Pandora's Ark

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

It was night in downtown Las Vegas and the canopy of the Experience was in full cartoonish display with brightly lit images playing across the awning, as a vintage Rolling Stones song served as the musical soundtrack.

Kimball stood beneath the canopy eating shrimp from his parfait glass. Tonight he had chosen to work the swing shift. The bruise above his eye drew inquisitive questions, which he deflected with untruths, saying for the most part that he walked into a wall, or a cabinet, or an open door with no two answers alike.

When the show ended and the overhead canopy winked off, Kimball made his way home walking the seedy avenue of Freemont Street. The whores, the pimps, the homeless and drug dealers staked their territorial claims — living within the same dark corners and the same dark recesses with their faces obscured by half shadow and light.

Kimball ignored the calls of the bartering pimps, refused their offers, and dismissed the pleas of hardened meth whores looking for their next fix without so much as acknowledging their existence, when they shared the same sidewalk.

Sirens and lights of two police cruisers passed him, stopping at a nearby motel advertised as a daily, weekly or monthly rental when, in fact, they served as places of ill repute.

Taking the steps to his apartment, Kimball suddenly felt a glaring shift in awareness the same way the hackle of an animal rises after sensing great danger. The windows were blacked out, the place looking as he left it, untouched. But he had learned to trust his senses long ago.

He tested the knob with a slow turn, locked.

Nor did he carry his weapon of choice, a commando blade. It was inside, hidden.

With careful prudence he inserted the key, turned, the click audible only to his ear, and swung the door open with ease.

The apartment was dark, a mistake on his part. By working the swing shift he had forgotten to turn on the lights before he left, the sun still shining at that time.

As he took a step inside shadows pooled around him, his eyes trying to adjust, to focus, to see if the darkness within was taking on a life of its own and edging closer with the intent to kill.

He saw nothing.

But there was definitely a presence.

He then stepped back onto the landing before the doorway, a slow exit, the animal instinct in him telling him to take flight rather than fight, to come back to live another day.

And then a light went on from inside, the lamp on the nightstand casting a feeble glow.

Kimball stood at the fringe of the light’s cast and noted the man who sat in a chair with his legs crossed in leisure, a smile on his face. For a moment he thought his heart would misfire.

Isaiah sat there in full Vatican Knight regalia including the beret, the Roman Catholic collar and mixed military array. On the pocket of his shirt was the embroidery of the Vatican Knights, the shield and silver Cross Pattée. Beside him sat an aluminum suitcase.

If Kimball was happy to see his old friend he didn’t show it. “It’s a little early for Halloween, isn’t it?” he asked, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

“You knew I was here.”

“I knew somebody was here.”

“That’s good,” Isaiah said evenly. “Your senses are still sharp.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t kill you.”

The moment Isaiah gained his feet Kimball crossed the floor and the two men embraced each other. As they backed off Kimball took appraisal of his former second lieutenant, taking in the man’s dress, saw the whiteness of the clerical collar and the memories it suddenly wrought.

“Why are you dressed like this?” he asked. “I thought you were going back to the orphanage.”

Isaiah returned to the seat. “I did,” he answered. “Up until yesterday I was tilling the soil in the garden. Now…” He let his words fall away as he held his arms out in an act that said it all: Now I’m here.

There was a momentary pause between them. But it wasn’t awkward by any means. It was more of an intake of a cherished friendship, an umbilical tie between brothers reconnecting. “As good as it is to see you,” he finally said, “I need to know why you’re here, Isaiah?” He looked at the suitcase. “Are you planning to move in or something?”

“No, Kimball. Or would you prefer to be called J.J. Doetsch?”

Kimball smiled. “You’ve been keeping tabs on me.”

“Actually, no, I haven’t. But the Vatican has. And as for this,” he said, sliding the suitcase forward. “It’s for you.”

Kimball stepped forward. “Well, I have to admit,” he told him, “that I like a man who bears gifts.”

“Then you’ll like this one.”

Kimball studied the suitcase.

“Go ahead,” said Isaiah, “open it.” He then slid the suitcase across the floor until it rested at Kimball’s feet.

Kimball gave him a suspicious, sidelong glance.

“Open it,” he pressed.

Kimball bent down, laid the suitcase on the floor, undid the clasps, and opened the lid. A black clerical shirt with the Roman Catholic collar already fitted around the loop of the shirt’s neckline lay neatly folded. The emblem of the Vatican Knights stood brightly against the shirt’s pocket.

Kimball just stared at it. Whether he was transfixed, confused, or in simple awe, Isaiah couldn’t quite decipher Kimball’s reaction. “It’s your uniform,” he finally said. “Bonasero is calling us home to serve the Church once again.”

Kimball knelt beside the case with the stillness of a mannequin for a long and silent moment before closing the lid with mechanical slowness. He then locked it shut. “I can’t,” he said softly.

Isaiah tilted his head questioningly. “What?”

Kimball looked him squarely in the eye, gained his feet, then went to the refrigerator where he grabbed his bottle of Jack and took the seat opposite Isaiah. “I said… I can’t.”

Isaiah fell back in defeat, his face drawing amazement and shock, his mouth wanting to say something, anything, but words were lost to him.

Kimball opened the cap and took a long swig before coming up for air. And then: “Do you remember the day when Ezekiel tried to kill me?” he said. “When Ezekiel betrayed us all?”

Isaiah obviously accepted this as rhetorical, so he remained silent and waited as Kimball drew a second pull from the half-empty bottle before setting the container on the armrest.

“It was then that I realized something about myself,” he continued. “When I served as a Vatican Knight I believed that I was serving the Church to maintain the integrity of the Vatican by protecting its sovereignty, its interests, and its citizenry. I killed only as a last option because I believed that even God recognizes the fact that good people have the right to protect themselves, or to protect the lives of good people who can’t defend themselves. I really believed that. And then I realized that it was nothing more than a feeble justification for killing another man. I led myself to believe that I killed because I had to, not because I wanted to. But after Ezekiel killed my old team of the Force Elite, when he murdered members of the Vatican Knights to cover his deeds, it was then that I realized who I truly was.” He turned and stared at the bottle, the muscles in the back of his jaw working furiously as if containing his rage. “I learned that I wanted to kill Ezekiel so badly that I could taste it. I didn’t want to kill him because I had to. I wanted to kill him because I wanted to.” He never took his gaze off the bottle. “It’s just the way I am, Isaiah. The difference between me and you and the other Knights is that I want to kill.” He then looked at the hard shell of the suitcase, thought of the uniform inside, what it used to mean to him as he sought his own salvation. “I don’t deserve to wear this,” he finally said, then kicked the suitcase back to Isaiah. “Take it back.”

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.

He sat idle for several more hours as his mind vacillated between his own individuality regarding his own good and evil, wondering if he still had hope to see the light of salvation. Or more importantly, he wondered if the God of the Vatican was willing to proffer him the spark of a new beginning.

He sat there.

And he wondered.