“Not yet. But I intend to.”
When Kimball stepped forward to finalize the action with a quick thrust of his KA-BAR, Ezekiel’s hand flew outward with incredible speed, a Chinese star taking flight.
Kimball reacted spontaneously, lifting a forearm just enough to catch the star, which was aimed for the throat. While Ezekiel knelt with a hand over his gash, he was also reaching for his three-pronged weapon. It was a sophomoric mistake on Kimball’s part to allow him to do so, and he chastised himself the moment the star imbedded within his flesh.
The razor-sharp prong bit deep, snapping one of the twin bones in his forearm, rendering the arm useless. And a KA-BAR fell to the floor, leaving him with one.
Ezekiel got to his feet, slowly, his face blanching to the color of the underbelly of a fish. The katana was still in his hand. But he held it in such a way that his body English said that there was little power, if any, to proffer a killing blow.
Nevertheless, he tried.
Wincing, his gut burning with white-hot pain, he struggled to lift the point of the katana at Kimball. “I’m tired of this game,” he managed. “Let’s get this over with.”
With surprising willpower Kimball didn’t think Ezekiel was capable of in his condition, the rogue warrior brought the blade up and across in an arc, the blows coming in slow succession with one hand managing the blade while the other covered his wound.
Even with one arm out of commission, Kimball easily deflected the katana, the volleys coming without effort.
And Kimball finalized the event with a sweeping arc of his own, the blade of his knife cutting Ezekiel deep across the shoulder, the katana finally dropping to the floor of the chamber.
Stumbling backward with the look of a man totally lost, Ezekiel reached blindly into one of his many hidden pockets for a Chinese star. But there were none, his pockets empty.
Kimball reestablished a firm grip on his KA-BAR until he was white-knuckled.
And then he ventured forward with obvious bloodlust, raising the blade for the final cut.
“Kimball!” Cardinal Vessucci voice was loud and firm, like a father admonishing a child before a wrongful act can be concluded. “He’s lost.”
Kimball stopped, his eyes still focusing on Ezekiel who looked like a man about to fall. “He killed Joshua and Job,” he said. “Good people who didn’t deserve to die. He murdered my team, the Pieces of Eight.”
“Then he shall be judged by God when his time comes. Don’t fall back to what you used to be, Kimball. I beg you.”
Ezekiel chortled. “Like I told you, Cardinal, a man can never truly turn away from what he really is. And Kimball failed the test.”
“You’re still alive, aren’t you?”
“Only because the cardinal stopped you,” he returned. “The truth is you don’t have the will to stop yourself.”
Kimball sighed and lowered the knife.
Ezekiel leaned against the wall, blood all over him.
And Kimball made his second mistake. The moment he went to aid the cardinal to his feet he heard a snicker from behind.
It was the pick shooting up from a cylinder.
“Kimball, look out!”
But the warning came too late.
The cylinder flew across the chamber, the pick finding its mark of Kimball’s upper chest below the right clavicle. Suddenly his world lit up with pinprick stars of light flashing within his field of vision, which was turning purple around the edges. He could see Ezekiel moving with a surreal slowness toward the katana; saw the cylinder emerging from his chest, the pick wedged deep. There was no pain, at least not yet. And the cardinal’s voice sounded distant and deep, like a tape being played on its lowest setting, whatever he was saying much too slow to comprehend.
The gun, lying on the ground to his right, was situated near the base of the sarcophagus.
Just as Ezekiel was wrapping his hand around the hilt of the katana, Kimball grabbed the firearm and held it weakly aloft, then aimed it at Ezekiel. The purple edges were closing in to a mote of vision, his sight pinching toward darkness. And then he pulled the trigger.
Shots dotted the wall surrounding Ezekiel, causing him to duck.
… Pow… Pow… Pow…
The bullets missed their target, pocking a wall that was priceless with the history of antiquity, with chips flying everywhere.
Ezekiel dropped the katana, placed a bloodied hand over his head, and ran out of the chamber.
Kimball’s hand fell weakly to his side, the Smith & Wesson falling from grasp but not too far from his hand.
Cardinal Vessucci then aided Kimball by cradling his head within his lap. He could tell that Kimball was fading, his pupils contracting and his sight becoming detached from his reality. “You’ll be fine,” he whispered to him.
And then he faced the exit where Ezekiel had escaped.
All was incredibly quiet.
And then to himself, he said, “I never thought I’d live to see the day when a Vatican Knight went rogue.”
The old man sighed.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Almost three months to the day Pope Pius XIII was diagnosed with cancer, he passed peacefully away in his sleep.
At the moment of the pontiff’s death the Cardinal Camerlengo, the title held by Cardinal Dominico Graziani, stood at the pontiff’s bedside and ritualistically called the pope’s name three times without response. After he completed the aged tradition, the medical staff then determined the pontiff’s death and authorized a death certificate. The Camerlengo then sealed off the pope’s private apartments, and made the event public by notifying the Cardinal Vicar for the Diocese of Rome. Once he alerted the Vicar, Cardinal Graziani then made preparations for the Papal funeral rites and the nine days of mourning, known as the novemdieles.
During the interregnum, the period of interim government, Cardinal Graziani became the leader of the Church and summarily directed the election of a new pope with the support of three cardinals, who were elected by the College of Cardinals, and began the tradition of the Conclave.
On the day of election the cardinals took seats around the wall of the Sistine Chapel, took a paper ballot, then wrote a name on the ballet. One by one, with Cardinal Vessucci at the head of the procession, the cardinals proceeded to the altar where a chalice stood with a paten on it. After holding their election slips high to show the Conclave they had voted, they then placed the ballots on the paten, and then slid them into the chalice.
When the cardinals took their respective seats, Cardinal Marcello and Vessucci gazed upon one other and gave each other a nod of support. The word was that some in Angullo’s camp were vacillating with their decisions and determined that Vessucci was the proper candidate. But going into the Conclave the numbers weren’t yet determined as to whose camp was strongest, the cardinals keeping their votes close to the vest.
Rising to the altar, the Cardinal Camerlengo, along with three aids, counted the votes and read the names out loud so that they could be written on the tally sheet. And Vessucci bowed his head in defeat. As they read off the names it appeared that the tally was not in his favor since all that was needed was the majority vote, which was half the Conclave plus one.
After the last name was tallied, an assistant ran a needle and thread through the center of each ballot and bound them together. He then burned the ballots using chemicals that would give off white smoke.
From the chimney the emerging smoke was as white as the billowy clouds that served as the backdrop against a bright blue sky. And the bells of St. Peter’s Basilica began to toll.
A new pontiff had been chosen.