“Where is he, Mr. Engle?”
I screamed into Julian’s smug and wicked face. “I don’t know!”
Another nod to Boris, another round of pain for me, but this time digging under the other ear.
By the time the former Spetznaz finished, I had given up being brave and shrieked my agony to the uncaring world until my throat shut down. Head throbbing and body slick with sweat, I sobbed like a child while the zip tie holding my wrists together behind my back dug into my skin, tearing it, covering my hands in blood.
“Where is my son, Mr. Engle? Where is the Grail?”
I did my best not to start in surprise. The Grail? I had no clue where it could be. Last thing I remembered was facing Annabeth empty handed. Either the Grail had fallen or I’d set it down near the altar. Either way, it could protect itself. By the time I was airborne and on my way to New York, it had probably landed in the hands of some old lady who was using it as a paperweight. “Sorry, Julian, but I’ll have to stick to ‘I don’t know’ on both questions.” I licked my lips, tasting the fear-sweat coating my face.
Julian quietly spoke into my ear. “I know you know all about us, Mr. Engle. I’ve read that silly memoir of Olivier’s that you kept in that coat.” He laughed at my startled look. “Oh yes, Mr. Engle, I have read it and found it rather droll. There’s nothing in there that can aid you, but at least you are aware of the kind of man I am and what I am capable of. I let you keep it so you know what you are up against in the hopes that you will see reason.
“My … employer knows you destroyed the Silver, but that does not matter much now as we have other sources of power. Yes, you and my errant son have inconvenienced us somewhat, but we are powerful and you are not. So ponder that for a moment and then tell me where my son is hiding. Believe me, the rewards for aiding the Family are … vast.” The last was breathed with such amusement that I knew I’d never live to see such rewards should I betray my Morgan.
This wasn’t going to end well. I cast an eye at Boris, the perfect sociopath, and then at Julian, the perfect … well, I’d rather not swear, but you can fill in the blanks. They could torture me for months and I couldn’t tell them anything. Heck, I wouldn’t tell if I could. Morgan was a friend and damn near the only person I considered family.
“You know, Julian,” I rasped, smiling a crooked smile. “This is going to be a long day.”
Oh yeah. It was a very long day, indeed.
I was tortured for hours, maybe days, I don’t know because my brain had gone on overload the first few minutes after my show of defiance. Boris went at me without once breaking the skin and I had to give the big man credit, I felt more pain than I thought possible and still live. Arm locks, fingers jabbed at my throat, nerve centers in feet and arms pinched, poked and punched. Twice he dislocated my shoulders and twice the pain of the ball joints popping back into their sockets hurt more than the dislocating.
Either Julian finally grew bored with my screams, or he finally believed my protests. I was carried to small room that on second glance was actually a large walk-in closet and dumped on a plain air mattress. At that point I considered consciousness superfluous and passed out.
When I woke, there was no pain, no bruising, just a quiet lassitude and a feeling that something was amiss. Well, more amiss than usual, that is. Someone had been kind enough to place a tray of food by the bed. Cold cuts, bread, cheese, strawberries a bit past their prime, and bottled water. Wasting no time, I dove in and finished the whole spread-including the water-in less than five minutes.
A Healing, I mused. Must have been. It explained why my muscles weren’t screaming bloody murder and why I felt pretty good.
With a sigh and a groan I knelt next to the bed and clasped my hands in front of me in a pose of supplication. Words tumbled from my lips with comforting familiarity: “Our Father, who art in heaven…”
Once done I felt much better, renewed. It had been a while since I had prayed and the lack had made me feel … itchy. One of my younger parishioners once asked, “Does God really listen to our prayers? And if so, why doesn’t he answer them?” I believe he does. I believe he answers those prayers that absolutely need to be answered, that it is His judgment, His foresight that determines which prayers are the most needful. I’ve heard so many people say that if there is a God, He wouldn’t let bad things happen: earthquakes, mass murders, fires, plagues, etc.
My take on God is that he is a loving, patient father and we are a bunch of snot-nosed rebellious brats. In the infancy of our existence as a race, He was there to help and guide us, instructing us on how to behave. He punished us when we needed to be punished and rewarded us when appropriate. As the society of man began to age, we depended less and less upon the aid of our Lord, like adolescents learning to fend for themselves. Now, many thousands of years after our creation, we are at the point where we must stand on our own two feet and rely on ourselves to get the job done. However, that doesn’t mean God doesn’t watch over us, providing sage advice and a gentle nudge or two.
We call the Lord “Our Father,” but it is up to us to become self-sufficient, to stop harassing him all the time for all the little things. As for the bad things that happen, most of the time we-our own selves-bear the blame.
So when I pray, it’s for the souls of my congregation, for the souls of my friends. I also pray that mankind as a whole will just grow up and start taking responsibility for its own actions instead of passing the blame off to God. We should just have faith that, ultimately, God has our backs.
I understand that sounds kind of preachy, but that’s part of the job description.
Shortly after my prayers Boris came, holding the door open and, with a nod of his head, indicated I should follow him. Big and tough as I was, he could still handle me like I was a third grader, so I followed him back to Julian. Long hallways with expensive carpeting told me we were in a hotel, and a ritzy one at that.
“Ah, Mr. Engle,” he purred from his seat on the black sofa, a glass of red cradled in one manicured hand. The cityscape twinkled with a million varicolored electric stars. “Please sit.” His other hand pointed to an ugly, cold steel chair facing him.
Deciding that compliance was the better part of valor, I sat.
A big man long since gone to flab descended the stairs behind Julian. Short gray hair and beard framed a face dissipated by drink, the pug nose red-veined, the cheeks streaked with burst vessels. Despite his obvious deterioration, he was impeccably dressed in a dove-gray suit, presumably Armani. He held out a folder to Julian, who took it with casual indifference, flicking his fingers at the front door behind me. The chubby man left without a word.
“My son wrote that he believed he was the Redeemer, the prophesied one.” Julian took a sip of wine. “He couldn’t be more wrong, despite having access to all thirty Words provided by the Silver. You see, Mr. Engle, the true Redeemer would welcome the touch of the Patron. No, my son is woefully weak, despite his capabilities.” He finished the glass, placed it on the glass-topped coffee table and stared at me intently. “Enough about Olivier, let’s talk about you.”
Julian flipped through the folder. “Intensive interrogation reveals so much about a person,” he began, eyes scanning pages and pages of computer print out. “Your interrogation was witnessed by Dr. Silvestri.” He flicked a finger at the door chubby had exited. “The report he compiled tells me all I need to know. Hmmm …” Flip, flip, flip. “ ‘Loyal to a fault and has an over-inflated sense of right and wrong.’ No surprise there. ‘Aggressive tendencies buried beneath the teaching of his deity.’ Once again, no surprise. Look at this: ‘A suitable candidate for martyrdom.’ Well, well, you are a true follower of the Liar and his brat.” All this uttered in an unheated, avuncular tone.
“Let’s look at your military file,” he continued. “Hmmm … Two tours in Iraq during Desert Storm, very bold. Wounded twice, Purple Heart with clusters … very nice. Bronze Star for meritorious service while engaged in an action against the enemy. That means you are a genuine war hero.” He set the folder aside. “Which begs the question: how does a war hero become part of a pacifist brotherhood of celibate weenies?”