“So you have no remorse? None at all?”
McMullen faltered with a hitch in his step. “I did in time,” he finally said. “And I found my salvation in a bottle. I still do.”
“Alcohol is no substitute for God.”
“It is for me.” He stopped once again, looking at the priest. “It got to the point when I saw the faces of those I killed, the terror in their eyes, the sobs of their pleading; it ate away at me like cancer. Mind you now that I always liked my booze, but it came to a point when becoming addled with alcohol washed away the images, made it OK for me to get buy.” He began walking. “And that’s why nobody wants to give a lush like me a job or an opportunity. Nobody wants to hire somebody who can’t make it through the day without imbibing. I’m simply trading the demon of alcohol for the demon of my conscience.”
The parish sat on the corner of Bridger and Fourth. Yards away an alley separated the church from a defunct wedding chapel.
“The alleyway will take us to the back door,” said the priest.
“How much insight do you want?”
The clergyman remained silent as they made their way to the rear of the parish, which was gated.
“I’m afraid I don’t have a key,” said the priest.
“Then I guess we’re done.”
“Actually, we’re not,” he said. From a back pocket the clergyman pulled out a silver cylinder and held it up in display. “A man who truly feels repentance for the things he’s done gives him the right for redemption.”
The pick shot upward and outward.
“What are you doing?”
The priest moved closer. “I’m going to give you the opportunity to meet God and to ask Him for salvation.”
“Are you nuts? You’re a priest!”
“Actually, I’m not.”
And as promised, he gave McMullen the opportunity to ask God for the chance to enter His Kingdom of Light and Loving Spirits.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Pope Pius stood before the mirror in the bathroom. His face was pale and pasty like the soft, white underbelly of a fish. The lines along his forehead, the countless intertwining creases along his face appeared longer, darker, deeper, a scrimshaw account of the burdens he carried over the past several years. In the whites of his eyes laces of red stitching interlaced throughout, giving them that thick, rheumy look of fatigue.
After a cursory examination of his own depleting reflection, the pontiff turned the handle of the faucet and watched water pour from the mouth of a polished-brass spigot in the shape of a large-scaled fish, and into the basin. After spooning cool water onto his face with cupped hands, and then patting himself dry with a towel, Pope Pius made his way back to his chamber in a gait that was disturbingly labored, his steps short, shuffling, the movement of a geisha girl.
Sitting before the papal desk with a manila envelope in his hand sat Cardinal Bonasero Vessucci, who waited patiently.
The pope entered wearing his everyday dress which included the full-buttoned cassock of the floor-length sottana; a sash; the hooded cape of his mozzetta; red slippers, the pantofole; and the skullcap of his zucchetto. However, the garments seemed to weigh the man down, the fabric hanging loosely as if the material was too large for his frame.
“Please, forgive me, Bonasero. The amount of work I’ve been putting in is beginning to wear on me.” He positioned himself over the seat and let his legs buckle, the pontiff falling into the cushion of soft Corinthian leather. He pointed to the envelope in the cardinal’s hands. “Is that from the SIV?”
Vessucci nodded and opened the envelope. Inside were 8x10 photos of a crime scene in Las Vegas. He placed the photos in front of the pontiff.
What the pope was seeing was a spread-out gallery of Ian McMullen in the pose of death. There were several photos taken from different angles of the man laying prone on the pavement with his arms aside — but not quite in mock crucifixion — with the material of his overcoat ripped from the tail to the collar and parted, revealing the man’s naked back. The letter ‘A’ was carved into his flesh.
“Ian McMullen,” said the cardinal. “He’s the last man in Kimball’s unit positioned in the top row of the photo. He is the letter ‘A.’”
The pope sighed, examining the photo with earnest study. From left to right the red circles surrounding the faces of Kimball’s old unit were filled in with the letters I-S-C and now the letter A, leading to the reasonable hypothesis that the assassin would now begin the final leg of his journey by killing those on the bottom row, beginning with a Native American and ending up with Kimball.
“That’s four down,” the cardinal said dourly, “with four to go.”
The pope tented his fingers and bounced them nervously against his chin. “I’m terribly worried about Kimball,” he said. “Has the SIV found any of the knights on holy sabbatical?”
“Not yet, Your Holiness. But they’re using every possible means to find them.”
“I would feel much more comfortable, Bonasero, knowing that he had the support of the Vatican Knights, rather than the backing of his old unit.”
“We could always call in Leviticus or Isaiah.”
The pope nodded. “They’re committed to the salvation of innocent people elsewhere. To call them back when the citizenry of the Church needs us most would be a grievous sin not only on my part, but also on the part of the Church. No, Bonasero. As much as I would like to, I can’t take them away from their rightful duty as Vatican Knights… I’m afraid Kimball’s on his own for now.”
The pope grabbed the photos and spread them out on the desktop before him: Walker, I; Grenier, S; Arruti, C: McMullen, A.
“I know what he’s spelling,” said the cardinal.
The pope nodded. “So do I.” He traced his finger over the photos. “I-S-C-A,” he said, and then fell back into his seat. “He writes of the one who betrayed Jesus for thirty pieces of silver.”
“Judas Iscariot.”
“Judas Iscariot,” he confirmed.
“But why?”
Pius shrugged. “Does a mad man ever need a reason?”
“Or perhaps mad men. We have no idea how many are involved in this. All we know is that whoever did this is probably in Las Vegas. He, or they, may even be waiting on Kimball.”
“When does he land?”
“Within the hour,” he answered. “But I’ve got somebody waiting for him the moment he arrives to apprise him of the situation.”
“Let’s just pray that Kimball doesn’t walk into anything he’s not prepared for.”
“Kimball’s elite. It’s in his blood to be attentive.”
“He’s also alone.” The moment the pope gained his feet he wobbled in his stance and fell forward, his world a dizzying spiral as he used the desk as a crutch to hold him upright.
Cardinal Vessucci reacted quickly, aiding the pontiff back into his seat, the pontiff’s eyes seemingly detached, distant and lost. “Your Holiness.”
The pontiff reached out with a hand that appeared as feeble as a bird and laid it upon the cardinal’s forearm. His breath was labored, as if he had just committed himself to a long sprint. “I’m fine, Bonasero. Really. I just got up too quickly, that’s all.”
And then Pius went into a coughing jag, his lungs wet with a phlegm-like rattle, his face crimson, eyes bulging and teary as he coughed into the sleeve of his white sottana. When the coughing subsided he could only stare at the sleeve blankly. It was marked with the splashes of blood.
Cardinal Vessucci took a disjointed step forward. “My dear Jesus,” he said. “That’s not good.”