“Las Vegas?”
The taller of the two Jesuits answered him with a sad wilt as he spoke. “There’s someone there who needs your help, Isaiah — a friend who may be losing his way.”
“And who would that be?”
“Kimball,” said the other. “We’re talking about Kimball Hayden.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
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 alclass="underline" 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.”