Neil Olson - The Icon

“What are you saying?”

“Weapons,” he snapped.

“I don’t have any.”

The old man sighed, taking great mouthfuls of cool spring air, blinking.

“Search the car,” he commanded.

But there was nothing to find, no gun under the seat or in the glove compartment, no keys to open the trunk. Ana worked for several minutes to free the cord from the old man’s wrists, feeling fear claw its way back to the top of her emotional free-for-all.

Andreas massaged his liberated hands and looked to the open front door.

“Wait here,” he whispered, then moved toward the steps, stumbling, ridiculous. She nearly let him go, then ran after him, sliding her shoulder under his left arm for support, and they went purposely toward the door, until their progress was abruptly halted.

Ioannes stood against a bank of budding mountain laurel at the rear of the house and watched the burly, surefooted man slip in the back door. He had seen the man come out of the tree line and move swiftly and silently across the lawn, looking in all directions and yet never seeing the priest. More men had pulled up in front of the house some minutes before, just as Ioannes had gotten out of the car to stretch, and he had thought it wise to get out of sight. How many were in the house now, or who they all were, he could not guess, though there were at least two factions, since they were shooting at each other. Either no one had seen him yet, or nobody cared that he was there. Just a priest, after all.

The boy had probably been killed, Ioannes considered, sadly. These were dangerous men, and young Matthew was an innocent. His chances in the midst of this deadly cross fire did not seem good. It was all happening again, yet again. Ioannes would have to pursue his own solution. As quietly as he was able, he followed the big man into the house.

Instantly, before he even passed through the kitchen door, he heard two more loud shots, close together, to his right. The big, bearded man backed into the room from that direction, looking before and behind in quick succession, a large pistol in his hand. His gaze fixed Ioannes for a moment, but then slid past. He turned quickly and moved across the large kitchen, slipping through another door and into the dining room beyond.

Ioannes considered whether he might have become invisible to his enemies. This had happened before, during times of great need, and it would seem to reaffirm the necessity of his mission. Such power was not granted for no reason, certainly not to preserve the life of a weak, sinning priest. No, he had been delivered to this place, quite unexpectedly, for some purpose. He was an instrument. They were all of them instruments, poor blind fools.

His mind and spirit began to hum in a sweet unison. His feet moved him across the kitchen, stopping before the huge gas range. There was a smell of gas in the air, and he noticed that one of the dials was not in the off position. This kind of carelessness offended his sense of order. The voice in his head spoke just as his hand reached the dial, and he paused a moment to absorb the message. Yet only a moment; thought was the destroyer of action. He turned the dial to the high setting, without igniting the gas. Then he turned the other three dials as well, all four silver burners throwing invisible fumes. He waited a minute or so until the odor was strong, then stepped back. Was it enough? He went around and squeezed his arm into the space behind the stove, pulling hard on the narrow tube he guessed was the gas line, loosening it-did it hiss?-but not breaking it clean. He removed his arm. By the sink was a large bottle of industrial cleaner, which Ioannes emptied over the counters and floor. The noxious smell was now making him quite dizzy. What next? On impulse he followed the bearded fellow into the dining room.

The man was crouched by the long, dark table, gazing fixedly into the hallway beyond. He had clearly been there for some time, listening, waiting. He must be warned of what was about to happen, and Ioannes took a step forward, the floor beneath him groaning softly. The big man came out of his crouch and turned, finger to his lips and gun hand fiercely gesturing the priest back into the kitchen.

The air exploded with the sound of gunfire. Blood erupted through the big man’s jacket and Ioannes doubled over as something punched him in the stomach. They fell together, the bearded man twisting as he did to fire once at a thin figure standing in the hall.

The priest realized he had been shot as he hit the ground, and he waited for the pain to come. He rolled onto his side, looking to his unfortunate companion. The big man dragged himself into a sitting position against the wall, bleeding copiously through his shirt and jacket. He was angry.

“Son of a bitch,” he hissed, fumbling at his shirt with one hand and lifting the pistol with the other. It roared twice more, blowing chunks of plaster out of the opposite wall. “Damn it all to hell.” He looked at his oozing chest, then at Ioannes, shaking his head. “Fucking priests.”

Ioannes attempted to reach out a comforting hand, but the arrival of the pain stopped him. A long shudder racked the bearded man’s body and his wide eyes became fixed at a distant point. The pistol fell from his right hand. “Fucking priest,” he whispered again, and then was still.

It grew silent once more. A circle of throbbing discomfort was expanded from Ioannes’ diaphragm to encompass his whole body, and he had to bite down against the agony, taking shallow breaths. The test was always more difficult than expected, he reminded himself, but the thought was hard to hold on to. He succeeded now in reaching a hand out to wrap around the ankle of the man whose death he had just caused. Give rest with thy saints, O Lord, to this thy servant…he didn’t know the man’s Christian name, or if he even was a Christian, but the matter would be sorted out above. Too damaged to indulge in scolding or grieving, he refocused his mind on the task. Everything happened for a reason. The wound replaced his agitation with a mind-cleansing pain, and removed the possibility of escape. Slowly, excruciatingly, Ioannes pulled himself up on his elbows and dragged his stricken body back into the kitchen.

The smell of gas was strong; not as strong as he would have liked, but then, he was on the floor. An alcove with drawers was beside the range, and he pulled himself over there, noting the snaking blood trail behind him as he rolled over. He coughed wetly, tasting iron. His limbs were almost too heavy to use, but he pulled open the drawers, searching for one thing. There was not much time. The man who had shot him was probably the same one the big man had faced in the rear corridor. They had each circled around the house to ambush the other, the thin man winning the game because of Ioannes’ interference. Now he would circle back and find the bloody priest sprawled here. Very good, but let Ioannes find what he needed first.

“Father, forgive me,” said an arch voice from the rear corridor.

“You should not have stood so close to him. It was an accident.”

There are no accidents, thought Ioannes, his hand finding, at last, the familiar cardboard box. Calmness swept over him, and the keen euphoria of great possibility. The fumes were so potent he could barely stay conscious.

“I have great respect for priests,” the man spoke again, closer.

“My uncle, you know…” The surly fellow caught the smell then, and rushed across the room to the gas range. Ioannes saw the blond hair and narrow face, just as the cool blue eyes saw him lying there in the alcove. The man’s hand was upon the first dial, twisting it to OFF, but the eyes grew wide when they saw what it was the priest held.

“Don’t,” breathed the Dutchman.