Heirs of Cain (39 page)

“I believe you, Lucas.”

“But you’re still going to turn me in.”

“Like you, Lucas, I have no other choice. You’ve committed sins you have to atone for. This. Cardinal’s death.” Cain paused, waited, then sent out an arrow that drove deep into Lucas’s heart. “Treason.”

“Ah, yes,” Lucas said softly. “You always were big on that one. Good and evil. America now and always. No middle ground. Not for you. Oddly enough, I take great comfort in that. You see, at my deepest core, I share those same sentiments.”

Lucas turned and looked at the Picasso painting. After several moments, his back still to Cain, he said, “Giants once roamed the earth. Men of talent, courage, vision. Men who dared to dream, who sought to create splendor and magnificence. They don’t exist anymore. They’ve been replaced by animals who seek nothing more than to prey upon the weak.”

“But you aren’t weak, Lucas.”

“Nor am I as strong as you believe me to be.” Lucas turned to face Cain. “You understand, of course, I can’t let you take me in.”

“Don’t make this any harder than it has to be. For either of us.”

Lucas reached into the pocket of his bathrobe, took out a .45 automatic, and aimed it at Cain. Tears streamed down his face.

“I’ve loved you as if you were my own son,” he said, his voice choking. “Indeed, in some ways, you are my creation. I don’t want to do this, my boy, but there is no way I can allow you to take me in.”

Cain eased around the side of the desk, his right hand extended. “You won’t shoot me, Lucas. Your hands could never be that bloody.”

“I must. Don’t you see? I simply cannot allow them to strip me of my honor. Of all that’s in this room. On these walls.”

“Give me the gun, Lucas.”

Lucas backed up until he was directly against the wall, beneath the Picasso painting. Shaking his head, he whispered, “I can’t. I simply can’t.”

“Give it to me, Lucas. It’s finished.”

Lucas smiled, nodded slightly, put the barrel of the gun against his temple and squeezed the trigger. The force of the bullet drove him violently to the left, slamming him hard against a file cabinet. Blood spattered onto the Picasso. His limp body bounced off the cabinet and dropped to the floor. He blinked twice, let out a final breath, then stared straight ahead. A steady stream of thick, red blood spouted from the wound like water from a spigot.

Cain knelt beside the lifeless body of his old friend, a man he loved like a father. He felt for a pulse, although he knew he wouldn’t find one. Lucas was dead. Cain stood and leaned against the wall. Emotions charged within him like rampaging electrons. Sadness. Shock. Relief.

Ultimately, his sense of relief won the race. Relief that Lucas found a way to avoid the humiliation and public disgrace he so feared. That he found a way to keep his past unspoiled. Lucas was free. No one would ever know.

His secrets would go to the grave with him.

The memory of a giant would be left untarnished.

An hour later, Cain pulled his car into a deserted shopping center parking lot and cut the engine. Leaning his head back and closing his eyes, he thought about all he had learned from Lucas. What surprised him most was his lack of surprise. Or outrage. Cain had long suspected Lucas of playing both sides. Many men in Lucas’s position did, oftentimes without realizing it. They were ghostly figures operating in a strange parallel world where the line between right and wrong was easily blurred, easily crossed. What he hadn’t suspected was the extent of Lucas’s activities, the depth of his double-dipping. Somewhere along the way, Lucas had taken a wrong turn, colluded with the wrong devils. How much damage had he caused? How many lives had been lost because of his actions? Those questions could never be answered.

Cain opened his eyes and picked up the envelope he had taken from Lucas’s desk. With trembling hands, he opened the envelope, removed the letter, and began reading.

Gen. Richard L. Collins (Ret.)

525 Ocean Road

St. Augustine, FL 32085

Aug. 15, 1987

   Dear Lucas:

As you have no doubt heard by now, your old comrade in arms has recently been given a death sentence. It’s the Big C, pancreatic, inoperable, so far advanced that neither chemo nor radiation is a viable option. My doctor says I have maybe three months, but that’s being optimistic. Right now I feel fine. I do tend to get a little weak as the day wears on, but overall I’m coping. However, my doctor says when it kicks in for real, I will go downhill rather fast and the end will come quickly.

I have lived now eighty years, more than three-quarters of a century, a full, rich and rewarding life in every way. I have been blessed with a wonderful family, a wife who has endured both me and my military career with graciousness, tolerance, love, and understanding, and two daughters who are so gentle and loving that I sometimes question if they are truly mine. Those three have been the anchor in my nomadic life, the ones who held things together when I was circling the globe fighting big wars or putting out small fires. You and I were together on many of those excursions, so you know what I’m talking about. A career soldier’s family does not have it easy.

The prospect of imminent death does not frighten me, Lucas. It angers me. I am simply not ready to die, and the thought of having to do so at this time does not make me happy. Is it selfish for a man who has been given so much to want more time? Yes, but I couldn’t care less. When my time does come, if the Almighty greets me with open arms, I am likely to respond with a punch to his cheek. And if he’s foolish enough to turn that cheek, I’ll punch the other one as well.

I will not, under any circumstances, go gently into that good night. The Angel of Death will have a fight on his hands when he comes for me.

Yesterday, while looking through an old trunk in the garage, I happened across a photo of you, me, and Michael that was taken at Arlington Cemetery on July 4, 1960. Michael couldn’t have been more than 10 or 11 at the time, yet he was already as tall as either of us. Funny, but I can’t recall him being small. Odd, isn’t it, for a father to have no memories of his only son as a baby or a small child? I remember the girls as infants, but not Michael. He was always a man.

There have been many times when I envied your relationship with Michael. Oftentimes, I was downright jealous. In many ways, you have been more of a father figure for him than I have. You’ve certainly spent more time with him, and now that I am at the end of my rope, having not spent more time with my son may be my biggest single regret in life.

Our relationship, as you well know, has always been difficult and stormy. Michael and I seldom seemed to be on the same page about anything. Perhaps that was inevitable, given his extraordinarily high level of intelligence, which far exceeded mine. Goodness knows, he is a sharp lad and always has been. Whatever the reason or cause, we simply never clicked. We may as well have resided in different galaxies. I don’t think I was a bad father, and he certainly never was a bad son: a judgment, if accurate, that only adds yet another layer of mystery to the strangeness of our relationship.

Oddly enough, I fear this extreme assessment is more mine than Michael’s. Whereas I saw us as separated, he saw us as different. There was, for me at least, a gap that could never be bridged. I don’t think Michael ever saw our relationship in those terms. He maintained a hope I could never muster. You would, I suspect, take his side in this matter and you may not be wrong in so doing. The outsider looking in often has the more accurate perspective on such affairs.

You once told me Michael was the greatest soldier you’d ever been privileged to know. Coming from you, that is high praise indeed. As his father, and as a lifelong soldier, I can’t begin to express the pride I have for Michael. No father could want or expect more from a son.

However, I can’t deny a certain trepidation mixed in with that pride. I am not deaf—I have heard the stories. I know what they say about Michael, and I don’t doubt the veracity of those reports. I’m well aware of the myth surrounding him. I’m also certain he likely did more than has been shared with me. As his father, I am positive many of his “deeds” were kept from me. That was probably for the best. I have no yearning to know everything.

Yet, as I close in on the final page of my life, I am continually haunted by a series of questions: The Michael you know, the supreme warrior—where did he come from? Where did he obtain the strength, the will, to perform such deadly deeds? Where did that confidence, that fearlessness, come from? And, finally, what price did he pay for such actions? I can’t imagine anyone doing the things he did, then walking away unscathed.

The biblical Cain received a mark for his actions. I have searched my son for such a mark and have not found it. I have looked deep into his eyes, hoping they might reveal answers to my many questions. But those answers are not there, or if they are, then they are far beyond my ability to grasp.

Therefore, I am left to wonder, Is my son a monster? Is he a ruthless creature lacking the quality of mercy? Is that my curse, going to the grave wondering if my own flesh and blood was capable of committing brutal and savage acts without displaying any emotion or regret? If so, I fear I’m in for an unsettling stay in eternity.

I can see you now, Lucas, ramrod straight with Scotch in hand. I can hear your familiar chuckle as you say, “There you go again, Richard, being overly dramatic. No, Michael was not a monster. He was Cain.”

Maybe that’s the answer, Lucas: sleight-of-hand wordplay to bring me peace before I die. Never confuse Michael for Cain. Isn’t that what you advised so many years ago, back when Michael was still in Vietnam? “Michael is your son, Richard. Cain is an aberration.” Wasn’t that how you worded it? Yes, I believe it was.

Once again you have the luxury of standing on the outside looking in. You can watch this aberration with awe and amazement, with a certain sense of detachment and always from a safe distance. I cannot. For me, he can never be an aberration. He is my son, always my son. Therefore, the ghosts of his past will follow me to my grave.

I am tired, Lucas. Far too weary to continue this pursuit of answers I will never find. Questions concerning the nature of good and evil, the mystery of faith, the very existence of a supreme deity, whether or not my son is a monster—they have tormented me all my life, and they torment me still. Sadly, I now must confess that those answers continue to elude me.

My days of tilting at windmills have passed, I’m sorry to announce. Father Time has won the race. He gets the big trophy. As for me, I ready myself for the final battle, one I know I’m destined to lose.

Take care, my dear friend, and be well. My ride may have ended, but the many fond memories remain. Know I have treasured our friendship, the adventures we shared, our lengthy discussions, and the vast quantities of Scotch we consumed.

Know this as well: I love Michael more than he can possibly begin to comprehend. He is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased.

As for Cain—let him dwell forever in dark places.

   Farewell,

Richard

Cain sat on a wooden bench in the small park three blocks from his house. Above him, the trees swayed to a gentle evening breeze. A cardinal circled toward the heavens, writing a silent poem against the star-filled sky.