by Lis Wiehl
“The car is down there,” he said, shivering and gasping. He shook his head to cast the water from his hair and smoothed it back with his fingers. “No sign of George.” He remembered what Carl had told him about bodies not floating when the water was cold. “He should come up sooner or later, but we might have to get some divers.”
“You’re too pessimistic,” Ben said. “Let’s keep going. This is a lovely lake, even if it is man-made.”
It was a shorter distance back to the Jeep and the farmhouse if they made a complete loop around the lake rather than retracing their steps. A hundred yards from where George Gardener docked his boats, the dog got excited again, his tail straight up and his nose and ears dragging along the ground, leading away from the house. Ben knelt to look at the ground, then asked Quinn to stop the dog for a moment.
“Here’s what I think happened,” he said. “I don’t think George’s body is in the lake. I think he drove to the dam and pushed his car over the edge. I saw some footprints there in the gravel that I think were his. Then he walked back around the lake the long way, the way we came, across the golf course, to avoid running into anyone who might have seen his car. The tracks on the other side of the lake were of a man who weighs maybe a hundred and forty pounds. But these tracks”—he pointed to the ground— “are the same shoes, but now the man weighs about two hundred pounds. They’re deeper. I think he went back to the barn and got some supplies, maybe a backpack, and then headed this way.” He pointed in the direction the dog wanted to take them. “Do you know what’s in that direction?”
“Route 35,” Tommy said.
“And what’s beyond that? What’s on the other side of Route 35?”
“Town park,” Tommy said. “Picnic grounds, the town pool, a baseball field and some bleachers and a couple of tennis courts.”
“And beyond that?”
“The Ward Pound Ridge Reservation,” Tommy said. “It’s a state park. About five miles across and ten miles from north to south.”
“I think that’s where he went,” Ben said. “Let’s see what Otto thinks.”
Quinn took the dirty T-shirt and once more gave the dog his instructions. They were off. As Ben predicted, the dog led them across the highway to the town park and then to the parking lot above the baseball field, at the bottom of what was once a ski hill, now grown over with trees and underbrush. The local kids believed that the machine shed housing the rusted remnants of an old lift pulley at the top of the hill was haunted. Tommy recalled making twenty bucks by going into it on a bet one Halloween night.
They followed Otto up the abandoned ski slope and into the woods, stepping over fallen trees and rotting stumps, frost still riming the leaves underfoot. They continued for about a mile until they came to a trail. The dog went left, swept the ground with his nose, then circled to the right.
“I know where we are,” Tommy said. “And I think I know where George is.”
The trail was the same one he’d run when he’d competed in the 10K race called the Leatherman’s Loop. Leatherman’s Cave, near the southwest edge of the park, was where anthropologists had found the Indian pictographs portraying the founding of the Iroquois League of Nations.
The cave was at the base of a massive granite outcropping, facing south where the towns of Pound Ridge and Bedford, New York, and New Canaan, Connecticut, were still waking up. Tommy stopped at the bottom of the hill, where the cave’s location was marked by a white arrow painted on a rock. “Why don’t you tie Otto up and we’ll leave him here?”
Quinn gave Otto the rest of the bacon and a command to lie down.
The three men walked cautiously up the trail, which grew steeper and more difficult toward the top. The footing became treacherous, a mattress of soggy leaves covering loose rocks and crumbling gravel, until they had to pull themselves upward tree to tree. The Leatherman’s Cave, formed where a black diamond-shaped boulder had cleaved from the granite rock face to lodge on the talus below, was shielded from view by a large boulder. Tommy quickly scanned the area while Ben read the trail.
“Lots of people in running shoes,” Ben said.
“No signs of the Wendigo?” Tommy asked.
Ben shook his head. “He leaves a trail of destruction. Sometimes dead animals.”
Tommy thought of the dead deer he’d called the wolf sanctuary about.
He went first around the left side of the boulder and waited at the top for Ben and Quinn. When he shone his flashlight high on the left-hand wall, he saw the pictograph Ben had told them about at the library. Tommy studied it for a moment, then held his hand out to quiet the others.
“George?” he called out. “George Gardener?”
They moved into the cave, crouching to duck under an overhang before entering a chamber where Tommy saw a small cookstove, a sleeping bag on a foam mat, a backpack, and, wedged into the rear crevice, making himself small, an old man holding a gold cross on a chain in front of him. The cross caught the light of Tommy’s flashlight and glinted brightly.
“I believe in God, the Father Almighty, maker of heaven and earth,” George muttered, barely audible. He was clearly terrified. “And in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord, who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, and born of the virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried.”
Tommy fished the cross he wore on a chain around his neck out from beneath his T-shirt and shone his flashlight on it for George to see.
“He descended into hell. On the third day he rose again from the dead,” Tommy said softly. Ben joined him.
“He ascended into heaven, and sitteth at the right hand of God the Father Almighty. From thence he will come to judge the living and the dead,” they said in unison. “I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy catholic church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting.”
The look on George’s face changed from abject fear to something less.
“Amen,” Quinn said.
“I knew you were a quick study,” Tommy said. “George, we’re not going to hurt you. You’re safe with us. We have the book.”
“You found the book?” George said.
“Yes,” Tommy said.
“You’re not safe,” George said, alarmed. “If you have the book, they’ll find you. They’ll kill you all. Every last one of you!”
33.
When Dani came downstairs a little after seven o’clock, she saw Villanegre and Ruth sitting at Tommy’s kitchen computer. They’d spent about an hour researching the names from the SD card Dani had been given, and told her they’d found two more disturbing hits—a St. Adrian’s alum who’d been on one of the planes that hit the World Trade Center, and another who’d owned radio stations in Uganda used to urge Hutus to kill Tutsis in the atrocities that took place there in 1994.
“This is horrible,” Ruth said. “I find it . . .”
“It leaves one speechless,” Villanegre said.
“I nearly forgot,” Ruth said to Dani. “Quinn left you a note on his laptop.”
She found a folded piece of paper with her name on it and a handwritten message that said:
Thanks for the cookies. They were really chewy! Open the file on the desktop labeled Dani.
She opened the file and read:
First of all, I apologize for surreptitiously uploading the postmortem for Amos Kasden. You were quite clear when you told me we were not allowed to take the information off campus, but I had a feeling it would be important. Given what we now understand to be at stake, I think you’ll agree that I was correct in that assumption.
Second, I was hoping you could review my work. Last night while Tommy and I were standing watch, I had some time to review the numbers. It seemed rather obvious to me, as I’m sure it did to you, that, knowing the track records of other St. Adrian’s graduates, the drug Provivilan in production by Linz, owned by Udo Bauer, had to have something wrong with it that we were overlooking. I had to be missing
something, and as you know, I can’t sleep when I know I’m close to solving a puzzle.
Tommy led me in the right direction. When I said I couldn’t find any way that Provivilan, taken in proper dosage, could damage a fully grown human being, he suggested that perhaps, in smaller concentrations, it might alter cognitive development in the prenatal environment.
You probably know how waste-water effluents have been damaging the prenatal environment. Right now the main offenders are citalopram, sertraline, and fluoxetine, which biodegrade slowly, and the numbers are going up as more and more people take antidepressants. Some data suggests that transplacental migration of SSRI metaboloids stimulates steroidogenesis and causes genetic alterations.
I think Tommy is right. In the prenatal environment, Provivilan could possibly produce genetic alterations that might result in the same catastrophic time-bomb scenario of hormonally crazed psychopaths with impaired judgment on adrenaline. I can’t really give you an educated guess as to what a significant dosage might be, but if we’re talking about zygotes at the two-or four-or eight-cell level, it could be as little as one part per trillion. Provivilan has the precursors anyway.
It would have to combine with something else. But we could be on the right track. Need to do more tests.
I’m eager to hear what you think about all this. All my files are on my desktop if you want to look at any of them.
On a considerably less grave note, you need to know something. Tommy loves you. You should have no doubt about that. He told me. He strikes me as a really great guy. I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but whatever it is, stop it!
Dani was inclined to believe him about Tommy, but it was still difficult to reconcile that with the evidence she’d seen that he’d lied to her. She got up, poured herself a cup of coffee, and then sat back down in front of Quinn’s computer. She studied the analysis he’d drafted. As far as she could tell, his conclusions were sound. Something wasn’t making sense. Linz Pharmazeutika was releasing Provivilan, which was harmless to adults but potentially dangerous to fetuses, but only if it combined with something else to become the Doomsday Molecule. Combined with what? How? What was the mechanism?
She was mulling this over when Cassandra came down the stairs, yawning and walking with her eyes half closed and one arm extended like a zombie, saying, “Coffee . . . coffee . . .” After she’d had a sip, she wandered over to where Dani was sitting.
“Do you seriously just roll out of bed looking that good?” Dani said. “That’s so unfair.” Cassandra was wearing sweatpants and an old hooded sweatshirt, no makeup, and hair that seemed artfully mussed.
“Oh, please,” Cassandra said, waving away the compliment. “Where is everybody?” She looked around the kitchen, slurping her coffee. “Where are the boys?”
“They’re out trying to track down George,” Dani said. “With Otto.”
“Did Carl go with them?”
“I don’t think so,” Dani said. “Ruth—do you know where Carl is?”
Ruth looked up, then surveyed the kitchen. “I thought he was still here. But wherever he went, he took the shotgun.”
Dani moved to the kitchen computer and clicked on the surveillance monitors. She could find no trace of Carl either inside or outside the house.
Carl wasn’t visible on the monitors because he was behind the chicken coop with the barrel of the shotgun in his mouth and the stock braced between his feet, his left hand pressing the muzzle to his lips, his right thumb hovering over the trigger guard. Yet as hard as he pressed, he could not force his thumb to pull the trigger. The thing inside him controlled his body, but his mind was not entirely disconnected. He’d hoped that one final burst of will could overcome the evil within, an evil he understood in ways he couldn’t have dreamed before—the desire to own and abuse, to conquer and dominate, to tear apart and burn down and destroy, and to cause pain for the pleasure of seeing someone else suffer. He felt an absence, a giant hole, a darkness inside where he’d once known what it felt like to love and be loved in return, by his wife, by his daughter, by the Father and the Son he’d sworn to serve and love and fear and respect. The feeling wasn’t there anymore.
In its place was a small vessel he could only fill with pleasure by committing acts of cruelty, and he had to keep that vessel filled or the pain would become too much. It was almost a chemical dependency. He was a prisoner, forced to witness his crimes with eyes wide open, helpless. He was hypnotized and could not snap his fingers to wake himself up. He’d taken the gun with the hope that he could end it, but his body wouldn’t let him.
He heard a voice calling his name. “Carl?” It took him a few seconds to realize it was Dani.
“I’m back here,” he said, taking the gun from his mouth and pointing it in the direction of her voice. “Behind the coop.”
“What are you doing?” she called out, getting closer. “Are you okay?” “I’m good,” he said. He heard a car approaching and saw Tommy’s Jeep at the front gates.
“There you are,” Dani said, rounding the corner. “I was worried. You should let people know if you’re going somewhere.”
On the ground between them she saw a dismembered chicken, the head torn off, legs and wings ripped from it and scattered. She felt a wave of nausea flutter through her and stepped back.
“I thought I heard something,” Carl said. “Must have been a fox.”
“The guys are back,” Dani said. “Tommy texted. They found George.”
“I’ll be right there,” Carl said. “Let me just clean this up.”
When she was gone, he nudged the pieces of flesh under a bush with the toe of his boot and kicked dirt to disperse the blood. A fox had not done this. A coyote had not done this. He had done it—or rather the evil thing now inside him had commanded him to pick the poor bird up, stroke it gently, and then . . .
It had been a demonstration.
This is what I can make you do, the demon had said to him. It’s just a taste of what’s to come . . .
34.
There were twenty-one of them gathered at St. Adrian’s, and they were aware of each other, but they’d been taken from their rooms blindfolded and told not to speak, so they did not speak. They understood that they’d been chosen. They would go on to do great things, and soon they would be told what those great things were. They waited together, forbidden to fall asleep, until they could not tell how long they’d been waiting, or if the thoughts that passed through them were waking thoughts or dreams.
Then they heard a door open and a voice say, “Rise.” They were instructed to line up, and then each boy was told to put his left hand on the shoulder of the boy in front of him and to follow. They marched, they couldn’t tell how far, but judging from the acoustics and the echoes, they went through a large room and down a hall and then down a set of stairs. The walls got closer and the air more humid and cooler; then they passed into another chamber where the air was dank and thick.
“You may take off your blindfolds,” the voice said.
This was the room they’d heard of, in whispered, dangerous rumors. The only light came from a pair of candles on the central altar, a massive piece of black marble carved in the shape of a bull. Dr. Wharton stood behind it, and Dr. Ghieri stood next to him. They were wearing academic robes, each in a black surplice with red tippets. Wharton looked each boy in the eye, one by one, as if he were still making up his mind about them.
After what seemed like an eternity, he spoke.
“You are the select,” he said. “Others have been rejected. Do not ask why, or where they’ve gone. You have succeeded, but each of you still has a task to complete. If anyone feels that for any reason he will not be able to complete his assignment, speak now.”
No one spoke.
“Andrew.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have a pet you keep in your room.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a rabbit, sir.”
“Bilal—what animal do you keep?”
“A cat, sir.”
“Carlos?”
“A dog. His name is—”
“I do not care what his name is,” Wharton said. He turned to Ghieri, who handed him a small wooden container, the size of a small shoe box. “Each of you will receive one of these,” Wharton said, lifting the box for all to see. “It will contain the ashes of your pet. Tonight you will write a letter to your parents telling them how sad you are. If you need help with this, we can help you. Each of you lives near a significant body of water. Edmond?”
“King George’s Reservoir. North of London.”
“Sidney?”
“Lake Michigan.”
“Han?”
“The Yangtze.”
“In your letter you will explain that when you come home for break, you want to spread the ashes of your pet into that body of water. You will each receive more specific instructions as to how and when to do that. Are there any questions?”
“Will there be any problems at the airport?” a boy asked.
“No,” Wharton said. “The boxes will go into your carry-on bags, but if the security people have any questions, you will simply explain what it is you’re doing. Act upset if they say they want to examine the boxes. Cry if you think it will be persuasive. The name of your pet will be on the box.”
Andrew raised his hand. Wharton nodded to him.
