?

Mercy?

No,
Kain thought,
it means more than
that.
Putting a bullet in Silas, granting his wish, would not just be about
mercy—it would be about forgiveness. The bullet would absolve Silas of his
betrayal, forgive him for the pain he had caused. Kain searched his heart. Was
he ready for that?

Without
knowing the answer, he raised the .45 and pointed it at Silas. Rain streamed
from the metal like bitter tears. Silas’ one eye stared up at him with
frightening force, silently pleading. Kain started to take up the trigger
slack, but his finger trembled against the curve of metal. He took several deep
breaths but couldn’t stop shaking.
Come on,
he told himself.
Just
pull the trigger.
But he didn’t. He
couldn’t
. He just stood there,
trembling, unsure, watching the blood spill from Silas’ torn body.

Thunder
boomed in the distance, its deep bass rumble echoing off the mountains and
rolling across the fields. It might have been an ominous portent, had Kain put
faith in such things.

Silas
flinched at the sound and the involuntary motion caused his exposed viscera to
shift. Kain heard a sickening squelching sound as something long and wet
unspooled to the ground. Silas’ scream shredded the air into aural splinters of
agony and noise. It was the single most wrenching scream Kain had ever heard.

Silas
instinctively tried to press his hands over his ripped-open belly, forgetting
that his wrists were held tight. He fought the barbed wire for a moment,
flopping and thrashing desperately, but only managed to turn his wrists into
even more of a mangled mess. He finally stopped, exhausted, and sobbed. “Kain …
please … it hurts so bad … I’m begging you…”

Kain
lowered the gun, then lowered his head, unable to meet Silas’ haunted stare. “I
can’t,” he said softly. “I just can’t.” The cold, hard lump in his guts had
found its way into his throat.

“Kain…”
Silas’ voice was little more than a gasping whisper. “You have to … do this for
me … if I was ever … your friend.”

Kain’s
head snapped up. “Don’t you
dare
lay this on me,” he rasped. “You have
no right to ask me for
anything
.”

Silas
stared at Kain with eyes that were black pools of sorrow and fear. “Please,
Kain ... it’s just one more bullet.”

Kain
searched his soul for the rage and hatred that had sustained him for so long,
but found only an aching hollow. His trembling fingers gripped the .45 so
tightly he thought he would crush it into scrap metal. But he slowly raised the
gun again.

He
locked eyes with Silas for one last time. “Rest in peace or rot in Hell. God’s
choice.”

“Please
... forgive me,” Silas said.

Kain
closed his eyes. A single tear scalded his cheek as he pulled the trigger, the
sound of the shot lost in a sudden peal of thunder. When he opened his eyes,
smoke bled from the barrel and Silas was no longer in pain, the forgiveness he
had craved symbolized by the bullet hole in his heart. The blood looked black
in the rain.

Shoulders
hunched, Kain turned and walked slowly back to the truck. It was only when he
was back behind the wheel that he broke down and wept uncontrollably.

CHAPTER 18

Kain
drove the rest of the way to Church Hill Cemetery with rain and tears mingling
on his face. Though only eight miles from where he and Silas had faced each
other for the final time, it was raining a lot harder here, and the thunder
rumbled louder with booming cracks that seemed like they would shatter the
tombstones.

He
left the truck at the gate and walked up the hill toward Karen’s grave. Hard to
believe he had been here only twelve hours ago. He touched the cut on his
forehead as if to remind himself that this was all real, not just some nightmare
conjured up by his psyche. He felt the stitches. Yeah, this was real all right.
Macklin was dead. Silas was dead. Larissa might or might not be dead. Death was
all around. For a moment, Kain imagined he could feel the Reaper’s breath on
the back of his neck. But no, that was just the wind.

The
downpour prevented the leaves from crunching under his feet as he walked among
the ghosts. The wind plastered the duster against him, but Kain just kept
walking, fixated on Karen’s grave. She was the reason he had come.

It
was morning, but the storm turned the world into twilight. Lightning danced
among the dark, bruised clouds and stabbed the earth with blue-white pitchforks.
The rain hammered down fiercely, as if it had a grudge, the drops of water
feeling more like pellets of stone as he trudged through the maze of marble
markers. Above him, the canopy of bare branches rattled together like ancient
bones.

As
he walked, the Colt .45 appeared in his hand. He didn’t remember drawing it,
but there it was, cold and heavy, as if placed there against his will by some
unseen force. It brushed against the gravestones as he made his way among the
dead while the wind and rain hissed and howled.

When
he reached Karen’s grave, he knelt in front of the marker and brushed the raindrops
from the inscription. The stone felt cool to the touch, but somehow comforting
at the same time. Here, more than anywhere else, he felt close to his wife.

“God,
Karen,” he whispered, “I miss you so much.” Emotion choked his throat and tears
christened the ground. But there was hope in his sorrow; he had come here to
say goodbye, to free himself from the chains of the past and find a way to love
again. For as he had stood in that hospital room and watched Larissa cling to
life, he had realized that life without love is not really life at all. At that
moment, he had known that he needed to come here.

He
looked at the .45. Rain dripped from the metal frame. Once he had thought the
gun was his salvation, but now he knew that it was nothing but a curse, an inanimate
yet heartless object binding him to a destiny of violence and loneliness. When
Karen died, he had amputated his emotions and replaced them with bullets and
blood. He made death his life, his fate, his god and allowed his soul to become
nothing more than a savage scar.

His
tears fell on the .45. “Karen,” he whispered through rain-lashed lips, “I can’t
do this anymore. I’ll never stop loving you, but I have to let go.” He knelt
down and used the dagger to dig a shallow hole in the ground, then ejected the
Colt’s magazine and emptied the cartridges into the palm of his hand.
“Goodbye,” he said softly, letting the bullets fall from his fingers.

The
cartridges tumbled through the rain and landed in the muddy hole where they lay
gleaming like the devil’s eyes. Kain imagined Karen in the grave below,
reaching up with gentle fingers to take the bullets, to take away his past so
that he would be free to start over again. So real was the vision, so
hauntingly lifelike, that it took his breath away and for one suspended moment,
he actually
believed
she had come back from the dead to take away his
pain. And in her resurrection, Kain found his.

He
dropped the gun into the hole as well. “Keep this for me,” he said. “I don’t
need it anymore.” He then etched something into Karen’s marble marker with the
dagger. When he was finished, the knife followed the .45 into the hole. He
covered them with the displaced dirt, then stood up and began walking back down
the hill.

After
a few steps, he turned back for one final look at Karen’s grave, one last
silent goodbye. At that moment, lightning scorched the sky, driving back the
shadows from the freshly-scarred tombstone, illuminating the words he had
carved there.

Salvation
is not found in guns or blades.

Salvation
is found in love.

He
smiled, then turned away and walked back to the truck with only the chaotic
symphony of the storm to keep him company, knowing that every step took him
closer to salvation.

CHAPTER 19

Kain
ditched the Ford Ranger and stole another truck—this time a blue Chevy
Silverado—from the long-term lot of a train station. He did not return to the
hospital right away. The place would be crawling with police and security
personnel, a uniform at every entrance. Besides, it had only been two hours
since he left; Larissa probably wasn’t even out of surgery yet. Unless she was
bagged and tagged on a slab in the morgue.

To
keep such thoughts at bay, he drove aimlessly, passing time, making random
turns over roads he had known since childhood. He passed farms that had been
built before he was born and would probably still be standing after he died. He
passed rolling pastures full of wet cows huddled together against the rain and corn
fields bent nearly flat by the wind. He passed the old red and white trailer that
had been home to the first girl he ever kissed. Everywhere he went, he passed
another landmark, another memory around every bend. He hadn’t lived around here
for over twenty years, but somehow it still felt like home. Maybe it always
would.

Around
noon, he pulled into the tiny hamlet of Adamsville, one of those
blink-and-you’ll-miss-it spots on the map, and stopped at a little country
store. The wind had let up, but the rain continued to come down in buckets and
he got soaked to the bone all over again as he ran inside to grab some food and
water. He then parked near a pair of gas pumps that looked like they had been
modern when horse-and-buggies were still in vogue. He took his time eating.

When
he was done, he dug out his cell phone. As rain drummed loudly on the roof, he
looked up a number, then dialed it. A cheerful female voice answered. “Thank
you for calling Glens Falls Hospital. How may I help you?”

“I
need to speak to Dr. Morrow.”

“One
moment.”

Kain
stared out the window and waited while Muzak polluted his ear. Off in the
distance, over toward the mountains, it looked like the storm was breaking up,
the sky growing lighter. After what seemed like a long time but probably
wasn’t, he heard a click, followed by, “Dr. Morrow speaking.”

And
just like that the moment was upon him. He was about to find out if Larissa was
dead or alive. He steeled himself for heartbreak, not sure what he would do if
Morrow informed him Larissa had not made it. Taking a deep breath, he plunged
ahead. “Dr. Morrow, you don’t know who I am, but I brought a woman in this
morning with a gunshot wound to her temple and I’m trying to find out—”

“Is
this Mr. Kain?”

The
interruption caused Kain to grip the phone a little tighter. “How do you know
my name?”

“You’re
pretty much all Larissa has talked about.”

“She’s
alive?” Kain could hear the relief in his own voice.

“Alive
and doing very well.
Extremely
well, I might say. She’s regained partial
vision.”

Kain
nearly dropped the phone. “Did I hear you right?”

“I’ll
spare you the technical jargon and medical mumbo jumbo, but essentially, the
bullet glanced off her skull and reversed some of the damage to her optic
centers. It’s the closest thing to a miracle I’ve ever witnessed. She’s not
twenty-twenty or anything, but she has definitely regained some significant
eyesight.”

Stunned,
Kain searched for words. All he came up with was, “Holy shit.”

Morrow
chuckled. “Well, I guess that sums it up as well as anything. By the way, she
keeps asking for you.”

“Tell
her I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

After
hanging up, Kain stared out the window and tried to wrap his mind around this
startling new information. Not only was Larissa alive, but she could see. Maybe
it was a sign that fate was finally done with its cruel, vicious tricks.

He
fired up the Silverado and headed toward the hospital. He pictured Larissa
lying under cool, clean sheets, waiting for him, and wanted to be with her so
bad it hurt.

Every
mile seemed like an eternity, an eternity filled with sheets of rain and slick,
dangerous roads. When he hit the Flats, he saw the red-blue pulse of police
lights up ahead about a half-mile. They had found Silas’ body. Kain imagined
him lying there, stretched out on the barbed wire like a scarecrow crucified, harsh
emergency lights strobing across his face as cops, coroners, and crime scene
technicians scurried about.

Kain
instinctively reached for his .45 and experienced a moment of panic when his
hand closed on empty air. He had never felt so vulnerable in his life and the
feeling sickened him. It suddenly seemed like there were police cars
everywhere, swarms of them, all waiting to surround him, drag him from the
truck, slap on the cuffs, and haul him away to some dark, dingy prison cell.

Kain
took his foot off the gas. Indecision wrenched at him.
Turn around!
some
part of him screamed.
Go back, get your guns, accept the familiar bleakness
of the past rather than risk the uncertain hope of the future. Better the
darkness you know than the light you don’t.

But
no. There was no turning back. He didn’t know what lay ahead, but he knew he
didn’t want to live without Larissa. Turning back now would be like turning his
back on her and that was something he vowed never to do again. So he silenced
the negative voice in his head, put his foot back on the gas, and continued
down the road. A young cop, soaked right down to the socks and looking pissed to
be out in this miserable weather, motioned him around all the emergency
vehicles and moments later the police—and his indecision—were behind him.

Twenty
minutes later he pulled into the hospital’s short-term parking lot. He found a
spot close to the main entrance and turned off the engine, but remained in the
truck. He mentally divided his surroundings into four quadrants and took his
time scanning each one, searching for any sign of cops.

The
rain had slackened but was still coming down, though not enough to really ruin
visibility. Kain settled back in his seat and surveyed the hospital entrance
for several minutes, carefully observing the human traffic, alert for anyone
that looked like a badge. But as the minutes dragged on and he saw nothing
resembling a cop, he began to relax.

He
leaned forward and looked up at the rows of windows that made up the face of
the hospital, wondering which room Larissa was in. He still felt shocked that
she could love him after all these years, all the things he had done, all the
blood he had spilled. Somehow none of that mattered to her. She had forgiven
him for sins he wasn’t sure he would ever fully forgive himself.

He
looked up at the gray sky. The clouds showed signs of breaking up, but the
light rain continued to fall. He scanned the area one more time but saw nothing
that raised his hackles, so he exited the truck, his boots splashing down in
about two inches of water. He hunched his shoulders to keep the rain from
slipping under his collar, then stepped out from between the row of parked
vehicles.

He
saw the gunman a half-second too late. One moment, nothing. The next, a shadowy
blur of movement between two cars. Kain barely registered the threat before the
bullet took him in the left shoulder, drilling clean through. The world spun
crazily as the sudden impact whipped him around and draped him over the hood of
a white sedan. As he slowly pushed himself back up, the pain smacked his
system, sharp and stinging one second, hot and throbbing the next. He could see
his blood spattered across the car.

Grimacing,
he turned to see the stranger who had shot him aiming a Heckler & Koch MP-5
submachine gun at him. A sound suppressor and laser sighting system adorned the
weapon. Kain glanced down and saw a small red dot glowing on the center of his
chest. He looked back up, locking his gaze on the gunman. The hole in his
shoulder felt like somebody had run him through with a red-hot poker. “Who are
you?” he asked.

The
man held the MP-5 with the confident ease of a hunter who knows he has his
target dead to rights. “It will all be explained in a minute,” he said. “For
now, just stand there and bleed.”

Kain
complied. Wasn’t like he had any other options. He was wounded, pinned down,
and weaponless. Those were the logistics of the situation. All he could do was see
how things played out. He could feel blood running down his body from the entry
and exit holes in his shoulder, streams of heat that were a sharp contrast to
the cold rain.

A
long black car, all sleek surfaces, polished gleam, and darkened windows, rounded
the corner like a living thing, tires parting the puddles. Kain watched it
glide forward like a shark and then come to a stop close enough for him to see
his reflection in the tinted glass. The gunner across the way edged to his
right, keeping the red dot firmly planted on Kain’s sternum. Kain glanced at
him, but quickly returned his gaze to the car. Right now, for some reason, the
car seemed even more menacing than the gunman. He sensed rather than saw
movement behind those blackened windows and a chill that had nothing to do with
the rain crept through him. Tension punched his guts with a cold, bony fist. He
didn’t like this. Not one bit.

The
doors on the far side of the car swung open with a slow deliberateness that
seemed straight out of a Hong Kong action movie. Four gunners emerged, all
sporting chiseled features and sound-suppressed, laser-equipped MP-5 submachine
guns. Three more red dots peppered his chest, crimson orbs promising death and
destruction if he so much as twitched. The other gunman came around to the
passenger side, opened the door, backed away a yard or so, and then leveled his
weapon at Kain as well. Kain didn’t need to look down to know there was now a
fifth red dot on his chest.

A
moment later, Rene Perelli stepped out of the car.

She
was a few inches taller than Kain remembered. But that probably had something
to do with the stiletto heels she was wearing. They made a sharp clicking sound
when they hit the pavement. But her height was not the only thing different
about her, Kain noted. When he had seen her earlier this week, right before
putting a bullet into Peter Perelli, she had been a sobbing, pleading, weeping
wreck. But now, only days after burying her husband, Rene Perelli practically
oozed confidence. It oozed from the striking white dress and matching
wide-brimmed hat she wore. It oozed from the demeanor of her stance, a queen
surveying her subjects. But more than anything else, confidence oozed from her
eyes, and those eyes stared at Kain with unbridled hatred.

Kain
met those eyes without flinching. Rain ran off the brim of her hat like a veil
of tears as they stared at each other. He could feel her hate, a black, palpable
presence bridging the gap between them, driving the coldness even deeper into
his bones. He tried not to think about Larissa, but it was impossible. With one
bullet hole in him already and five guns pointed at his chest, he had to face
the fact that he might not walk away from this one, might not get a chance to
see her again. The thought was almost more than he could stand. But he put on
his best poker face and hid his emotions behind a stony mask.

Rene
Perelli gave him a big smile, but it lacked any trace of warmth and looked more
like the curved edge of a scimitar. “Hello, Kain,” she said. “I’ve been looking
forward to meeting you again.”

Her
beauty still had the power to stun, Kain saw, but now it bore a harder,
tougher, more primal edge. Before, her beauty had been that of a frail,
vulnerable dove. Now it was the beauty of a hunting wolf—raw, relentless,
unforgiving. Looking at her, Kain found no reason to be optimistic about his
hopes of survival. But he couldn’t give up. Larissa was waiting for him.

“What’s
wrong, Kain? Nothing to say?” Rene’s voice sounded light, amused, toying. She
was a tigress playing with her prey.

“I’ll
say anything you want if you’ll tell your boys to point those guns somewhere
else.”

Rene
laughed, but like everything else about her, the laugh had a dark edge. “I’m
sorry,” she said, “but I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“Never
hurts to ask.” Kain gauged the distance between himself and Rene. If he could
grab her before the goons opened up with the guns, this would be a whole new
ballgame. But no, it was too far. He’d be riddled by a dozen slugs before he
even got close. Desperation began to prowl the edges of his mind. “So what’s
this about?”

Rene’s
eyes flashed dangerously. “Don’t be coy, Kain. You know full well what this is
about.” She reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a white rose
with blood-stained petals. “Recognize it? You should. It’s the rose you dropped
on my husband’s body after you killed him.” Her tone was cool as ice, but laced
with an undercurrent of heat. “After you left, I crawled across the floor to
Peter and picked up this rose and swore I would lay it on your dead body.”

Kain
felt hypnotized by the rose. He stared at the black, crusted blood on the
once-pure petals and felt shame knife through him. He thought of a thousand
things to say to Rene, but the words would only be so much wasted breath. So in
the end, all he said was, “If I could take it all back, I would, but I can’t.”