Mark Stone - The Judas Line

Maggie snapped her fingers. “The sun!”

Morgan winked at her and then lowered his head, as if heeding an internal monologue. “Have to run, guys. Cain, call Fire, burn this place to the foundations, then go to the roof. Air will give you a lift to the nearest building. You’ll be safe.”

“Did you arrange it?” I asked.

He nodded. “The elements are grateful for the return of Primal Water. Balance can be restored. And this world needs a lot of balancing.” Once again that internal monologue. “I have to go, but first, Mike … take this.” He held a silvery cylinder in the palm of his watery hand.

The molecular knife. I took the device and the metal was cold, so cold. “Morgan!” My throat tore at the lump that had formed there.

He took me into an all-enveloping, liquid, embrace.

[You’re the best man I’ve ever known, Mike] came his voice into my head. He sounded like his old self again. [I don’t want to go, man, but I have to.]

I know, but I don’t want you to go!

[I’m going to be fine. Going to miss you, man.]

Aw, heck. I could barely think, I felt so alone, so empty. Love you.

A sob splashed against my mind. [I love you, too, Mike.]

And, like that, he was gone … away down the elevator shaft and out of my life. A horrible spasm tore at my chest, as tears dripped off my chin. Beside me, Maggie surrendered to her own grief, a long low keening that raised the hair on the back of my neck with its abject sorrow. I gathered her into my arms for what comfort we could share. We sagged to our knees, tears mingling.

We stayed like that for a while lost in the labyrinth of our mutual grief until Cain gently lifted us to our feet and led us away. Acrid smoke curled about us as Cain led us to the roof, where Air gently lifted us to safety.

Fire burned the hotel down to its foundations, erasing all evidence of the conflict that had taken so many lives. We watched into the wee hours of the morning until the building collapsed in on itself, burning so hot that no firefighter would risk drawing near. By midday we were on a private jet bound for home.

That was two months and a lifetime ago. I resumed my duties at St. Stephen’s, Maggie left for parts unknown, a little sadder, perhaps a little wiser. As for Cain, he’s decided to stick around for a while, claiming that Omaha’s pace suited him just fine. I think he wants to stay near me, to see if I hold the key to the forgiveness he seeks. I don’t have the heart to tell him that he should seek forgiveness from within. I doubt he’d listen anyway; he’s got a blind spot the size of Montana when it comes to introspection.

The newspapers and other media never followed up on the “big” Missing Heir story. Cain thinks the Sicarii are licking their wounds, keeping their collective heads down. I think they’re truly afraid, perhaps for the first time ever. Good, they should be.

Sometimes, late at night, I think about why God sent an angel to save one, lonely, corrupt man and I remember what Cain said to me recently, that He uses a screwdriver, not a sledgehammer. Maybe God knew that young Olivier needed a push in the right direction, all so he could make the decision to save millions of people from Earth’s fury and return Primal Water to where it belonged. Maybe.

Whatever you may think of Olivier Deschamps, he did try to do some good in this world.

And in the end, that’s about all anyone can ask.