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.
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.