Pandora's Ark (22 page)

He sat there with his eyes cast forward.

. . .
I kill people . . .

. . . It’s what I do . . .

. . . It’s what I’m good at
. . .

The aluminum case lay beside his chair, ultimately drawing
his eye.

Despite what he had come to believe of himself, he could
not deny the goodness the uniform provided him either. He had saved lives and
felt good about it. He could remember the numerous times when the bony hands of
those he had saved reached out and grabbed his hand, only to speak by drawing it
close and kissing the backside with eternal gratefulness. And then in summation
they would draw the backside of his hand to their cheek and look up at him
wallow-eyed, the message clear:
You saved my life. And by doing so, you have
saved the lives of future generations. My children will be good people. As will
their children.

. . . But I kill people . . .

. . . It’s what I do . . .

. . . It’s what I’m good at
. . .

He closed his eyes.

Then in a voice not his own:
You saved my life. And by
doing so, you have saved the lives of future generations. My children will be
good people. As will their children.

He opened his eyes and looked at the suitcase once again,
noting its dull silver coat. In a fluid motion he exited from the chair, got on
bended knees, and lowered the case so that it sat flat against the floor. For a
long moment he stared at it, his mind growing blank, unsure of his next move
until his hand finally reached out and undid the clasps, the clicks sounding louder
than they should have, he thought.

Tipping back the lid he saw the shirt, the Roman Catholic
collar, the insignia, all driving the memories harder, stronger, recalling the
faces of those he had saved. Men. Women. Children. Faces by the hundreds shot
through his mind like the files of a Rolodex turning over with blinding speed, revealing
every single card with every card a face.

So many lives.

He reached down and grabbed the shirt, tracing the insignia
of the Vatican Knights with the back of his thumb.

He pressed the shirt close to him, could smell the
indescribable cleanliness to it, and closed his eyes.

After a moment he then reached into the case and grabbed
the beret, noting the same emblem on the hat and smiled, feeling the pride of
serving.

Gingerly laying the shirt in the suitcase as if he was
applying homage to the fabric, Kimball went to the bathroom and fixed the beret
on his head, turning his head from left to right to appraise his appearance
beneath the dim cast of light over the bathroom mirror.

After a minute, perhaps two, he returned to his seat and
sat there still wearing the beret.

He sat idle for several more hours as his mind vacillated
between his own individuality regarding his own good and evil, wondering if he
still had hope to see the light of salvation. Or more importantly, he wondered
if the God of the Vatican was willing to proffer him the spark of a new
beginning.

He sat there.

And he wondered.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Vatican City

Inside
the papal chamber Pope Pius XIV sat at his desk while Leviticus stood to the
side wearing the uniform of Vatican Security rather than that of a Vatican Knight. It was all a ruse, however, to keep Cardinal Angullo from making further
inquiries as to the alien dress of a Vatican Knight —the beret, the military
attire, the insignia. He did not want Leviticus to become the catalyst of
Angullo’s inquisitive nature, no doubt pressing from the cardinal a curious
investigation into Leviticus’ wear, as to who he represented under the Vatican banner.

When Cardinal Angullo entered the chamber he did so with
humility. He was slightly bent at the waist, giving his lean figure a slight
curvature. Although his eyes were cast to the floor, they were there for only a
short moment before shifting his gaze to Leviticus, then back to Pope Pius.
“You requested my presence, Your Holiness?”

“Please,” he said pointing to the chair before him, “have a
seat.”

Angullo lifted the hem of his garment and sat down, his
eyes settling once more on the large man who stood sentinel beyond the pope
with calculating appraisal. “You have security?” he asked. “Is there a problem,
Your Holiness?”

Bonasero Vessucci ignored him by veering off into a
tangent. “I’ve asked you here for a reason,” he told him.

“That’s quite obvious.”

“Giuseppe, I’m going to make this quite clear,” he said.
“You’re being reassigned.”

Cardinal Angullo smiled humorlessly. “I figured as much,”
he said. “I assume it’s in retaliation for being assigned your position when
Pope Gregory took the papal throne?”

“Retaliation? No.”

“Then why? I believe my actions as second-in-command have
spoken for themselves over the past several months, yes?”

“Your action, Giuseppe, as to the way you achieve your
means to attain personal heights rather than through the divine guidance of God,
disturbs me greatly. It’s all right to aspire. But it’s not all right to aspire
against the principles of God, which is self over your fellow man.”

Angullo’s smile widened with sarcasm. “Now because you sit
upon the papal throne, it somehow gives you the insight to read what is in the
hearts and minds of men?”

“Hardly. I have watched your slow decline over years, Giuseppe.
I sadly watched a man who was a giant in the College lose himself to his
growing ambitions. I watched you slowly gravitate away from the true nature of
God.”

“I see,” he said simply. “But your appraisal, Your
Holiness, is completely without merit. I can guarantee that there are men
within the College who see me with the same subjective eye; that I am a just
man who keeps God close to his heart.” He fell back into his seat. “No, no,” he
said, waving his hand in dismissal. “There is no true justification other than
retaliation. And we both know it.”

“Believe what you will,” he returned. “But my intentions
are whole when I say that I’m trying to save you.”

“Save me? And how will you do that? Will you send me to Boston to fill the vacancy you left behind?”

“You will be sent to a venue that I believe will do you
good,” he stated firmly. “I need you to rediscover the man who was once essential
to this Church. I need you to find yourself, Giuseppe. And by this, I will send
you somewhere where you can best serve man
and
yourself.”

“I see.” He looked at Leviticus glaringly, but the large
man held his gaze with an unblinking stare. “Were you afraid, Your Holiness,
that I would come to some kind of violent means by this news, given your
suspicion of me regarding the good Pope Gregory? Is that why you’ve called upon
security?”

Bonasero did not want to provide the man with anything
further. He simply cast off the cardinal’s question as something unremarkable and
undeserving of a merited response. Instead, he deflected his question with
direction. “Within a few days’ time you will be notified of my decision,” he
said evenly. “Until then you will continue in the capacity of secretary of
state until I find a suitable replacement.”

Cardinal Angullo gazed at the man for a long and unabashed
moment before laboring to his feet. “As you wish, Your Holiness.”

When Bonasero reached his hand out, Cardinal Angullo
accepted it and brought the pope’s hand to his lips, kissing the Fisherman’s
Ring. 

When everything was said and done, Cardinal Angullo left
the papal chamber closing the door behind him.

As the bolt snickered into place, only then did the pope drop
his shoulders to ease the tension. “He’s completely lost,” he whispered to
himself.

Leviticus took the seat the cardinal just vacated. It was
still warm. “So what happens now?”

Bonasero Vessucci continued to stare at the door, his eyes
fixed. “We wait,” he said. “Should the good cardinal feel threatened, then he
may act accordingly to his nature. If he feels that the throne is well out of
his reach, then I believe he will act in a manner of desperation.”

“You truly believe he had something to do with Gregory’s
death?”

“I can’t prove it,” he answered. “But Cardinal Angullo is
not the same man. I truly believe he positioned himself to usurp the throne
after he engineered my expulsion from Vatican City. But he didn’t count—or
perhaps didn’t believe—on my rebounding back to the good graces of the College.
I was his only true threat in the
Preferiti
.”

“So now you think he plans to retaliate?”

“I don’t know. But that’s why I need you here, Leviticus. I
need your protection.”

“You’ll be safe, Bonasero. You have my word.”

“I know that. But there are other ways to get to me,” he
said. “Poisons, ways that only a lost mind filled with dark ambitions could
think of.”

“Then we’ll have the Knights watch the staff and kitchen
crew, we’ll put eyes everywhere.”

“The value of the Vatican Knights is abroad,” he reminded
him, “to protect the interests of the Church and the citizenry of its people,
not security. We have people for that.”

“Then what?”

“I want you to shadow the good cardinal,” he told him. “I
want you to watch his every move. If Cardinal Angullo is feeling the
insecurities of his position, he may likely falter in his maneuverings knowing
that time is limited and will need to act quickly. But with that being said, he
will also be very careful not to draw suspicion with the death of one pope
arriving so quickly after the death of another. After all, John Paul I was in
office for one month until his untimely death with no questions asked. My death
would only serve under the same scenario.”

“Understood.”

Pope Pius faced the Vatican Knight with obvious sadness lining
his hanging features. “Leviticus, I need you by my side until the good cardinal
is reassigned to a place where the Vatican is well beyond his tentacle reach.”  

 “There’s no need to worry, Bonasero.”

But the pontiff did worry.

Cardinal Angullo was a man of incredible cunning and
calculation and not to be underestimated. And with that thought on his mind,
Pope Pius the Fourteenth looked out beyond the open doors leading to the
balcony and noted the dark clouds of a tempest moving quickly towards the Vatican.

#

Las
Vegas

The
morning sun had crested the horizon, shining a light upon the smog that was already
beginning to settle close to the valley floor. 

Isaiah stood in front of Kimball’s apartment wearing plain
clothes, so as not to draw attention to himself by wearing the incongruous wear
of the clerical attire mixed with military garb. Last night was one thing. It
was dark and late. But now, the day was young and bright.

He stood there, waiting. But for what, he didn’t know. What
he did know was that he was stunned by Kimball’s decision to reject the very
uniform he once revered. More so, he was taken aback by the man’s indifferent
attitude.

Taking the steps slowly to the front door, and then noting
that the door had faded and chipped from the constant bombardment of a hot sun,
he wrapped his knuckles lightly on the panel.

“Come in.”

Isaiah opened the door. The smell of stale air and musk
greeted him, as well as a wave of intense heat.

Kimball sat in the same chair that Isaiah left him in the
night before. Only this time the man was wearing his clerical shirt, military
pants, boots and beret. Most striking was the whiteness of the Roman Catholic
collar, which shone brilliantly in contrast against his shirt.

Kimball did not smile, did not betray an emotion or offer
words of greeting. He simply sat there, his eyes on Isaiah.

Isaiah closed the door behind him. The room was stifling,
dry, and in desperate need to be aired out.

“It looks good on you,” he finally told him, taking a seat
opposite Kimball. “Really good.”

Kimball sighed. “When I came here,” he started, “I had a
dream. I was going to make some quick cash and buy me a little place and start
my own business, to be independent. Then I got involved with cage fighting.” He
grazed his fingertips over the bump above his eye. “As you can probably see.”
He lowered his hand and set it on the armrest. “The money was coming in fast—lots
of it. And my dreams a little more within reach. I was gonna take that money,
get out of the business, and start over. Just get rid of the man that used to
be Kimball Hayden and become someone else and forget my past. I told myself to
become someone new, someone good. And when I made enough, then I was going to
run and leave everyone behind without saying good-bye. I was just gonna go.”

“And now?”

Kimball hesitated before answering. “Then I realized that
no matter what, all the money in the world isn’t going to matter. I am what I
am and that’s not going to change. Money isn’t the panacea to change the man I
truly am.” He looked at Isaiah squarely in the eyes. “And then I remembered
what you said about the uniform, looked at it, and remembered things that I had
forgotten. I remembered my humanity. The lives I had saved.” His gaze never
departed. “I also remembered the darkness of my life—the times I murdered
people, sometimes good people, at the colossal whims of corrupt government
officials who told me that what I was doing I was doing for the good of the
government entity, when the truth was that I was only serving their reprehensible
needs to promote black agendas. I became their machine who enjoyed doing what I
did. I enjoyed it, Isaiah. I enjoyed killing those without impunity,
as well as holding the power to decide
whether or not they lived or died by my hand
.
”

“You haven’t been that way for a while, Kimball.”

Kimball removed the beret and stared at it. “Deep down I
wonder,” he told him flatly. “So I did a little soul searching. And with it I
found the faces of those I had saved. I remembered them taking my hand in
gratitude and kissing it. I remembered the faces of the children, the
incredible fears they held in their eyes and the subsequent smiles of relief
when I got them to safety. And then I told myself that I enjoyed that more than
killing without impunity.” He placed the beret back on his head and formed it
to specs. “Last night,” he began, “after you left, I took into consideration
what you said—about thinking it over.”

“And?”

Kimball smiled, but lightly. “It’s time to go home,” he
said. “It’s time to go back home.”

“It’s where you belong,” said Isaiah. “The Vatican Knights would not be the Vatican Knights without its leader. You know that.”

Kimball took in a long breath of stale air, looked around
the apartment one last time, and realized that he was not going to miss this
place or Las Vegas at all.

“There’s one last thing I have to do,” he told him. “Just
one.” He turned toward Isaiah, a faint smile still showing. “Once done, then we
can go home.”

#

There
was this
little church on Casino Center Drive right next to the Court House and CCDC, the Clark County Detention Center. It was a building made of cinderblocks with a small bell tower and token
religious statues standing sentinel by the front door. When Kimball tried the
door it was locked, so he went around the back, which was an alleyway, and
stood before the gate leading into the garden area. Standing by clumps of
brightly lit shrubbery stood a priest and a nun, conversing.

“Excuse me!”

When the priest and the nun turned, Kimball beckoned them
forward. Only the priest answered the call and walked toward the gate. “Can I
help you?”

Kimball was not wearing the uniform of a Vatican Knight,
but plain clothes. “I was hoping to get into the church,” he told him.

“I’m afraid the church is closed. But if you come back this
evening between six and seven, that is when we open for confessional.”