The Descent

'But  with  all  his  same  subconscious  patterns,'  said  Parsifal.  'Remember?  We  talked about  that.  You  can't  change  your  fundamental  nature.  It's  like  a  fingerprint.  He  can try  to  alter  his  behavior,  but  five  thousand  years  of  human  evidence  has  made  him identifiable.  If  not  to  us,  then  to  the  next  Beowulf  gang,  or  the  next.  No  evidence,  no discovery.  He becomes the invisible man. Whatever  the hell he is.'

'Let him rampage,' de l'Orme said. He was speaking as much to Parsifal's agitation as about  their  hadal  prey.  'By  the  time  he  finishes  his  vandalism,  we'll  know  him  better than he knows himself. We're close.'

He  listened  to  Parsifal's  hard  breathing  on  the  other  end.  The  astronaut  muttered inaudibly.  De  l'Orme   could  hear   wind  lashing   the   telephone   booth.   Close   by,   a sixteen-wheel  truck  blatted  down  through  lower  gears.  He  pictured  Parsifal  at  some forlorn pit stop along an interstate.

'Go home,' de l'Orme counseled.

'Whose side are you on? That's  what I really  called about. Whose side are you on?'

'Whose side am I on?'

'That's  what  this  whole  thing  is  about,  isn't  it?'  Parsifal's  voice  trailed  off.  The  wind invaded. He sounded like a man losing mind and body to the storm.

'Your wife has to be wondering where  you are.'

'And have  her end up like Mustafah? We've said goodbye. She'll  never  see  me  again. It's  for her own good.'

There  was  a  bump,  and  then  scratching  at  de  l'Orme's  window.  He  drew  back  into his  presumption  of  darkness,  put  his  spine  against  the  corduroy  sofa.  He  listened. Claws  raked  at  the  glass.  And  there,  he  tracked  it,  the  beat  of  wings.  A  bird.  Or  an angel. Lost among the skyscrapers.

'What about Mustafah?'

'You have  to know.'

'I don't.'

'He  was  found  last  Friday,  in  Istanbul.  What  was  left  of  him  was  floating  in  the underground reservoir  at Yerebatan  Sarayi. You really  don't  know?  He  was  killed  the same day  a  bomb  was  found  in  the  Hagia  Sofia.  We're  part  of  the  evidence,  don't  you see?'

With  great,  concentrated  precision,  de  l'Orme  laid  his  glasses  on  the  side  table.  He felt dizzy.  He  wanted  to  resist,  to  challenge  Parsifal,  to  make  him  retract  this  terrible news.

'There's  only one person who can be doing this,' said Parsifal.  'You  know  it  as  well  as

I do.'

There  was a minute  of  relative  silence,  neither  man  speaking.  The  phone  filled  with blizzard  gales   and  the   beep-beep   of  snowplows  setting   off  to  battle   the   drifted highways. Then Parsifal spoke again. 'I know how close you two were.'  His  lucidity,  his compassion, cemented the revelation.

'Yes,' de l'Orme said.

It  was the  worst  falseness  he  could  imagine.  The  man's  obsession  had  guided  them. And  now  he  had  disinherited  them,  body  and  spirit.  No,  that  was  wrong,  for  they'd never  been  included  in  his  inheritance  to  begin  with.  From  the  start,  he  had  merely exploited them. They  had been like livestock to him, to be ridden to death.

'You must get away  from him,' said Parsifal.

But de l'Orme's thoughts were  on the  traitor.  He  tried  to  configure  the  thousands  of deceptions   that   had   been   perpetrated   on   them.   A   king's   audacity!   Almost   in admiration, he whispered the name.

'Louder,' said Parsifal. 'I can't hear you over  the wind.'

'Thomas,' de l'Orme said again. What magnificent courage!  What  ruthless  deception! It  was dizzying, the  depths  of  his  plotting.  What  had  he  been  after  then?  Who  was  he really?  And why  commission a posse to hunt himself down?

'Then you've  heard,' shouted Parsifal. His blizzard was getting worse.

'They've  found him?'

'Yes.'

De l'Orme was astounded. 'But that means we've  won.'

'Have you lost your  mind?' said Parsifal.

'Have  you  lost  yours?  Why  are  you  running?  They've  caught  him.  Now  we  can interview  him directly. We must go to him immediately. Give  me the details, man.'

'Caught him? Thomas?'

De  l'Orme  heard  Parsifal's  confusion,  and  he  felt  equally  dumbfounded.  Even  after so many months spent treating the hadal as a  common  man,  Satan's  mortality  did  not come naturally. How  could  one catch  Satan?  Yet  here  it  was.  They  had  accomplished the impossible. They  had transcended myth.

'Where is he? What have  they  done with him?'

'Thomas, you mean?'

'Yes, Thomas.'

'But Thomas is dead.'

'Thomas?'

'I thought you said you knew.'

'No,' groaned de l'Orme.

'I'm sorry.  He was a great  friend to us all.'

De l'Orme digested the consequences, but still he didn't understand.

'They  killed him?'

'They?'  shouted the astronaut. Was Parsifal not hearing him, or were  they  stumbling on each other's meaning?

'Satan,'  enunciated  de  l'Orme.  His  thoughts  raced.  They'd  killed  the  hadal  Caesar? Didn't the fools know Satan's value?  In his mind's eye,  de  l'Orme  saw  some  frightened young soldier with a high school education emptying his rifle clip into the shadows, and Thomas tumbling from the darkness  into the light, dead.

But still de l'Orme did not understand.

'Yes,  Satan,'  said  Parsifal.  His  voice  was  growing  indistinguishable  from  the  noise  of his tempest.  'You do understand. My  same conclusion. Mustafah. Now Thomas.  Satan. Satan killed them.'

De l'Orme frowned. 'You said they  found him, though. Satan.'

'No. Thomas,' clarified Parsifal. 'They  found Thomas. A Bedouin  goatherder  came  on him this afternoon. He was  lying  among  the  rocks  near  St.  Catherine's  monastery.  He had  fallen  –  or  been  pushed  –  from  one  of  the  cliffs  on  Mount  Sinai.  It's  obvious  who killed  him.  Satan  did.  He's  hunting  us  down,  one  by  one.  He  knows  our  patterns.  Our daily  lives.  Our  hiding  places.  While  we  were  profiling  him,  the  bastard  was  profiling us.'

At  last  de  l'Orme  understood  what  Parsifal  was  telling  him.  Thomas  was  not  the deceiver.  It  was someone even  closer to him.

'Are you still there?'  asked Parsifal.

De l'Orme cleared his throat. 'What have  they  done with Thomas's body?' he asked.

'Whatever   desert   monks  do  to  their   dead.  Probably   not  much  in   the   way   of preservation.  They  want to get him into the ground as soon as possible. He'll be buried on Wednesday. There  at the monastery.' He paused. 'You're not going, are you?'

So  much  to  plan.  So  little,  really.  De  l'Orme  knew  exactly  what  needed  to  happen next.

'It's your  head,' said Parsifal.

De l'Orme set  the phone back in its cradle.

Savannah, Georgia

She woke in her bed to  ancient  dreams,  that  she  was  young  again  and  beaux  pursued her.  The  many  became  few.  The  few  became  one.  In  her  dreams  she  was  alone,  like now,  but  alone  differently,  an  ache  in  men's  hearts,  a  memory  that  would  never  end. And  this  one  man  would  never  stop  searching  for  her,  even  if  she  was  lost  in  herself, even  if she grew  old.