The Descent

It  was the  worst  falseness  he  could  imagine.  The  man's  obsession  had  guided  them. And  now  he  had  disinherited  them,  body  and  spirit.  No,  that  was  wrong,  for  they'd never  been  included  in  his  inheritance  to  begin  with.  From  the  start,  he  had  merely exploited them. They  had been like livestock to him, to be ridden to death.

'You must get away  from him,' said Parsifal.

But de l'Orme's thoughts were  on the  traitor.  He  tried  to  configure  the  thousands  of deceptions   that   had   been   perpetrated   on   them.   A   king's   audacity!   Almost   in admiration, he whispered the name.

'Louder,' said Parsifal. 'I can't hear you over  the wind.'

'Thomas,' de l'Orme said again. What magnificent courage!  What  ruthless  deception! It  was dizzying, the  depths  of  his  plotting.  What  had  he  been  after  then?  Who  was  he really?  And why  commission a posse to hunt himself down?

'Then you've  heard,' shouted Parsifal. His blizzard was getting worse.

'They've  found him?'

'Yes.'

De l'Orme was astounded. 'But that means we've  won.'

'Have you lost your  mind?' said Parsifal.

'Have  you  lost  yours?  Why  are  you  running?  They've  caught  him.  Now  we  can interview  him directly. We must go to him immediately. Give  me the details, man.'

'Caught him? Thomas?'

De  l'Orme  heard  Parsifal's  confusion,  and  he  felt  equally  dumbfounded.  Even  after so many months spent treating the hadal as a  common  man,  Satan's  mortality  did  not come naturally. How  could  one catch  Satan?  Yet  here  it  was.  They  had  accomplished the impossible. They  had transcended myth.

'Where is he? What have  they  done with him?'

'Thomas, you mean?'

'Yes, Thomas.'

'But Thomas is dead.'

'Thomas?'

'I thought you said you knew.'

'No,' groaned de l'Orme.

'I'm sorry.  He was a great  friend to us all.'

De l'Orme digested the consequences, but still he didn't understand.

'They  killed him?'

'They?'  shouted the astronaut. Was Parsifal not hearing him, or were  they  stumbling on each other's meaning?

'Satan,'  enunciated  de  l'Orme.  His  thoughts  raced.  They'd  killed  the  hadal  Caesar? Didn't the fools know Satan's value?  In his mind's eye,  de  l'Orme  saw  some  frightened young soldier with a high school education emptying his rifle clip into the shadows, and Thomas tumbling from the darkness  into the light, dead.

But still de l'Orme did not understand.

'Yes,  Satan,'  said  Parsifal.  His  voice  was  growing  indistinguishable  from  the  noise  of his tempest.  'You do understand. My  same conclusion. Mustafah. Now Thomas.  Satan. Satan killed them.'

De l'Orme frowned. 'You said they  found him, though. Satan.'

'No. Thomas,' clarified Parsifal. 'They  found Thomas. A Bedouin  goatherder  came  on him this afternoon. He was  lying  among  the  rocks  near  St.  Catherine's  monastery.  He had  fallen  –  or  been  pushed  –  from  one  of  the  cliffs  on  Mount  Sinai.  It's  obvious  who killed  him.  Satan  did.  He's  hunting  us  down,  one  by  one.  He  knows  our  patterns.  Our daily  lives.  Our  hiding  places.  While  we  were  profiling  him,  the  bastard  was  profiling us.'

At  last  de  l'Orme  understood  what  Parsifal  was  telling  him.  Thomas  was  not  the deceiver.  It  was someone even  closer to him.

'Are you still there?'  asked Parsifal.

De l'Orme cleared his throat. 'What have  they  done with Thomas's body?' he asked.

'Whatever   desert   monks  do  to  their   dead.  Probably   not  much  in   the   way   of preservation.  They  want to get him into the ground as soon as possible. He'll be buried on Wednesday. There  at the monastery.' He paused. 'You're not going, are you?'

So  much  to  plan.  So  little,  really.  De  l'Orme  knew  exactly  what  needed  to  happen next.

'It's your  head,' said Parsifal.

De l'Orme set  the phone back in its cradle.

Savannah, Georgia

She woke in her bed to  ancient  dreams,  that  she  was  young  again  and  beaux  pursued her.  The  many  became  few.  The  few  became  one.  In  her  dreams  she  was  alone,  like now,  but  alone  differently,  an  ache  in  men's  hearts,  a  memory  that  would  never  end. And  this  one  man  would  never  stop  searching  for  her,  even  if  she  was  lost  in  herself, even  if she grew  old.

She opened her eyes  and the room was awash in moonbeams.

The  coarse  linen  curtains  stirred  with  a  breeze.  Crickets  sang  in  the  grass  off  her porch. The  window had come open.

A tiny light looped and spiraled in the room, a firefly.

'Vera,' said a man from the dark corner.

She jerked, and the glasses flew from her fingers.

A burglar, she thought. But a burglar who knew her name? Who spoke it so sadly?

'Who is it?' she said.

'I have  been watching you sleep,' he said. 'In this light, I see the little girl your  father must have  loved.'

He was going to kill her. Vera  could hear the determination in his tenderness.