MY HEART IN STONE

PART EIGHT:

The warmth of Cort's fingers curling over his hand was something Henri had not known for many years. Working for Mikol was a cold and lonely occupation. As he watched Cort sleep, he found he truly wanted to help the young man.  But what was there he could do?  Cort could never re-enter his movie.  His life was irrevocably changed.  It had been a long time, a very long time, since he'd felt protective of anyone. He'd watched Mikol's retrievals die one by one, watched his co-workers like Dimetri be executed, all while wrapping detachment about himself like a shield.  But the more he was around Cort, the more of a fatherly protectiveness he found growing in his heart.  It was, he well knew, likely to be the death of him.

Cort dozed only briefly, awaking with a low groan and touching his face with his other hand.

"I expect some pretty spectacular bruises shortly," Henri said.  Already the white streaks had faded and were beginning to be replaced by large areas of purple on either cheekbone.

Cort turned his head.  "You're still here."

Henri smiled. "I am. Is there anything I can get for you?"

"Some water?" Cort replied, aware how dry his lips and mouth were.

Henri went into the small bathroom and returned with a glassful, then helped lift Cort's head as he drank.  "Are you ready to make your life a bit easier, my friend?

"How's that?" Cort asked.

"Accept that this has happened to you...that you are here.  See what you can do to try and move forward."

"I don't know where forward is, Doctor.  Not any more."

"I can imagine," Henri said, shaking his head.  "Well, actually, no...I can't imagine.  Not all that you must adjust to.  It's...monumental. And yet it must be adjusted to."  Henri tipped his chair back. "I  know that's easier said than done."

Cort put a hand briefly over his eyes, then looked at Henri again.  "For me, Doctor, it was a  matter of days ago that I was the pastor of a mission. When Foy and Ratsy came riding in, I hadn't touched a gun in years, had none around to defend my parish.  It was so easy for them to burn it, to haul me off to Redemption like they did."  He swallowed hard, then continued.  "I thought I was done with Herod, with that life, that I'd never see him again. Then there he was and I tried...I tried so hard...not...not to do it...not to shoot.  I thought I could do it, you know.  Not shoot.  But I couldn't."  Tears sparked in his eyes. "After...after I'd done it, I knew I was lost.  Like I was back...back the last time I'd seen Herod, when he made me...."

"I know," Henri interjected. "You don't have to say it.  I know."

"I'm still not used to that."

"What?"

"That you know.  That you know my whole story, saw what I did."

Henri just nodded.

"I think what I'm trying to say is that I was still right in the middle of getting used to the mission being gone, you know.  That it was...all...gone.  That I'd lost myself again...or maybe met myself again.  The real me.  The killer."

"I don't think that's the real you, Cort," Henri said softly.

"I don't know. Maybe it is.  Maybe that's all I've ever been.  Maybe I was just pretending to be a priest.  Trying to fool myself.  Trying to fool the world.  So they wouldn't see...wouldn't know.  So I wouldn't see. Maybe that's all there ever was to it."

Henri listened intently, silently, just offering his presence.

"Then right there, Doctor, right there in the middle of all that...I find myself here."  He looked toward the window.  "And then I'm told I'm just some character in a play.  That it's not even the year I thought it was.  That nothing is what I thought it was."  He put both hands over his face.
"How can it matter if the mission burned or matter that I was capable of shooting someone again...how can any of that matter at all if none of it is real?"

Henri put his hand on Cort's shoulder. "It matters, Cort, because you simply ARE Cortland Wells.  All of it...every bit...was and is your life. That counts.  That's important.  No one knows how all of this works...why all of this works.  But your life to you is every bit as real as my life is to me.  Not less in any way.  Do you hear me, Cort?  You ARE real! You feel my hand on your shoulder.  A real hand on a real shoulder."  He sighed heavily and sat back.  "I think it's possible you are even more real than I am."

Cort looked at him.  "Why would you say that?"

"Oh, well...my life hasn't been all that much, you know.  Sometimes I think I never got to really live at all. And I look at you, and you are so alive and you've lived so much even though you're still so young.  I wish...."

"What?"

"Ah, nothing.  Just a silly thought I had."  He stood.  "I'll go get you some breakfast, all right? It's mid-morning and you've had nothing to eat."

After Henri left, Cort lay on the bed awhile, just thinking.  If it had not been a movie, if his life as he had known it was just going to continue, what would have come next?  They told him that Herod was dead, that Ellen had left town.  What then? What would he have done? Would he have stayed there? No, the idea of that didn't appeal to him. The town was blown apart and it wasn't his town in the first place.  He was only there because he'd been dragged there.  The mission was gone.  Would he have returned there, tried to rebuild?  He simply didn't know.  He knew he'd been changed by what had happened in Redemption. Probably way too much to go back to the mission. It seemed he had no real future no matter where he was.  So did it matter all that much where...he was or he wasn't?  There was no one really to miss  him.  Ellen hadn't cared enough to stay.  No one in Redemption really cared about him at all.

He was still deep in his musings when the door slid open and Mikol came up into the room bearing the breakfast tray. Setting the tray on the bed near Cort, Mikol said, "Sorry about the face."

Cort touched his left cheekbone gingerly and nodded as his only reply.

Mikol sat in the chair Henri had left near the bed. "Eat. Please."

Cort propped himself against the headboard, pulling the tray closer. It did smell good. He felt awkward, though, sitting there eating in front of Mikol and hesitated to pick up the fork.

"I've eaten," Mikol supplied, sensing what was bothering Cort. "Don't let it get cold."

Cort took a mouthful of eggs scrambled with cheese, his stomach gurgling in instant appreciation. "Good," he mumbled, going for another large bite.

"We need to talk," Mikol said, watching him carefully. "Are you going to try that again?"

"Leaving?" Cort said, licking elderberry jam from the corner of his mouth.

"Yes...that."

"Don't think so," he replied, lifting a coffee mug to his lips. "Nope."

"How do I know?"

"Henri says I can't get back to Redemption.  Is that right?"

"It is."

"Then where would I go?"

"True. You have no place but here now."

"This place, it's somewhere in Europe, right?"

Mikol nodded.

"This where you intend I should stay?"

"For now, yes. It is where I live."

Cort set his cup carefully on the tray, his eyes fastened on it a long moment, then he raised them to Mikol's. "Why? Why do you want me here?"

Mikol met his gaze unflinchingly. "I want to know why you are as you are. I want to know all the steps that you took to become who you are. I want to understand what makes you tick."

Cort grinned.  "Like a clock, eh? I don't think I'm all that interesting, Mi...Mi...."

"Mikol."

"Right. Mikol. Maybe you got the wrong man outta the wrong movie, Mikol."

"I assure you, I did not."

"Ok, Mikol. What is it you think you want to know?"

"What was it like to kill Father Michael? What were you thinking as you did it?"

Cort was taken aback. He had not expected such blunt directness. He sucked in a sharp breath, not letting it out for almost too long so that when he did release it, it was more of a heavy puff. He pressed his lips together, closing his eyes.

It was easy, all too easy, to go back to that moment. He'd tried to explain some of it to Ellen there on the porch in the rain. But how did one explain such a thing? Then he remembered that Mikol had seen and heard everything he'd told Ellen. That wasn't what he was asking, not why he'd done it, but what it had felt like to do it.

"I...I...didn't want to do it. But I could feel the barrel of Herod's gun pressing against my scalp. I said 'No', but he just started to count. I knew he'd kill me. Without blinking an eye he would. And then he'd kill Father Michael himself. So I figured the priest was a dead man either way. And I wanted to live."

He bit his upper lip hard. "But Michael, he was looking right at me. Oh, God...his eyes! He'd spent hours and hours talking with me, telling me things, explaining things, praying for me.  And all of it was right there in his eyes. He heard Herod counting and he nodded at me. I know he didn't want to die, either, but he nodded at me because he knew I had to. He...he...chose me. Over himself. He chose my life over his. And Herod was going five, four, three.... It all seemed so fast. I couldn't think. There was just Herod's voice and those eyes. And I chose.  I chose myself, too. I raised my gun and I shot him. It was like some black tunnel closed in around me and Herod was laughing. Father Michael fell and I dropped my gun and tried to catch him, but I wasn't fast enough. He hit the floor and Herod laughed more. I was trapped in this tunnel and the sides of it were squeezing me. I heard the sound of Herod's spurs. He was walking across the floor toward the door. Stepped in Father Michael's blood and his boots left marks of it as he walked. Red marks all across the floor."

He had to pause. The words were tumbling out of him, piling up on themselves. He could barely breathe. The memory was vivid, too vivid. "We were in the chapel, you see, and I sat beside Father Michael and pulled him across my lap. His blood got all over me. Herod stopped at the door and said, 'You comin'?' I said 'No' and I expected he'd shoot me then and there. But he didn't.  He just left. And I sat there for hours holding the priest's body. I couldn't believe I'd done that to him. But I had. After all he'd done for me, saving my life when I was shot up so bad, saving...me. I swore I'd never shoot a gun again. Never."

"Is that why you became a priest?"

"I'd taken one from God. A really good one. The best. And I owed Him. I owed Him a priest even though it would never be nearly as good. It was a debt I had to pay. And...then...I started to like it. Especially the kids. We had a school at the mission. Lots of kids. They laughed a lot. I liked the sound of that. I liked my little chapel. I'd go there and it almost seemed like Father Michael was there sometimes. Then they burned it. And I was so angry. I tried not to be but I couldn't stop. And when I was in the Kid's gun shop and saw the guns. I wanted to touch them. My hands hurt I wanted to touch them so bad. And Herod knew it. He was right about me all along. I tried so hard to be Father Michael, but I couldn't. He was a good man and I wasn't."

Mikol smiled slightly. "Sometimes good men cannot see their own goodness."

"I had none to see. I just spent years fooling myself, fooling others, till I got so damn good at it I
almost started believing it myself. Even when Herod got me that gun I was still trying to fool myself. 'I won't shoot.' I said that over and over, thinking I was strong enough, that I wouldn't. But in that last second in the street, I did it again. I chose my life...again. And I knew...after that...I could never fool myself again, could never fool anyone again...ever again.  I looked down at that gun I'd just fired and I knew who I was, who I really was. And I didn't like it much."

He was worn from the talking, more worn from the remembering. "Is that what you want, what you wanted me to say?"

"Part of it, yes. You've been most helpful, Cort."

Cort sagged back, utterly spent, beads of sweat on his brow. Mikol looked at him. He doubted if the man had ever in his life said so many words so fast. He liked it that he did, that he could.

"Cort," he said to get the man's attention again.

Cort cast half-lidded eyes in his direction.

"You will stay?"

"I will stay."

"Give me your word. On the memory of Father Michael, give me your word."

Cort closed his eyes. "You have it."

"Rest today, then. Tomorrow I'll show you the castle."

 

As he began a slow drift into sleep, a quiet memory skirted around the edges of his mind, almost but not quite touching the edges of conscious thought. Someone, some where, thought he was a good man. He roused briefly enough to wonder who but dismissed it as a dream. No one really thought that.

He slept a while, looked out the window a while, but the day was passing slowly and he was glad when Mikol returned in mid-afternoon.

"You are rested?"

"Much better, thanks."

"Are you up for another question?"

Cort blew out a breath. What in heaven's name would the man ask this time? He dipped his head affirmatively.

They sat at the table again, Mikol leaning back in his chair, his hands folded over his
abdomen, rubbing the pads of his thumbs together.  Cort waited silently, his body tensed.

"In the saloon. What were you thinking when the rope was around your neck and the chair started to split?"

Good God! Did the man never want to know what he'd eaten for dinner or what kind of dog he'd had as a kid?

He closed his eyes, letting his mind take him back to that moment on the chair. Moments like that did tend to be seared into one's brain.  He looked levelly then across at his host. "I was trying not to shit my pants."

Mikol grinned. "Other than that."

 

"It was still all so fresh, you know. The burning of the mission, the trip to Redemption. I didn't know yet what it was Herod wanted, you see. I thought he just planned to kill me for the sport of it. I didn't even know at first he was in the saloon. They just tossed me across the floor and I smacked so hard into the bar. It wasn't until I was getting up that I saw him, sitting there, smiling at me like a fox at a chicken."

"What did you think when you saw he'd arranged the contest?"

"I knew...from the first I knew...that it was really just for him and me." He shrugged. "He knew he'd kill every opponent he had. Knew I'd kill all mine. So...in the end...it would just be him and me. And he needed to know he could take me. It had always bothered him that he didn't know that, not for sure. So nobody else counted.  They were all just...incidental. A means to his end. Which was to kill me."

"Why didn't he just kill you when you stayed with the priest's body? Why not then?"

 

"Because he needed it to be face to face. Out in the street.  Looking at me. It was the only way he'd ever know he was faster, better."

"Why the hanging?"

"He knew I'd chosen my life. Back there with Father Michael. So he thought I'd choose it again. That if he pushed me to the edge, he'd get what he wanted."

"Makes sense."

Cort smiled wryly. "But at that moment I was still full of my own self-righteousness. I kept saying 'no'... thought I meant it, too. Maybe I did. I think so. The rope got so tight. I could feel my neck stretching, my windpipe closing up. 

I tried to stand on my toes. God, I remember the wobble of that chair under my boots.
He asked me again and I told him to go to hell."

"Yes, I rather liked that part."

"I just looked at his face the whole time. He smiled like he was amused, but I knew he was deadly serious, knew what he wanted. And I didn't want him to have it. I thought maybe I could manage not to give it to him." He sighed, tipping his own chair dangerously far back, closing his eyes as he continued. "I thought that was it. For me. That that was all there was. That I was done. Finished. I was scared shitless but I thought I could do it." He touched a hand briefly to his neck. "I couldn't breathe. I was losing sight of his face. And I kept telling myself it would all be over in just a moment more. One more moment. And I would have taken from the bastard the thing he wanted most. And something in me was almost...happy...that he would never know if he
was better."

He let his front chair legs down with a loud smack. "But then Ellen shot the rope. Right at that last second. Everything was going dark and suddenly I was on the floor again and my name went up on the chalk board. It was like in Nogales. I'd lost again. I looked at my name up there on the board and still I tried. I tried so damn hard to think I wouldn't shoot, that I wouldn't let him be right about me. But he was right. In the end he was."  He looked silently toward the window, lost in his thoughts, not wanting to verbalize them further.

He got up and walked to the window, holding on to the iron grillwork, pressing his forehead against it. "I thought I could do it." He pulled his head back a few inches, then let it hit once against the grill. "Why couldn't I do it? Why?"

"In the gun shop. Tell me about the door, about kicking the door."

Cort turned, his left hand still holding onto the grill. "That was in the movie? Even that?"

"Even that."

"They threw me on the floor again and my chin hit real hard. I bit my tongue. Ratsy always thought it was fun...making me fall...hitting me when I wasn't looking. I knew he was just coming in the door behind me, without looking I knew he'd be smiling. And I hated that, hated that he'd have that smile on his face. So I thought I'd take it...off. I was so angry lying there. Didn't feel much like a priest at all."

He let go of the grill, pacing toward the bed and then back again to the window.

"It...gritted...me. That he was smiling. All I could think of was that I had to make him stop. So, you see, I sort of have this sense of timing. Is what makes me so fast in a shoot-out, I guess. And I pushed the door with my boot just when I knew it would get him in the face.

I forgot...you see. Forgot who I was supposed to be, who I'd been trying to be. And as soon as I'd done it, I saw Herod's face. I almost puked. He was so happy. And it was at that moment he knew I'd draw my gun. He was sure of it. But not me. I was still fooling myself."

"The scene in the gun shop. It's always been one of my favorites. The way you look at the guns. That twitch in your hand."

"I was on this slope. Like shale...or ice. Something like that. Something that it's hard to keep your footing on. Slides out from under you, you know?"

"I do."

"I was pacing back and forth. It was how I was trying to keep my footing.

But the Kid kept describing the guns. And he had a couple of really good ones, you know. Back in the old days, I'd have ki..., I'd have done anything, " he amended, "to have a gun like he had there on that counter. And my hands, they wanted to touch it. It was almost like needing a drink. I needed to touch it. The snake was hanging out of the tree, dangling a shiny red apple...and I needed a bite of apple. I tried to look away, but it knew my name. Herod knew it. Knew I was hearing it call me. He loved it. God, how he loved getting me in that shop. It was...familiar. Even the smell of it. And the slope kept slipping out from under me. I said I wouldn't fire it and Herod just smiled. I told the Kid I wouldn't need it and Herod smiled. Then I had a gun in my hands."

"There was a...memory...an actual memory in the muscles of my hands and as soon as I felt it, my hands...remembered...what to do. And so I did my little tricks with it. Did I want Herod to see I still could? Did I want ME to see I still could? I enjoyed it. That's the truth of it. I simply enjoyed having the gun in my hand. It was a part of me. I thought I'd gotten past that. But I hadn't. Instantly...it was a part of me. And STILL I tried to make myself believe that I would not shoot, that I could just stand there and let Foy kill me."

He slumped back down onto the chair. "Then Herod asked when was the last time I'd held a gun in my hands. Threw it right in my face. He knew when. I felt like that apple had turned black and rotten and I still had a big bite of it in my mouth. You want to know how I felt? I felt... clubbed. Like someone had taken a large piece of wood and broken it over my head. I felt like I'd shot Father Michael a second time. I knew that that feeling of the gun in my hand, my enjoyment of having it there, all of it...was a betrayal of everything Father Michael stood for,
of everything I'd spent years trying to stand for. And it was feeling that that I went out into the street where Foy was waiting. It gave me some bit of new strength to think I could do it."

"And walking down the street, Cort, how did that feel? With people throwing things at you? How did that make you feel?"

"Like I didn't belong there. That's how I felt. And I wanted to feel like that. It meant I wasn't one of them. Meant I wouldn't draw my gun." He shrugged again. "I didn't like it. People were throwing everything that was lying around at me, even vegetables. The Foy boys, though, they
scooped up the horse shit. Got it all over my jacket. It was almost like the worse that jacket got,
the more torn, the...smellier...the further I got from the mission.  For a while I used it as kind of a shield, I guess. If I had it on, I was still the priest. Like some sort of armor. If I looked like a
priest, maybe I'd act like a priest, be a priest. Maybe I'd be able to stand there and not draw."

"How was it, then, in that last minute, as you stood there?"

"When I was walking, I had my hands clasped...in front...right over the buckle of my gun belt. Herod had put it on me over my jacket. It didn't feel right. Then I stopped. I wanted to keep them clasped. Father Michael would have kept his clasped. But my hand, it just moved over toward my gun.

I saw Ellen standing over to the left, by some bit of a tree. She was watching me. I saw her eyes. She had that look...that waiting look, waiting to see what I'd do. Made me think of Michael again and I curled my fingers away from the gun, let my hand drop. It was pretty strong right then."

"What? What was strong?"

"That feeling that I could do it. Not draw. It's why I dropped my hand."

"Then what?"

"I...just...looked around. Everything was shifting, going all slow-like. I saw Foy's teeth, then his eyes. So different from Father Michael's.  And when he called me a dead man, I knew he was right. So I closed my eyes."

"Seemed right to say one final prayer. But when I asked God to forgive me for my sins, I didn't know if I meant for the ones I'd already committed or for the one I was about to commit. Maybe I meant both. 'Cause I heard the click of the big clock and it all just sorta...flowed. Too fast to see. Too fast to think. There was the click and then I had the gun in my hand. I remember looking down at it, wondering how it got there. I don't even recall drawing it. It was just...there. It was like the real me had taken over. Didn't even ask permission. Just...took over and did what came natural."

"What was that like?"

"I looked at Ellen again and she smiled. Pleased I'd done it, I guess. But I could hardly hold the gun. If Ratsy hadn't come and taken it out of my hand, I think I'd have dropped it. Like in Nogales. I just didn't want it in my hand. It brought it all back. So clear. I'd done it again. That's when I knew. That moment. That I hadn't changed. I was still the bank robber who'd killed the priest. I'd always be him. The man Herod had made me. He was stronger in me than the man I'd tried to make myself into."

" A bit later, I remember looking at my hands. They were dirty. Dirty in and dirty out. They had more memory of a smooth, quick gun draw than they did of communion. And I knew I'd saved my own life again because I could not not save it. But it wasn't worth much. It wasn't worth much at all."

Mikol had only asked questions, offering no judgments. He wanted to learn what Cort's opinion of himself was. And Cort, feeling there was nothing to lose, that there was no reason not to, was letting him see it. Cort was far more complex than he himself seemed to realize. He had himself simplified down into a failure, spiritually, morally, personally.

"I'll send Henri up with your supper. It's getting late."

He felt very drained. The questions Mikol asked presented him with all the parts of himself that he hated. It was all just right there in his face again. All fresh. He was aware of a certain heaviness of soul settling over him like a mantle. It weighed him down. He looked for a moment toward the window where the last light of the sunset still reflected a pale peach off a bank of low clouds. He felt utterly, completely alone.  He leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table, burying his face in his hands. He'd been alone before in his life. Why was this aloneness so much more profound? It seemed to come from somewhere in him not related to the movie, not related to being in this place. He didn't know its source, the why of it, that sense of being cut off from... what? All he knew was that his whole body ached with it.

“Rache, give us a call, luv.  Change of plans.”

That was all the information Terry left on the voice mail for her apartment at the Mini-Hotel, an abrupt greeting for her return after a long day of walking.  The sun had made its semi-arc across the sky before deciding to hide behind the hills again and the shadows, ever present in between the ordered buildings, consumed the streets again.  The pleasant temperatures started falling with the sun, so Rachel had made her way back to her room to soak in the tub and start processing all the impressions she had gathered.  She was anxious to find out when Terry was coming because of the woman she met and how she was connected to Grovensky Construction and when was he going to get there so they could both tear the place apart for such an operation.  Fast dialing on her cell phone got her a very clipped tone and…a sigh of regret.

As she sprawled out on her bed, Rachel felt the uplift that had been slowly building from her 

afternoon in the market square deflate like a five-cent balloon.  

“You’re lucky we got you off when we did,” Terry added.  “They won’t come out and say it, but we’re in something of a lockdown mode here.  We’ve received express instructions not to leave the area.  Dee’s frantic because her brother is driving over from Alabama and he won’t be happy to hear she can’t make it to Germany, at least not yet.  Unless we can get things straightened out here, that is.”

“Who was it?”  Rachel asked.

A long pause ensued and Terry could be heard shuffling things on his desk, Dee’s voice suggesting that she talk to Rachel.

“Tom, luv.  They found Tom in his office at the gymnasium.  Some nasty stuff used.  They’re still trying to piece together motive but…” he drifted off again, unwilling to speculate.  “But Bud seems to think we’ve found our mole to Mikol.”

Rachel felt all the blood drain from her face, her memory shifting sharply to the sword fight in Redemption, delivering the news to Terry and the others later, and the uneasy feeling that everything they had planned for Gladiator was already known and counteracted, something well confirmed when Dimetri showed up in Zucchabar. 

Tom, her fencing trainer!  Had she been that loose-lipped about her plans?  Rachel rejected that almost immediately.  It was a rare person in Emerald City that truly understood the operations of the Retrieval Unit, and those who did, were intensely monitored.  Tom had worked as a contract fitness specialist, a ‘plus’ for those who were employed as a preventative solution in connection to the health insurance.  That he had somehow infiltrated the inner core of NanoCorp’s to discover and then divulge secret information seemed somehow…outrageous.

He had seemed so nonchalant about things, Rachel thought, feeling true remorse for his loss, as well as deep chagrin.  If he had found out anything about what she did, it certainly wasn’t because she bragged to him about it.  Her premise had been to continue a favored hobby from college.  Her true purpose for training was never discussed.

“So, until we get some clearance from the local authorities,” Terry was rattling off, “neither Dee nor I will be able to get to Germany as planned….” 

Rachel sighed herself, her thoughts drowning out her boss’s voice.  SNAFU.  FUBAR.  How ironic that she was right back to retrieving Cort on her own all over again!

“Rache.”

“Hmmm?”  Rachel returned her attention to the voice.

“You going to be all right?  Its only for now, I promise.”

“Yes!  Don’t worry, Terry.  I have everything I need, at least as far as I can tell.” Rachel then gave her own report, down to the chance meeting with Gerta and how the name Grovensky Construction came up almost unsolicited.  Terry outlined a few hunches of his own about where in the city to look and promised to keep her updated. 

Somehow during the moments of decompression before nodding off to sleep, Rachel’s memory of first entering Redemption insisted on playing itself out in her mind.  The smoke was clearing and people were scuttling back out into the streets to gather what vestiges of the town they could get their hands on and Cort stood in the middle of the street, staring after Ellen, fingering the badge she had thrown him. 
 

Only now, she walked up to him as he stood and spoke, told him she was there with water and salve.

But he didn’t turn.  He moved away as though he could see nothing else but the ruins around him, and no matter how loudly she called out, he did not hear.

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