Archangel Crusader (20 page)

"Now that you have a clearer view of who is in charge," Krastinios went on in a sympathetic voice, "I want you to publicly announce that you are a fraud, that you did it for money and that you do not believe in your own words. I also want you to give yourself up to the FBI who will handle you as I ordered. Is that clear?"

"You... Mother-fucker!" Michael exploded, unable to contain the rage any longer.

"Or else..." continued the suave voice, "both of these young females will be Chosen for a sacrificial ritual and put to death after much exciting foreplay..."

Michael felt the blood drain from his face. "I will have your head for this, I swear..."

"I see that you need some reflection time, my dear Tanner... Very well, I will call you back in exactly twenty-four hours. By then, maybe you will have come to your senses. Or else..." Krastinios left the sentence unfinished. The powerful jolt Michael sent through the lines hit him in the face, leaving him speechless.

"Take that, you, son-of-a-bitch! Don't you threaten me! I may not know where you are, but I'll find you, I swear to God." Michael was yelling.

"It will not do any good to swat at me like an angry bumble bee, Earthling." The voice had lost its usual cool. "Tomorrow night, you agree to give yourself up to the FBI or they both die. It is that simple."

The line went dead. In the silence that followed, Michael dropped into a chair, head in hands, shaking like a leaf. In a voice hardly a whisper, he whimpered, "Good God, what have I done?" Then he sobbed, out of control.

"What is it, Mike?" Dave looked awed by this outburst of emotions.

"Krastinios." Michael spat rather than spoke the name. "The bastard who killed Veronica... He's got Jennifer and Tori, and he will kill them both if I don't retract the Crusade and surrender to the FBI."

Dave just looked at his brother. Michael knew he understood his dilemma.

"My God, Michael... What are you going to do?" Concern filtered through Becky's simple words.

As Michael had explained that afternoon, there was no turning back. The Crusade had taken a life of its own and didn’t need him anymore. Even if he wanted to, Michael couldn’t stop it. Under Dave and Becky's sorrowful gaze, Michael stood up and dragged himself to the liquor cabinet. From it, he extracted the bottle of Jack Daniels. Not bothering to get a glass, Michael unscrewed the cap, threw it across the floor, then looked at the bottle.

"I screwed up big time," Michael said to no one in particular. He needed an anchor to avoid being drowned by the irresistible flood, so he held on to the reassuring presence of the bottle. He couldn't look Dave or Becky in the eyes.

Suddenly, Michael realized the enormity of his behavior. No. He wasn't going to make the same mistake. If Krastinios counted on that weakness to defeat him, Michael would not give him the satisfaction. Not this time. Not ever again.

Under the stupefied stare of Dave and Becky, Michael, in a struggle to control himself, started shaking violently, knuckles white from the pressure on the bottle of Jack Daniels. The rage at his own weakness, the wrath for Krastinios, the thwarted love for Veronica, the turmoil and the guilt about Jennifer and Tori, all these emotions rose and crashed inside him like a violent storm against the rock of his new resolve.

The trailer started to shake. Bottles on the rolling bar knocked down the glasses like during an earthquake. A window shattered. As Dave and Becky looked around in fear, Michael struggled to get out, staggering, still holding the bottle. Out of control, his powers would destroy the trailer, and Dave's family didn't need to suffer in Michael's fight to exorcize his own demons.

Once in the open, the fury of Michael’s inner fight against his weakness lifted him from the ground. He twisted in mid-air while storm clouds gathered above. When a rod of his own lightning hit him, Michael screamed, hurling the bottle to the heavens so high it never fell back down. As the dry storm gained in intensity, lightning struck Michael again and again, accompanied by loud thunder. Each time, he screamed in pain, fear, and rage, until a massive jolt ended the trial.

When Michael fell limp to the ground, Dave and Becky, who had watched from a distance in horror, ran to him.

"Shall I call the ambulance?" Becky asked in a daze.

"I don't think the medics can do anything for him." Dave looked at the sky where the storm clouds were dissipating as fast as they had formed. "Help me take him inside."

"Is he alive?"

Dave checked for a pulse. "Barely."

"What's wrong with Uncle Michael?" Awakened by the commotion, Clara was on the brink of tears.

"He's ill, Love. He needs a lot of rest. Go to your room. I'll come tuck you in."

When he regained semi-consciousness, Michael felt a familiar presence. A bluish glow illuminated the bedroom.

"Children always expend more energy than necessary in their futile games." The statement came as an observation, without reproach. The gentle alien came to face Michael who lifted his head slowly.

"You? Look at the mess I'm in. None of this would have happened if it wasn't for you." Michael's head hurt as if about to rupture.

Amrah smiled. "You mean if you had never been born and if Jennifer had not been born?"

Taken aback by the logic of the reasoning, Michael paused for a few seconds before answering. Jennifer was a ray of sunshine in his existence. And despite his attempted suicide three years ago, he loved life with a passion, at least most of the time. "I guess I never had much of a choice, did I?"

"I am sorry it has to be this way, Michael, I really am." The kind sincerity in the alien's voice warmed Michael's heart with hope.

"What am I supposed to do, Father? All is lost, no matter what I do. In any case, I die and she dies. I feel so powerless."

"But what about the others, Son... Dave, Clara, Debbie, Walter, Bill... Do they deserve to die, too?"

"I care deeply, don’t get me wrong, but what can I do? I wish I could just fight the son-of-a-bitch, one on one. Do you think he would accept a single combat?"

"Consider the personality of your adversary," Amrah suggested. "He is so much like yourself, proud, arrogant, powerful. He wants you dead just as you want him dead. Above all, he wants to know which one of you is the strongest. He itches to measure his power against yours."

"You think so?" Michael's mind started to clear. "But why would he risk everything if he's already won?"

"Krastinios does not know that for sure..." Amrah’s dark blue eyes didn’t seem so alien anymore. "What if you decided to sacrifice Jennifer and go ahead with the Crusade? He would lose it all! He is gambling on your weakness for Jennifer. You could gamble on his own weakness by offering this personal challenge."

"What makes you think he will accept?"

"Oh, he certainly will... Of that you can be sure."

"But he may be stronger than me. What if he wins?"

"At least you will have a fighting chance... And, my son,"

"Yes?"

"Do not underestimate yourself. You brought Clara back to life and conquered your own demons. I think you are ready. You can also draw strength from me if you need it."

"Thanks, Father, I think I will."

"You can win, my son. My strength will be yours."

The bluish light shimmered. All went dark again. Michael sat on the bed, painfully contorting himself into a meditation posture to start repairing his body. After a while, feeling better, he went out to get some fresh air. Sitting under the oak tree in the front meadow, facing east, Michael waited for the sun to rise on a day that might bring new hope.

*****

The sun finally appeared in a pink, pale sky. It was Sunday. Dave would probably want to go to church. Even though Michael would not mind going himself for old times sake, he could not risk being recognized. The FBI was still actively looking for him.

So, after breakfast, while Dave, Becky, and Clara attended mass at Saint Joseph, Michael explored the property searching for fishing implements. He needed to do something normal, something relaxing to clear the mind in preparation for Krastinios' next phone call. Michael had a whole day in front of him but had no doubt that the bastard would call back. His heart went out to Jennifer. God, he hoped she was all right.

Michael opened the small wooden side door of the barn and stopped, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light. The packed dirt on the ground felt soft underfoot. One side of the barn was stacked to the roof with bales of hay. The smell of straw and chicken droppings reminded Michael of his childhood on the chicken farm.

As a boy, it had been his job to feed the chickens every day. Ever since, he had hated the damned birds. Once, a belligerent rooster had attacked him, beak and talons lashing in a flurry of feathers and savage screams. The beast slashed his bare legs, jumping and flying to get at more vital parts. Young Michael had seized the bird by the neck, twisted, and pulled with all his might, feeling a surge of triumphant elation.

Later, he’d paid dearly for killing the rooster. His stepfather tied him up to the bedpost, naked, and flogged his skin raw with a thick leather belt, making ugly bruises with the silver buckle across legs, chest and back. Too proud to cry or plead, Young Michael had endured silently under the mad ravings of his persecutor.

Now, in the cool shade of the barn, in the familiar smell of hay, a small flock of white hens stared sideways, then came closer, hoping for some food or treat. Sensing their expectations, Michael picked up a handful of grain out of a canvas sac, then threw the grain in a wide arc. Immediately, the fluffy birds, forgetting all fear, swarmed to his feet. Michael crouched to observe them better. "What are you looking at me like that for?"

One daring hen eyed him with interest. The bird came close enough to be touched, and Michael extended one hand, when out of the shadows came a russet and green cock making straight for him. Michael stopped in mid-movement. The rooster rushed at him, cackling, but Michael saw no aggressiveness there. In a friendly gesture, the bird offered his head to the extended hand, requesting to be petted. Chuckling at his own fears, Michael willingly obliged and picked up the rooster to scratch him gently behind the head.

Past the rabbit cages, Michael heard noises and discovered the source of a smell he had not noticed right away. Pigs. A sow and three piglets, pink and clean, were penned on a wide concrete slab covered with fresh straw. The mother lay down, feeding the litter.

Michael found most of what he needed in shoeboxes stored on the shelves in the back of the barn. He packed the fishing supplies in the saddlebags of the Harley and attached the fishing poles along the frame of the motorcycle. The small automatic in the saddlebags reminded Michael of the mission. He’d traded the sawed-off shotgun for an Uzi. He felt for the knife sheathed in his boot. Could a bullet or a knife kill alien evil? The thought of Jennifer in the hands of Krastinios made him close his hand on the handle. The time would come, soon...

Michael was getting use to the idea that he might win. According to the myths, supernatural demons could be killed with silver daggers and silver bullets, vampires dispatched with wooden stakes, witches and sorcerers burned alive, others decapitated. What would it take to eliminate Krastinios whose powers seemed limitless? If injured, he probably could heal himself instantly. Michael would need to strike a vital organ with enough force, accuracy, and speed to cause instant death. Surprise might be the determining factor.

Back to the kitchen, Michael made some sandwiches then wrapped them in an insulated lunch box, along with some cans of soda. He jumped when the house phone rang. It was way too early to be Krastinios. Besides, it was the wrong phone.

"Michael? I'm so glad you're here. Are you all right?" Debbie sounded relieved to find him safe.

"Yes, Debbie. Just the person I wanted to talk to. How is everything in D.C.?" For a second, Michael thought about telling her to abort the campaign. No. Quickly regaining confidence, Michael resolved to go ahead as planned. "Where are you calling from?" he asked, concerned about her safety.

Debbie sounded excited. "Don't worry, this is a payphone. They can’t track the call. Besides, I'm only calling my sister. I have great news. The Crusade is alive and well. The fact that you're hunted by the police hasn't been made public yet. I guess they don't have any hard evidence, only suspicions, and if they didn't find you, they would look bad. Walter has contacted a lawyer, a very dedicated friend. Even if there's a public scandal, the authorities have no legal right to prevent other organizations from taking over the Crusade and using your material."

"This is great news, Debbie."

"All your prerecorded tapes have been distributed to the right organizations. They are used regularly in meetings and over the networks. Not bad for only two weeks of campaigning. Green Peace just agreed to finance several runs of your subliminal message film regarding the ecosystem in a major chain of movie theaters around the country. Your voice is heard, and your message mostly well-received."

"Mostly? What about the rest?"

"There are some industrial cartels who would love to see you dead. You made some powerful enemies in denouncing the illegal disposal of radioactive and pharmaceutical waste. They resent the expense of safe disposal and the cost of publicizing it to keep their good name. Some of them may be more dangerous to you than the police, or even Krastinios."