Judgment Stone (9781401687359) Read online

  Light laughter all around.

  “My mother came to visit me the other day. Not as a vision. She is very much alive.” He held up the magazine and tapped Nevaeh’s face. “This is a picture of her, the only one I have. Yesterday, I picked up the magazine and this card fell out. You see, she left it for me.” He looked at her handwriting, Portuguese words in a fine script: Pray por favor para mim. A tear leaked into his face’s network of wrinkles.

  When he spoke again, his voice was unsteady, quiet. Several people leaned in to hear. “You know I’ve always been a religious man, but some things I knew about my mother made me question her—I guess you could say, the state of her soul. That has always caused pain in my heart. So this means more to me than I can say.”

  He held up the card. “It says, ‘Please pray for me.’”

  He didn’t read the rest, which meant almost as much as her request: Mamã do amor. Love, Mom.

  “So that’s what I plan to do. Thank you for joining me.”

  He bowed his head and began the most heartfelt prayer of his very long life.

  [ 92 ]

  The first monk cell was empty. Nevaeh moved to the next. She kicked in the door, and the first thing she saw was the candle on the floor, perfectly centered, its flame flickering. A man was standing at the back of the small room, caught in the candle’s light. He was casually leaning against the wall, one leg bent to push the bottom of his foot against the wall. His arms were crossed over his chest. He was young, about thirty, with a wispy beard, wearing a monk’s black cassock.

  She brought the rifle up. “Who are you?”

  “They call me Father Leo,” he said.

  “Well, they-call-me-Father-Leo, what are you doing here?” She scanned the room quickly. “Where’s the woman? Beth?”

  “I haven’t seen her recently.”

  “Why aren’t you with the others in the basilica?”

  “I have other duties.”

  She shook the gun at him. “What are you talking about?”

  “You, Arella,” he said, using her birth name. “I’m talking about you.”

  A chill iced her veins. “How do you know that name?”

  “You want to know what Beth told Ben.”

  “You know? What?”

  “It’s both simple and complex. It won’t help you.”

  “Listen,” Nevaeh said, “I don’t know who you are, but—”

  “She told him his faith was trapped in his head.”

  “He was a brain.”

  “But you, you’re not thinking enough.”

  “Hey—”

  “You have a purpose. Find it.”

  Below her a door slammed, someone ran across the court—the slapping of bare feet on stone. Nevaeh spun, rushed to the rail of the balcony. No one there. It had to have been Beth. She watched a dark corner near the mosque, thought she saw shadows shifting within.

  She backed into the cell’s doorway. “Look, buddy—”

  The monk was gone, and he’d taken the candle with him.

  [ 93 ]

  “The shooter’s gone,” Owen said, peering over the wall.

  Jagger popped his head up, ready to snap it back down—as if his reactions were faster than a bullet. The dark figure he’d seen on the wall wasn’t there anymore. “Maybe he’s moving to a better vantage point.”

  “You want to wait and see?” Sarcasm was so un-Owen-like, Jagger had to turn to read his face.

  “All right,” Jagger whispered and stood. He started through the garden.

  Owen caught up. “Where?”

  “Let’s try the garden gate first. If that doesn’t work, there’s a door into the compound on the same wall, near the back.”

  “The Siege Door,” Owen said. Added in the sixth century, it allowed the monks to escape in times of siege.

  “Yeah, I was told it was sealed shut,” Jagger said, still bitter that Gheronda had lied to him about it, “until they used it to sneak Creed in.” It was the incident that drew the Tribe to the monastery six months ago, starting their whole adventure with them: Tyler shot, Beth kidnapped.

  They hadn’t gone ten paces when a figure came bounding—practically bouncing—along the garden-side wall from the rear of the compound. It stopped at the garden gate, turned toward them.

  Jagger tackled Owen to the ground. “Someone’s there,” he said, a harsh whisper. He raised his head. The figure was heading back toward the rear. It jumped on top of the roof of a building used to store garden tools and vanished in the shadows.

  Jagger said, “This way,” and rushed, crouching, to the wall that separated the gardens from the tourist walkway to the front of St. Catherine’s. He jumped over it and dropped down. Owen plunged down behind him. The wall was tall enough to conceal them standing at full height. They followed it toward its end, where the grounds opened up around the monastery. There they would be totally exposed.

  Behind them, a gun fired. A piece of wall beside Jagger’s face chipped away. He turned to see the Clan coming over the wall, Lilit already over, pointing a pistol at them. She fired again.

  Owen bolted, heading for the end of the wall, the open area.

  “Not there,” Jagger called, right behind him. “The guy on the side!” Not to mention the sniper who, hearing the siren call of the gunshots, would probably return to that side. “There! There!” He pointed and broke away from the wall, heading into the rocky, uneven ground of the valley floor in front of the monastery. The terrain’s crevasses, depressions, hills, and boulders offered them an infinite number of hiding places—black shadows against the lights from the top of the monastery walls.

  Jagger had his eyes on a depression that snaked back into the foothills when the gun cracked again, and his leg flared with pain and collapsed out from under him. He tumbled, hitting his chin, banging his prosthetic arm on the stone surface. Owen was on him before he rolled to a stop, grabbing him, lifting.

  “Go!” Jagger said, clutching his calf, feeling his pant leg wet with blood. “Leave me here.”

  “Not a chance,” Owen said. “I got you.”

  “You mean we got you,” Bale said, jogging up to them, the others at his side. They circled Jagger and Owen, guns drawn. Lilit, grinning, proud of herself, stepped on Jagger’s leg.

  He started to scream, but bit it back, grinding his teeth together.

  Bale stopped in front of them, eyeing them as he might trophy game. His teeth gleamed in the light. He said, “You make it too easy.” He tilted his head, that fedora perched so suavely on top. “But I’ll give you the orphanage. That was masterfully played.” He rubbed silver tape that was wrapped around his wrist. The hand looked like it belonged on a mannequin. Then two fingers twitched.

  Artimus moved closer to Bale, the muzzle of his big machine gun staring at Jagger. Cillian, holding a combat knife at his thigh, stepped to Bale’s other side. Lilit held her ground, putting pressure on Jagger’s wound with her booted foot.

  Bale grinned at Owen. “This has been a long time coming, hasn’t it, my friend?”

  “You can call no one friend who loves the Lord,” Owen said.

  Bale threw his head back and laughed. “You think you’re still writing the gospel! If not friend, then you’ve been a fine adversary. I only wish you appreciated me more. What was it Buddha said? ‘There has to be evil so that good can prove its purity above it.’ I gladly perform my part, so you may perform yours. You’re welcome.” He pinched the brim of his hat.

  He looked down at Jagger, who was twisted at the waist to watch him, his leg still pinned. “You,” Bale said, “you just confuse me. You were doing so well for so long, killing all those people. You were so cold-blooded. I thought I’d met my match in you, always upping the game, seeing who could kill more in such creative ways. Oh, but that’s right: your victims were sinners, so that made it all right. Did you ever consider that we were always on the same team? After all, ‘all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.’ That you did it ‘in God’s na
me’ is just too rich! I wish I’d have thought of that. That would have really ticked the Big Guy off. Then I hear you left the Tribe, changed your ways. What was that about?”

  Jagger simply stared.

  Lilit ground her boot into Jagger’s leg. He squeezed his eyes closed, tightened his facial muscles, taking the pain.

  “Okay, guys,” Bale said. “You know what I’m here for.” He looked at Cillian, cocked his head toward Jagger and Owen.

  Cillian stepped forward, crouched beside Jagger, and started patting him down.

  Watching, Bale said, “I need that Stone. It makes my job so much easier. And I have unfinished business at the orphanage. Of course, I can do that nasty work without it now that I know where it is, but it’s so cool watching their lights go out.” He looked at the monastery. “I bet I’ll find plenty of lights to snuff out here first, don’t you think?”

  Cillian felt the folded cloth through the material over Jagger’s pants pocket and reached his fingers in. He pulled it out. Jagger heard the fragment hit the ground, but apparently the others didn’t, looking for the larger Stone. Cillian tossed the cloth away and moved on to Owen. He stepped back. “It’s not on them,” he said.

  Lilit dragged her boot to his ankle. She leaned over and pushed the barrel of her pistol into his wound, wiggling it, probing. This time Jagger did scream.

  “Stop!” Coming from behind Bale, farther up in the foothills. Jagger recognized the voice and felt his insides turn to stone.

  Bale turned, clearing Jagger’s line-of-sight to his son, standing there, big eyes, shaking.

  “Run, Tyler!” He tried to scramble up. Lilit stood on his leg, kicked the back of his head.

  Owen started to run toward Tyler. Artimus swung the barrel of his machine gun into his chin. Owen staggered back, fell. He started to rise, and Artimus pushed the muzzle into his forehead. Owen stopped, perched on his knees.

  Cillian darted for Tyler.

  “Go, Ty! Run!” Jagger yelled.

  Tyler appeared confused, moving one way, then the other. He turned toward two boulders near him, but Cillian reached him and grabbed the back of his neck. He lifted him, turned, and plunked him down on his feet, Tyler grimacing in pain.

  “No!” Jagger said.

  Tyler looked at him with teary eyes. “Dad?” he said.

  “Dad?” Bale said, looking from Tyler to Jagger. “Oh yes,” he said, drawing a dagger from inside his jacket. He began walking toward Tyler, swishing the blade around.

  “No!” Jagger yelled. “Stop, please!”

  He didn’t.

  Jagger said, “We’ll give it to you. The Stone, it’s yours.”

  Bale turned toward him. “Oh, I’m sorry, you misunderstand. I’m not threatening the kid to get to the Stone. I’ll get that one way or another. There’re only so many places it can be, right? I’m slaughtering him . . . just because I can. It’s just too bad I’m not going to keep you alive longer to bask in your grief. Since your anguish will be so brief, let’s see what I can do to make it excruciating. Maybe I should disembowel your boy first, you think? The Japanese perfected the method. They saved the heart and lungs for last, prolonging death until the very end. Or lingchi, you know that one? It’s also called ‘slow slicing’—you get the idea.”

  He turned and walked to Tyler.

  [ 94 ]

  Jagger wailed. He twisted under Lilit’s foot, kicked at her leg. She dodged, stomped his wound, cracked the back of his skull with her gun.

  Tyler squirmed and cried. He cast pleading, scared eyes at Jagger, then turned to stare at the dagger coming closer. Cillian had sheathed his knife and now had a grip on Tyler’s hair as well as the back of his neck. The boy kicked and wiggled and fought, helpless to get away.

  Owen started to rise again, and Artimus slapped him with the machine gun’s barrel. He fell into Jagger and got to his knees again. He said, “Pray, Jagger, pray!”

  Jagger wanted to scream at him. He needed to act, not pray. Stop Bale . . . stop Bale . . . over and over in his head . . . stop Bale. That was the only thing that mattered. If his life, all 3,500 years of it, meant anything, it came down to this: Stop Bale. Save Tyler.

  Jagger rolled out from under Lilit. She danced around him, straddled him, cracked the butt of her gun into his head. His vision was fading, weak from the constant bashing.

  No! Tyler!

  Lilit sat down hard on his back. She slammed one boot down on RoboHand, the other on the wrist of his real arm. She pushed the gun barrel into his neck, gripped his hair, and pulled his head back, forcing him to watch Bale standing in front of his son. The tip of the dagger glided in the air inches from Tyler’s face, down to his belly button, as though Bale was rehearsing the cuts he would make.

  Owen seemed to let out a short laugh. His face turned toward the sky, and he said, “Yes, Lord, Yes!”

  Jagger wailed louder, tears streaming down his face. Owen had snapped, gone totally insane, and Jagger was close to it.

  Owen yelled, “Can you see, Jagger? Can you see?”

  Bale looked over, grinning. “Yes, Jagger, can you see? This is all for you.” He drew the dagger back, low behind his hip—not up over his head in some theatrical pose. The motion left Jagger no hope: the man wasn’t toying around. He fully intended to plunge the blade into Tyler’s stomach.

  He bellowed, all the rage and pain the world has ever known. “God, no! Please!”

  Owen whispered: “Oh, Lord, open his eyes so he may see.”

  In a flash, the valley was full of angels, wielding swords, riding horses and chariots—all of them on fire, the flames constructed of the burning orange embers Jagger had seen swirling around the angels. They were perched on the rocks and boulders, on every outcropping rising up the mountain, on the ground around them. The horses were rearing up, beating the air with their hooves. The chariots floated in midair, gently moving back and forth. The angels, flaming swords drawn, stood watching the action of the humans below them. They appeared to be waiting for something.

  Jagger heard a booming sound, rhythmic.

  The angels turned their heads at once, staring into the sky.

  Jagger followed their gaze: a sky full of stars. They grew brighter, vibrated with movement. They grew, and he realized they were coming closer—not stars at all: angels. Millions of angels, filling the sky, each one bright as a small sun. They moved and swirled, forming . . . something. It was a face, etched in three dimensions in the sky by approaching angels. It blinked—angels moving down and up. The eyes were alive, glistening. They turned to look directly at Jagger.

  He cried out, no words, just a gasp of awe. He knew the face, the face of Christ, watching through His angels.

  Still, it—the face—they—the angels—approached, filling every inch of the firmament.

  Jagger saw demons as well. Scampering around and on the Clan. Big ones, little one, all sorts of ugly beings. They saw the angels as well: they screeched and howled and roared; they spun in circles, cowered in a ball, arms crossed over their heads. Finally, ashy black wings formed around them and they flew off, swiping and turning, glaring back in fear.

  Bale saw too: his blade stopped in midthrust. He staggered back, his head snapping all around, eyes and mouth round with shock.

  The approaching sky-angels suddenly accelerated from fast to light speed. They were all there in the valley, crowded against one another, against Jagger and Owen and Tyler and Bale and the rest of the Clan.

  Instead of mimicking the demons—cowering, fleeing—Bale seemed to draw strength from the presence of this heavenly host, taking them as a challenge, defying them. He laughed, said to the sky, “Oh no, no, no! Is this all you got? Bring it on!” He turned to Tyler, swung his blade.

  [ 95 ]

  From the top of the front wall, Nevaeh had watched Jagger take the bullet to his leg. She saw the team of gun-and knife-toting thugs converge on him and Owen. When she saw their apparent leader, she turned and slid her back down the rampart, sitting ha
rd, resting the rifle in her lap.

  Bale.

  If ever there was a sinner in need of vigilante justice, it was Bale.

  She raised her eye to the night sky.

  But, God . . . I’m so confused!

  She had been thinking about the monk—obviously not a monk. He’d known her given name. He’d been there, then had simply vanished. The balcony in front of the monk cells was not wide enough for him to have slipped past without bumping into her. And there was no other way out of the room.

  His words had been maddeningly vague, ambiguous to the point of being meaningless. Purpose—something in that word, but what? Yes, she was here for a reason. Is that why she hadn’t been called home, after all these years? She hadn’t fulfilled her purpose? She’d determined his visit wasn’t about what he had said; it was the visit itself. God noticed her! He was communicating with her. The hopelessness that had been crushing her spirit, filling her mind with blackness—slowly growing, oppressing her more and more, like cancer—it left her, evaporating as surely and abruptly as a raindrop on a hot surface.

  She knew that all this time she had been wrong. Killing wasn’t the answer; it wouldn’t draw her back into God’s arms. She’d been holding the bodies of sinners out to Him, gifting them to Him, but all she’d done was fill her own arms so she could not embrace anything else. She could not embrace Him.

  For the first time in as long as she could remember, the urge to kill was gone.

  She’d come to the top of the wall to find out what was going on, to see if it was time to go home and figure out what she was going to do now. It was a daunting prospect, her future. She welcomed it, waiting for Him to see that she’d heard Him, that she’d changed. She prayed it wasn’t a momentary respite from the burning frustration that drove her to kill—but it didn’t feel that way. She prayed it wasn’t a symptom of the insanity she’d felt clawing at her—but it didn’t feel that way. This felt . . . genuine, real, holy.