Sinners and Saints Read online

  Sinners and Saints

  by

  Rick Jones

  Copyright © 2017 Rick Jones. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information e-mail all inquiries to: [email protected]

  Visit Rick Jones on the World Wide Web at: www.rickjonz.com

  Table of Contents

  ALSO BY RICK JONES:

  PROLOGUE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  EPILOGUE

  ALSO BY RICK JONES:

  Vatican Knights Series

  The Vatican Knights

  Shepherd One

  The Iscariot Agenda

  Pandora's Ark

  The Bridge of Bones

  Crosses to Bear

  The Lost Cathedral

  Dark Advent

  Cabal

  The Golgotha Pursuit

  Targeted Killing

  Stand Alone Novels

  Familiar Stranger

  The Valley

  Mausoleum 2069

  Hunter Series

  Night of the Hunter

  The Black Key

  Theater of Operation

  The Eden Series

  The Crypts of Eden (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)

  The Menagerie (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)

  The Thrones of Eden (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)

  The Atlantis Series

  City Beneath the Sea (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)

  (COMING) The Sacred Vault (The Quest for the Emerald Tablet) (A John Savage/Alyssa Moore Adventure)

  PROLOGUE

  Washington, D.C.

  Three Days after the Targeted Killing Incident in Malta

  Three days after escaping from Malta when a CIA liquidation squad designated him as a targeted killing, Kimball Hayden found himself walking the streets of D.C. as a man without a purpose or cause. All he had were the clothes on his back, a useless passport, a credit card that was quickly reaching its limit, and a cellphone with a cracked face.

  He had given up his pursuit for the Light, eventually choosing damnation over salvation because it was an easy choice to make since it required no effort; damnation had claimed him long ago. And once it had its stake in him, he was forever damned. Kimball knew there could be no bargaining with the Savior. He had forfeited that right when he killed his first without conscience.

  The rain was coming down harder, plastering his shirt and hair, the man appearing numbed by all this as he walked with no destination in mind.

  And then he thought about his damnation, how simple it came to him unlike the Light. Had his Savior been telling him all along that his journey was a fruitless one? Weren’t the messages always there telling him that He would only bring upon Kimball the same Darkness he had brought upon others. In the end there is only one crime: Robbery. By taking a life, hadn’t Kimball robbed a person of their life? Did he not rob a mother or a father of a child? Did he not rob a sibling of a brother or a sister? Did he not steal away entire family lines by taking away the lives of those before they had the chance to become mothers and fathers to their own children? Did he not rob people of the wonderful gift of living out a full life?

  Kimball never felt so pained on the inside with regret, a horrible pit that could never be filled as punishments had befallen him repeatedly. Those he had loved had been taken away from him in recompense, the Savior robbing Kimball of the feeling to feel good and whole. He had taken away those he had loved and grew close to. He had taken the lives of Sister Abigail and Bonasero Vessucci. He had taken the life of his father as they were about to mend a relationship that had been sour for years. He had taken from him as Kimball had taken from others, as his form of punishment.

  The rain was coming down in sheets, the sky opening fully.

  In the distance he could see a church, a cathedral, a magnificent structure with a spire that reached for the sky. As Kimball neared this church, celestial staircases of lightning began to strike in the far distance, which were accompanied by thunder booms a few moments later.

  Kimball then leaned against the wall of a building across the street from the cathedral, and looked at the spire. It reminded him of that rainy day in Malta where the image of Christ on the Cross appeared to weep down at him with sadness. And he remembered trying to strike a bargain with God that if He should bring Shari Cohen back to him, then he would remain a Vatican Knight to the end of days, even if his soul was already condemned.

  But she was dying, he knew that. God was taking her away from him as He took all the others. This was his punishment. This was his damnation. And he knew now that God doesn’t bargain with the soulless.

  I know that now, he told himself.

  Kimball slid down along the wall and sat on his backside, the rain soaking his clothes as he looked at the cross sitting high on the spire.

  And then his phone vibrated. A call.

  He removed it from his pocket and stared at the broken glass, the numbers appearing oddly scrambled. The call was from Father Damelio. Kimball had always called Damelio to find out about Shari’s condition, the man always by her bedside. Never had Father Damelio called him. For him to do so meant that Shari, too, had finally been taken.

  Kimball looked at the cross at the top of the church as the phone continued to ring.

  Then he took the call.

  “Mr. H
ayden?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Can you please hang on for a moment?”

  Kimball couldn’t speak as he sensed his throat tightening.

  Then: “Kimball?” The voice was tired and rough sounding. “I heard you,” the voice said. “Every day you called, every day you spoke to me, I heard you. I heard every word you said. I was so scared, Kimball. It was always dark. But I always felt you beside me…inside this Darkness. You kept me safe. And every day when you spoke to me you were walking me toward the Light. I could feel this. I could feel you. But the closer I came to the Light, when I was coming to, you began to fade away. You were staying behind in the Darkness. But I didn’t know why. And when I finally came to, when I saw the light of the room…you weren’t there.”

  Then the phone beeped, the juice almost gone.

  Kimball looked at the power meter. Less than two percent.

  Back to his ear.

  “I felt you, Kimball. You brought me back. And for that—”

  The phone died.

  Kimball looked at the cross on the spire as white lightning broke behind it. Then he looked skyward as rain mixed with tears, the man sobbing openly as the warm drops pelted him with this wonderful baptismal effect.

  He had bargained with his Lord by promising to be forever true to the Vatican Knights should He bring her back to him.

  Finally, His answer was ‘Yes.’

  Shari Cohen’s voice had never sounded sweeter.

  Kimball wept.

  * * *

  The old priest was lighting the candles inside the votive rack when the church doors opened. In the doorway’s arch was a man who stood silhouetted against a gun-metal gray backdrop created from an overcast sky.

  The priest waved the match dead and placed it on the rack, while keeping an eye on the shape as the drippings of rain water pooled around his feet. “Is there something I can help you with?” the priest asked.

  The shape didn’t respond, didn’t move.

  Water continued to fall from him like the slow and annoying drip from a water faucet.

  The priest took a step forward and repeated: “Is there something I can help you with?”

  Kimball walked into the dim glow of light that was naturally cast through the stained-glass windows of the cathedral, his features completely worn in appearance.

  “Please,” offered the priest, “come in.”

  Kimball walked to the burning candles of the votive rack and stood over them as the licks and curls of flames reflected off his eyes. In the wan glow of smoldering light, his skin took on a sickly hue that was cancer-yellow.

  “Are you all right?” the priest asked him.

  Kimball continued to stare at the candles’ flames and watched the dancing of fire with a hypnotic gaze. Rain continued to drip from his clothes and hair, with small drops hanging precariously along the edge of his angular jawline before falling to the floor.

  “Are you hungry?” the priest asked him.

  Kimball continued to stare at the flames.

  “The church manages a shelter close by.” The priest’s voice was comforting and honey smooth. “We can feed and provide you shelter, if you want.”

  Then Kimball looked at the altar, at the intricate detail of the craftsmanship involved. Situated against the ornate backdrop was the image of Christ in crucifixion form. His arms were extended, a crown of thorns adorned his head, and his puncture wound from the point of Longinus’s spear appeared like a horrible slash that barely wept blood.

  Here was a man who had died for man’s sins. Here was the man who looked down at Kimball Hayden with eyes that reflected like mirrors and appraised him with objectivity.

  “Thank you,” Kimball finally whispered to the image.

  The priest laid a hand upon Kimball’s shoulder, feeling the developed muscle tone beneath the wet fabric. “Are you all right?”

  “Thank you.”

  The priest didn’t know if Kimball was addressing him, or if he was so detached from his surroundings that nothing existed but he and the image of Christ, with the two locked in a conversion that was deeply personal and between them.

  Then he turned to the priest and said, “He finally said ‘yes.’”

  The priest appeared puzzled. “To what?”

  Kimball closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath through his nostrils, then released it with an equally long sigh as if he was relishing a fine thought. “He had taken everyone I cared for from me. Everyone. So I made a promise that if He returned her to me, then I would seek the Light once again with the blessings of the Vatican.”

  The priest didn’t know what Kimball was talking about, now wondering if the large man had mental-health issues. “Perhaps you’re tired,” said the priest, trying to usher Kimball to one of the pews. But Kimball remained steadfast as he continued to stare at the image of Christ.

  “I can help you,” the priest added.

  “Don’t need it,” said Kimball. “But thank you.”

  Then Kimball stared at the candles’ flames, saw how they danced and flickered with fluid rhythm. And somewhere outside a peal of thunder rolled, shaking the cathedral. Only to be followed by another toll of thunder that rattled the stained-glass windows as if in pronouncement of almighty power and undiminished strength.

  Kimball closed his eyes and felt the wash of an alien warmth exorcise the cold that had taken hold of him for so long. Then he told himself that there was so much more to do, so many ships to right.

  Then after a long pause, he said in a whisper that was more to himself than to the priest: “I’m going home.”

  Without acknowledging the cleric, Kimball turned from the altar, walked down the aisle of the nave, exited the cathedral, and entered the rain when a clap of riotous thunder opened up as if to tear the world asunder.

  Chapter One

  St. Rose Dominican Hospital

  Geneva, Switzerland

  One Week Later

  When Cardinal Angelo Conti entered the room of Frederic Bass, he was wearing a scarlet zucchetto, a black simar with red buttons and piping, and carried a briefcase.

  For Frederic Bass—an aged man who was now in the twilight of his life—his beginning of the end began ten weeks ago when he spit a clot of blood onto the back of his hand. Stage-four lung cancer the doctor had told him, which had metastasized. And every day thereafter his cells continued to run wild to stake new claims against otherwise healthy tissue. Oddly enough as he was being eaten alive, there was no pain or discomfort, only a growing fatigue.

  When Cardinal Conti closed the divide between them in the room with his hand held out, Frederic Becher sat up in bed with his hands ready to receive the cardinal’s in greeting. As soon as Becher embraced Conti’s hand within both of his, he brought the cleric’s hand to his lips and kissed the back of Cardinal Conti’s hand in an act of spiritual homage.

  And then from Becher: “It’s wonderful to see you, Angelo.”

  After placing a chair close to the bed, Cardinal Conti eased forward in his seat and rested a warm hand against Frederic’s forearm. “And how are you today, my friend?”

  “Better than expected,” he told him. “I am, however, tired.”

  “I was informed by the clerics who tend to you that you sense your time is close.”

  Becher tipped his chin as a nod of validation.

  The cardinal appeared saddened by this. Then: “Just so you know, Frederic, the travel may be rough for a man in your position. The ride by train to Rome is nearly eight hours long.”

  “It will be the last time I get to see such beautiful scenery,” said Becher, “from Switzerland to Rome where the mountains are snowcapped and the fields are green. I want to see it all, Angelo. I want to absorb everything as if I was seeing this for the first time.”

  The cardinal nodded. “And so you shall,” he said. “The Vatican has been notified and arrangements are being made. Your final days, Frederic, will be met with beauty and wonder. This I promise you. And
you will be placed in a vault of honor beneath the Basilica where you belong.”

  Becher gave off a marginal but genuine smile of appreciation. “Thank you.”

  “The Vatican also asks a favor of you, Frederic. One of great importance. Something they feel you could manage before your moment of Glory.”

  “I’m dying, Angelo. I’ve little to offer.”

  Cardinal Conti opened his briefcase, reached inside, pulled out a thick manila folder, and passed it over to Becher, who grabbed it with both hands that looked as thin and frail as the bones of a sparrow. What he grabbed was a biographical record.

  While he lay there, he began to leaf through the pages using hands that were covered with crepe skin and liver spots. “Kimball Hayden,” he said simply.

  The cardinal nodded. “To know him is to know yourself, Frederic. He is a man in desperate need of vision. With Bonasero Vessucci now gone…Kimball Hayden must now lean on himself. Unfortunately, he is not equipped to do so.”

  Frederic Becher looked at the cardinal with eyes that had gone gray over the years after being a lustrous blue. “What does this have to do with me?” he asked him.

  “Who better, Frederic, than to give a lost soul hope…when the soul who is teaching him was once lost himself.”

  And Becher understood. “From one morally corrupt person to another, is that it?”

  “Save him, Frederic. As you have saved yourself.”

  “I haven’t much time.”

  “Nor does he,” stated the cardinal. “He vacillates between Darkness and Light, unsure of which way to turn. So perhaps, Frederic, in one man’s death lies another man’s resurrection.”

  Frederic Becher looked down at the bundle of papers on his lap. “It’s not that simple,” he said evenly. “I skirted the Darkness and embraced it at one time. I was consumed by it. And I know that the journey to the Light is one of great difficulty. Even to this day I wonder if the atrocities I committed in the past can ever have His forgiveness, while wondering at the same time if I’ll ever see the Light of Loving Spirits or the Darkness of Damnation.”