The Iscariot Agenda

EPILOGUE

Kimball did not return directly to the barracks to gather his gear. Instead, he walked the grounds through St. Peter’s Square, through the Basilica, past the Colonnades and sat by the Old Gardens until the late afternoon sky was turning into banded shades of red, orange and yellow.

Here he had found peace unlike anything ever encountered.

Gathering himself for the short walk to the barracks, Kimball found himself vacillating between old emotions against new. Sure enough he stewed underneath, but at the same time he was warring over the fact that there was serenity, each faction seesawing against the other.

Perhaps there was validity in the cardinal’s words after all, he considered.

But if questions remained regarding how he felt about Ezekiel, then he wasn’t completely there. If anything, Ezekiel had become a much greater test on whether or not he should follow through and kill him to settle an underlying need, or to find forgiveness and let him move on.

Either way, he needed closure.

Making his way to the barracks was almost a physically painful task; the empty rooms, the one-time laughter of Vatican Knights echoing off the stone walls after an off-key joke was told no longer, and the smell of baked meats wafting through the hallways from the Mess.

Now it was empty with a tomblike stillness.

Once inside his room he sat on the edge of his bed and slightly grazed a hand over the soft fabric of the blanket, a loving caress.

He would take his military manuals, his military gear, and stuff as much of his life into a canvas duffel bag.

Everything I have to show for my life, he thought.

And this was not much.

After cramming his goods into the bag, he laid it next to the door and stood within the room’s center. To one side was the small dais holding the Bible, as well as the votive rack and kneeling rail. To the other was a super-single-sized bed, a nightstand and bookshelves for his manuals. Comparatively speaking it was far from luxury, but it was his home. But he could not have been happier.

Kimball then moved to the mirror and stared at his reflection, noting crows-feet that were becoming longer and deeper. If there was one thing this man could not defeat, it was aging.

So what will you do now?

He traced his fingers gingerly over his image.

And then he worked them down to the cleric’s collar.

And then he worked his fingers further downward to the patch of the Vatican Knights etched on the breast pocket of his cleric’s shirt, the image of the powder blue shield and silver Pattée with the supporting heraldic lions holding it steady.

It was a nice ride, he told himself. And then he removed the band of the cleric’s collar and held it in his hand.

For a long time he stared at it, thinking what it meant to him: Loyalty above all else, except Honor. And then he placed it neatly on top of the Bible on the dais.

Grabbing the duffel bag, Kimball took one last look, absorbing everything. High on the wall was the stained glass window of the Virgin Mother, her arms reaching out as a gesture of acceptance and the willingness to embrace those in need.

Although the light of the sun was beginning to wane, a thin beam of light cast from the Virgin Mary’s hands alighted on the cleric’s collar, giving it a glowing appeal that appeared ethereal in its effect.

In less than three steps Kimball crossed the room and looked at the collar, then at the image of the Virgin Mother.

The sun was going down.

And the glow of the collar was fading fast.

Kimball grabbed the band with a sense of homage and carefully placed it in his pocket.

Maybe someday you’ll be pressed back into duty; he recalled the cardinal saying.

But Kimball knew this to be an unlikely scenario.

Straightening his beret to specs as a good Vatican Knight should, he grabbed his duffel bag and closed the door behind him, wondering what he was going to do with the rest of his life.