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.”
“I’ve nothing to confess, Father. God knows what I did.”
“I see.”
“I’ve come for another matter. Perhaps you can help me out?”
“I can try.”
Kimball removed a wad of hundred dollar bills from his shirt pocket, the money earned from his fights, the money he was setting aside toward the pursuit of his dreams, and forwarded the money through the bars of the gate. “It’s for the poor,” he told him.
The priest took the money, his mouth slowly falling into a perfect O.
“There’s over six thousand dollars there,” Kimball told him. “Put it to good use.”
Kimball turned and began to walk away.
“Wait!”
Kimball halted and turned to face the priest, but didn’t say a word.
It was obvious the clergyman was stunned. “Are you sure? This is a lot of money.”
Kimball was absolutely positive and gave a nod to that affect. “Put to good use, Father. There are people who need it more than I do,” he said.
Without saying another word Kimball was gone, surrendering his dream for the pursuit of another: His salvation.
That night they took an immediate departure from Terminal Two at McCarran Airport. Kimball took the window seat, wanting to see the lights of Las Vegas pass beneath him for the last time. He didn't appear apprehensive or excited, he just remained impassively quiet. Nor did Isaiah do anything to change Kimball’s current state or try to curb his lack of enthusiasm. Instead, Isaiah let the man sit alone with his thoughts, while he took the aisle seat and read the current aeronautical magazine.
As the plane taxied and took off, the dazzling lights of Las Vegas were in full display, the Strip no doubt capable of rivaling the lights of Paris.
As the plane banked, Kimball realized that he held no regrets for surrendering the money to the church. Although ill gotten, it would certainly do a lot of good in the right hands.
Kimball was at peace.
When the plane began its long journey eastbound, he settled back and looked to the overhead bin above him.
Inside the bin was the aluminum suitcase. And inside the suitcase was his only possession, the only thing of importance, and that was the uniform of a Vatican Knight.
Kimball then closed his eyes and settled back for the long flight.
He was at rest.
And he was at peace.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE