How much more is there? she wondered, gazing around at the furniture and boxes that still hid most of her walls.
She was afraid to look, afraid of what she might find.
Her eyes traveled back to the exposed wall, and the humming inside her head continued to build.
Is this what I’ve forgotten? she asked herself.
The buzz became a mechanical whine, and the image of a spinning saw blade cutting through a length of tree, guided by hands encased in thick leather gloves, took shape in her mind. At first she had no idea what the imagery meant, but suddenly she remembered, the recollection floating free, like a child’s balloon released into a blue summer sky.
Her father had worked at the mill . . . where she herself had lived until . . .
The whining of the saw blade was replaced by the discordant thrum of a poorly tuned guitar and the sound of a piano.
Fernita smiled, her tired old eyes filling with hot tears at the memories—for that was what these images were, memories.
But her happiness quickly turned to terror as the pleasant visions were savagely replaced by one of fire. The old woman let out a scream, throwing her hands over her face and falling backward into piles of yarn that spilled from a wicker sewing basket.
The images burned her brain, living fire consuming the piano that only moments before brought tears to her eyes with the song it played.
The sounds of screams drifted hauntingly through the air, screams that drew the living fire like moths to a flame.
Burning. Killing.
Fernita knew not to cry out herself; someone had told her to be quiet as she was dragged through the burning room, someone special, but she couldn’t remember who it was.
Bodies littered the floor, bodies claimed by the living fire as it searched the room . . . searching for . . .
The head of a lion formed from the flames roared and came at her. Fernita could feel the intensity of its breath as it surged. And then it was gone, wisps of smoke drifting past her mind’s eye.
The old woman managed to sit up, her breath coming in short, gulping gasps as she pushed herself backward toward the doorway. She propped herself against its wooden frame, watching the writing on her wall, feeling its mysterious pull on her fragile mind, and anger filled her. She didn’t want it there anymore . . . didn’t want it unlocking secret memories.
And before she even realized what she was doing, Fernita was on her hands and knees, crawling across the cluttered living room floor.
“Go away, damn you!” she cried out, licking her fingers and rubbing at the black markings. She rubbed and licked, and rubbed, and rubbed and licked some more, her lips and chin smeared black as she tried to erase the alien scrawl that had brought such fear into her life.
But the more she rubbed, the louder the buzzing whine inside her skull became, as if somebody—something—was angered by her actions.
How dare you wipe away the words. . . . Don’t you know what this means? Don’t you realize what this will do?
And as the words started to disappear, it was as if a door had been opened, and more memories began to flow.
A deluge of the forgotten.
CHAPTER SIX
A door opened on the far side of the laboratory and Remy watched as a young man, who might have been one of the two who had accompanied Jon to Boston, entered. He was wearing only a T-shirt and baggy shorts now.
Malachi stood silently, watching with an unwavering eye.
“So he’s going to eat the fruit?” Remy asked, as the young man sat in a leather chair that had been brought from a closet and placed in the center of the room.
“Yes,” Jon answered. He too was watching the man, but his expression told Remy that he was clearly upset. “Nathan . . . excuse me, the volunteer will ingest a piece of the fruit, and we’ll record the results.” Jon cleared his throat and coughed nervously. “Hopefully his sacrifice will not be in vain.”
“The effects of the fruit are that powerful?” Remy asked.
Jon nodded. “We started our research with some of the older seeds, but the results were pretty horrible. It created a psychic link too powerful for a human being . . . even a Son of Adam, to withstand.”
Technicians began to fasten the young man’s wrists and ankles to the chair with thick leather straps.
“Is that really necessary?” Remy asked.
Malachi answered this question. “Even though the effects are diluted by ingesting the meat of the fruit as opposed to the seeds, the result can still be quite . . . violent,” the elder angel explained.
Remy stared at the volunteer, now looking small and defenseless beneath the humming fluorescent lights. “Are you sure this is the only way to get what we need?”
Jon looked to Malachi, but this time the angel remained silent, the human visage that he wore grim.
“It is the only way,” Jon confirmed softly. “We believe he’ll be linking with the actual Tree of Knowledge, in effect with the Garden itself, and in doing so, he’ll know what the Garden knows, and be able to tell us where the other half of the key is located.”
“Let us begin,” Malachi said, waving Jon on with his hand.
Remy watched the man’s features tighten as he steeled himself; then Jon picked up the tray of fruit and walked over to the volunteer restrained in the chair. The two looked at each other for a moment.
“Are you ready?” Jon asked, setting the tray down on a small table beside the chair.
“I am,” the man who Jon said was named Nathan replied.
Jon nodded, accepting his friend’s words, and stood, staring . . . waiting.
“You’re going to have to help me,” Nathan said finally, looking down to his bound hands and feet.
Jon laughed nervously as he reached for a pair of tongs. He used the tongs to pick up a slice of fruit and brought it toward Nathan’s mouth.
“You’re sure about this?” he asked again.
“Just get on with it,” Malachi growled impatiently.
Nathan closed his eyes and opened his mouth slightly.
Carefully Jon placed the fruit on his friend’s tongue and stepped back, his shoulders slumped. He tossed the tongs on the table and gestured for the techs. “Take this away,” he ordered.
Nathan’s expression had been almost trancelike as he began to slowly chew the piece of fruit in his mouth.
But that suddenly changed.
In the blink of an eye, it went from dreamy to nightmarish, his body going rigid, straining against his bonds.
Jon moved toward his friend, placing a comforting hand upon his shoulder. “Relax,” he said. “Let it come.”
Nathan looked at Jon, eyes pleading, the veins in his neck bulging and pulsing rapidly with the beat of his heart. “I didn’t know. . . .” He gasped, white foam spilling from the corners of his mouth. “I wouldn’t have—” His words were cut off as his body was racked with bone-breaking convulsions.
Remy was tempted to go the man, to find some way of helping him. And as if reading his mind, Malachi’s hand dropped upon his shoulder.
“It is necessary,” the elder stated, eyes riveted to the horrific scene unfolding before them.
Nathan’s head thrashed from side to side so unnaturally fast that the movement was actually blurred. He screamed as if his soul were being torn from his body.
“Isn’t there something we can do?” Remy asked, not wanting to watch, but unable to look away.
“Nothing,” Malachi answered in an emotionless drone. “The fruit must take hold. Only the Sons of Adam can do this. . . . They are from a special human strain, and only they can withstand the punishment of making the connection. Any other human would have been dead in seconds.”
Nathan’s head finally stopped moving, but his face was scarlet red and the blood vessels in his eyes had burst.
Jon was staring at Nathan; a single tear began to run down his cheek, and he quickly wiped it away. Remy could only guess how horrible it was for him to watch what was hap
pening to his friend, knowing that he couldn’t help.
A loud crack, like ice beginning to thaw on a frozen pond, startled Remy from his thoughts. At first he couldn’t find the source of the sound; it was repeated again and again, and each time the body of the man in the chair shook with a violent spasm. Blood began streaming down Nathan’s face, running into his screaming mouth, and then hanks of hair and bits of flesh-covered bone began to fall away as his skull opened.
The sight was so horrific that Remy didn’t even notice that the volunteer had stopped screaming.
An electrical hum filled the air of the lab and grew in intensity as Nathan’s brain swelled, oddly resembling a cake rising in a pan that was too small. Crackling bolts of electrical energy were released from the pulsing gray matter, slicing across the room, into the sapling version of the Tree of Knowledge. More tendrils of energy erupted from the tree, crisscrossing about the room, making contact with everything . . . and everybody.
Remy gasped as the energy touched him; it struck like a scorpion’s stinger, entering through his chest and exiting just as quickly through the toe of his left shoe, rousing the Seraphim inside him.
The power touched Malachi as well, the elder standing perfectly stiff as the strange energy moved through his body.
It seemed to be affecting the Sons of Adam even more, as one by one they dropped to their knees.
“What’s happening?” Remy asked.
“They are all connected now,” Malachi explained.
“Us too?” Remy asked, feeling nothing but the eagerness of the Seraphim to be free.
Malachi shook his head. “No, we are not of the Garden.”
Nathan’s head looked like the Fourth of July on the Esplanade, jagged bolts of energy shooting from the pulsing gray surface illuminating the air above it.
“It is closer than you think,” the man suddenly proclaimed, his voice sounding as though it were coming from an old stereo system. “Bouncing from reality to reality, it comes to us. . . .”
Malachi strode past Remy. “The key,” the elder angel demanded from Nathan. “Where can we find the other half of the key?”
“The key,” the man repeated. “One half is with us, close by, and the other . . .”
Jon let out a low moan, his head swinging loosely upon his neck.
Remy noticed that two of the techs were on their feet now, stumbling across the room to their workstations, pulling out their chairs and sitting down as if drunk. One of the pair, a heavyset man with a haircut like Moe Howard’s, pulled a drawing tablet from the things on his desk and began to draw. The other was leafing quickly through a book of maps.
“The Garden yearns for its children,” Nathan announced. “For too long they have been apart. . . . Too long have they known loneliness.”
The Sons were crying, and Remy almost wished he could experience what was happening in their heads, for he remembered the Garden too, and envied them.
“We shall be together again,” the man’s voice boomed. “Forgiveness bestowed as you pass through my open gates.”
Then the man’s eyes began to flutter crazily, and the corners of his mouth twisted downward in what appeared to be a pain-racked frown. Remy glanced around the room and saw that all of the Sons were wearing the same bizarre expression.
“Come quickly, my children, for there is danger present.”
Malachi stepped closer to the ranting Nathan.
“A secret enemy grows within my bosom,” he said, writhing against his bonds. “A danger that threatens not only Eden . . . but the world of man . . .” His voice grew louder and the electrical discharge from his exposed brain became more intense.
“And Heaven itself!”
A searing flash accompanied those words, disintegrating Nathan’s chair. His body was lifted into the air on tendrils of blue energy, and the acrid smell of burning ozone filled the air.
“Let me show you this evil,” he proclaimed.
The Sons were listening, their faces twisted in expressions of pain as they waited for Eden to show them their enemy.
Malachi stepped into the pulsing blue light, the crackling rays of mental lightning raining down upon him as he reached up to drag the figure down to the ground.
“What are you do . . . ?” Remy began as the elder pinned the thrashing figure to the ground with one hand and reached for Nathan’s obscenely swollen brain with the other. Malachi wrapped his clawlike fingers around the pulsing gray brain matter and squeezed.
The Sons began screaming, grabbing for their heads, and a searing flash of blue forced Remy to cover his eyes as Nathan’s brain popped in Malachi’s constricting grip.
Remy lowered his arm and, as his vision cleared, he saw that the Sons were scattered about the floor, writhing and moaning in pain. He quickly looked to Malachi, who stood above the newly dead volunteer, wiping his gore-covered hand on a handkerchief.
“What did you do that for?” Remy demanded, stunned by the sudden violent act.
Malachi dropped the filthy cloth, letting it flutter down to cover the volunteer’s ravaged face. “I know of the secret enemy,” the angel said. “It is a clear and present danger to us all . . . a danger that lurks around every corner, watching . . . waiting for us to expose ourselves.”
Remy didn’t understand, his look urging the elder angel to continue.
“There are those who would refuse Adam his birthright,” Malachi offered.
Jon rose on shaky legs and stumbled across the room, nearly falling as he knelt by his friend’s side.
“Why did you kill him?” Remy asked of Malachi, watching as Jon took his friend’s blood-spattered hand in his own.
“There was no choice,” the elder angel replied. “The connection was growing and he would have felt it.”
“Who? Who would have felt it?”
“He who would see Adam die here . . . never to be embraced in the bosom of Eden.”
The Sons of Adam were coming around now, rising shakily to their feet, the experience having left its mark.
“You know him from your last encounter in Eden,” Malachi explained. He was looking at his hand, still wet and glistening from the brain of the volunteer. “The Cherubim sentry,” he said.
“Zophiel.”
Remy wondered why nothing could ever be easy.
According to Malachi, Zophiel had eventually ended up on Earth as well, and now that Eden was returning to this plane of existence, he too was hunting for the keys. The elder angel had mentioned violent incidents at other Sons of Adam locations around the globe as proof that this danger was real.
Remy glanced to the left at Jon, who was driving him back to the airstrip. He didn’t look so good.
“You all right?” he asked.
Jon didn’t answer, lost in thought and staring straight ahead at the desert road.
Remy reached across and touched his shoulder.
Jon started, looked at him, and then back to the road. “I’m sorry. Is there something wrong?”
“No.” Remy shook his head. “Just wanted to be sure you’re okay.”
Jon gave him an odd look, then reached up, pulling a tiny hearing aid from his ear and stuffing it into the breast pocket of his shirt. Remy hadn’t even noticed it was there.
“Sorry about that,” he said. “The batteries must be dead. You’re going to have to speak a little bit louder.”
“Have you always had a hearing problem?” Remy asked, raising his voice.
The man shook his head. “I lost it in my early teens,” he said, staring out through the windshield. The plane came into view through the shifting dust blowing across the desert. “Actually it was when Malachi first arrived.”
He smiled, but Remy could see little amusement there.
“The whole voice-of-the-divine thing,” Jon explained. “He was rather loud with his proclamations and damaged my eardrums.”
They reached the plane; Jon shut off the van’s engine and turned toward Remy.
“I want to th
ank you for coming,” he said, extending his hand.
Remy shook it. “My pleasure. I hope I can help.”
“Those should make certain you can,” Jon said, pointing to the papers resting in Remy’s lap.
When the volunteer’s mind had connected with them, showing the Sons all that Eden had to share, two had written down what they had seen, providing Remy with a detailed map and specific information on where the second half of the key could be found and who it was the detective had to find.
“The pilot has already been instructed to bring you to an airport in Thornwell. From there you can rent a car and head to the designated location,” Jon said as they got out of the van.
He met Remy in front of the vehicle and reached out to shake the detective’s hand.
“Good luck,” Jon said. “Hopefully we’ll be seeing each other again soon.”
“Take care,” Remy said, clutching the important papers beneath his arm as he proceeded toward the foldout stairs that would take him up into the jet.
The pilot was standing there waiting, saluting Remy as he passed through the rounded doorway inside. The stairway was retracted, and the door closed and secured as Remy took the same seat he’d sat in on his way out. Buckling himself in, he removed his phone from his jacket pocket to check for messages.
This was a new phone, finally replacing the archaic one that he’d had for the past ten years, and he had to think about the steps to play back voice mails.
A message from Fernita was the first he heard. It wasn’t uncommon these days for him to get calls from the older woman, but this one sounded a bit off. Remy didn’t like the hint of panic he heard in her voice. If he’d been heading home, he would have taken a drive over just to be sure she was okay. He considered calling her back, but then thought better of it, deciding that maybe it would be best to just wait to see her until this case was over and done, but the tone of the old woman’s voice disturbed him.
An idea began to take shape. An insidious concept, but one that the more he thought about it, the better it became.
The new phone had texting capability—his old one probably had too, but it wasn’t something Remy had ever thought to use. He tried to recall what he’d read in the owner’s manual as he set about sending his very first official text message.
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