The Covenant Of The Flame

by David Morrell

  'Why?'

  'Mithras,' Priscilla said, 'is the oldest god I know of, and his counterpart's the most evil and unforgiving.'

  'This is…' Tess shuddered. 'Crazy. What are you…?' She clenched her fists, her fingernails gouging her palms.

  'Talking about?' Priscilla stood with difficulty. 'Stop glancing at your watch. There's a great deal to teach you… and warn you about… and prayers to be said.'

  A SERPENT, A SCORPION, AND A DOG

  ONE

  Western Germany. South of Cologne. The Rhine.

  Headlights glimmered through fog along a seldom traveled lane. Years earlier, between the Great Wars, it had often been used by fishermen who'd laid their bicycles behind bushes, removed tackle kits from baskets on the front of their bikes, assembled fishing rods, and followed well-worn paths down the thickly treed slope to favorite spots on the river. Children once had scampered along the bank. On warm summer days, mothers had spread blankets on sweet lush grass and opened picnic baskets, the aroma of sausage, cheese, and freshly baked bread drifting out. Bottles of wine had cooled in shallows.

  But that had been long ago, and in western Germany, while at the same time in Washington Tess listened with horror to what Professor Harding's wife explained to her, this wasn't day, and even if it had been, no one came to fish here anymore. Few people came here for any reason and certainly not to picnic, for the stench from the river would have fouled the aroma of freshly baked bread, and the poison in the water had long since been absorbed into the soil, blighting the grass and trees, and the sludge that choked the current had long since killed the fish.

  On this evening, however, the passengers in the car that jolted along the lane did think about picnics and fishing, although their thoughts were bitter, making the men frown with anger at glimpses of leafless trees and stunted bushes in the fog.

  All except one passenger who frowned for another reason.

  Indeed he trembled. 'You won't get away with this! My guests are expecting me! I'll be missed!'

  'You're referring to the reception at your estate?' the driver asked, then shrugged. 'Well, your guests will just have to do without you, Herr Schmidt.'

  'Yes,' another man said. Too bad. They'll simply have to wait.'

  'And wait. And wait,' a third man said.

  'What do you want from me?' the silver-haired, lean-faced, tuxedo-clad man demanded. 'Ransom? If that's what you want, what are we doing here! Let me use a phone! I'll arrange-! My assistant will deliver any amount you demand! No police!'

  'Of course not, Herr Schmidt. I can guarantee,' the driver said. 'Later maybe, but not for now. There'll be no police.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'Justice,' a man with a pistol said.

  The pistol was wedged against the silver-haired man's neck.

  'Examples,' another man said. 'Here.' From the back seat, he leaned forward, telling the driver, 'When I was a child, this was my favorite path. The river was so…! How I loved this place. Now look at it! Look at how ugly it's become! Here! Yes, stop right here.'

  'Why not?' The driver shrugged again. 'It's as good a place as any.'

  'For what?' Schmidt demanded, voice trembling.

  'I already told you,' the man with the pistol said. 'Justice.'

  The driver stopped among skeletal bushes at the side of the lane, dead branches snapping. He turned off the headlights and stepped from the car while his companions opened other doors and dragged Schmidt, struggling, into the fog-shrouded wasteland. The sleeve of his tuxedo tore on a barkless tree limb.

  'Ah, too bad,' the man with the gun said. 'What a terrible shame.'

  'Yes, a pity,' the driver said.

  They reached a bluff and forced Schmidt down the sterile slope. At once, the sickening fumes from the river enveloped them, making them cough. In terror, Schmidt resisted so fiercely that the men were forced to drag him downward, his patent-leather shoes scraping over rocks. Where the zigzagging, barely detectable path became steep, one of the men used a shielded flashlight to guide their way.

  At the oppressive grassless bottom, the light revealed the foam along the river's edge, the slime on the water, and the sludge that thickened the current. The area smelled like a cesspool, for sewage too fouled the water.

  'What a damnable…! I used to be able to swim here!' the man with the gun said. 'And the fish… the fish tasted so pure and delicious. Their meat was so white, so flaky, at the same time solid. The way my mother dipped them in milk. She used to cover them with biscuit crumbs, and…'

  'Fish?' Schmidt whimpered. 'What are you talking about? Fish? Why does that-? For God's sake, if your purpose was to scare me, you've succeeded! I admit it! I'm terrified!' His control collapsing, the silver-haired prisoner began to sob. 'How much do you want? Anything! Please! I swear on my mother's grave, I'll pay you anything!'

  'Yes,' the driver said. 'That's right. Anything. You'll pay.'

  'Name it! Just tell me how much! It's yours! Mein Gott, how much?'

  'You still don't understand how much you must pay,' another man said. 'You did this.'

  'Did? What did I…?'

  'This.' With disgust, the fourth man gestured toward the noxious desecration of the river. 'You. Not alone! But you share the responsibility!'

  'With?' Schmidt voided his bowels.

  'With the other greedy industrialists who demanded profits, no matter the cost to nature. Billionaires who wouldn't miss the comparative few millions it would have taken to keep the river pure and the sky free of poison.'

  'Millions?' Schmidt shook his head, frenzied. 'But my board of directors, my shareholders would have…!'

  'Millions? Yes! But only at the start!' the man with the gun corrected. 'A one-time only expense! But that was years behind us! Now the cost would be greater! Much, much greater! And the river's so poisoned, so dead, that it might take decades before it's revived, if ever, if the dead can ever be brought back to life.'

  Scowling, the man with the flashlight stepped closer. 'Pay attention, Herr Schmidt. We didn't choose this place merely because we used to love to come here when we were children. Not at all. We chose it because…' The grim man gestured. Even in the fog, the lights that silhouetted the numerous huge factories upriver were gloomily visible. Indeed the fog was not completely natural. Smoke containing toxic pollutants added to it. Nearby, a drainage pipe from one of the factories spewed nostril-flaring chemicals into the water. The foam accumulated.

  'We chose this site because we wanted you to witness your crimes,' the driver said.

  'Sins,' the man with the gun corrected.

  'Sins?' Schmidt cowered. 'You're all lunatics! You're-!'

  'And sins must be punished,' the man with the flashlight said. 'As you indicated, you're eager to pay.'

  'And will pay,' the fourth man said.

  Schmidt pressed his hands together. 'I'm begging you.' He sank to his knees. 'I promise. I swear. My engineers will redesign the waste system in my factories. The cost doesn't matter. I'll stop the chemicals from reaching the river. I'll speak to the other manufacturers in the area. I'll convince them to prevent the discharge from-'

  'Too late,' the man with the gun said.

  '-from pouring into the river.' Schmidt sobbed. 'I'll do anything if you'll just-'

  'Too late,' the man with the gun repeated. 'An example has to be made.'

  'Many examples,' the man with the flashlight said.

  'Justice,' the driver said.

  'I'm thirsty,' the fourth man said. 'The walk down that slope made my mouth dry.'

  'Mine, too,' the man with the gun said.

  'And Herr Schmidt, I imagine that your mouth feels especially dry. From fear. I believe you deserve a drink.'

  The fourth man removed a plastic container from a knapsack on his shoulder. Repelled but determined, contracting his chest, visibly holding his breath, he stooped toward the noxious fumes that rose from the water's edge and scooped foam, slime, sludge, and sewage into the container
.

  Schmidt screamed. 'No! I can't drink from…! Don't make me swallow…! That stuff 'll kill…!'

  The man with the flashlight nodded. 'Kill you? Indeed. As it killed the fish. As it killed the river. As it killed the trees and the bushes and the grass. As it's slowly killing the people in the cities who depend on the river for water, however much the cities try to purify that water.'

  'Regrettably, an example has to be made,' the man with the gun said. 'Many examples. If it's any consolation, take heart. You won't be alone. I promise. Soon many of your fellow sinners will join you. Many lessons need to be taught. Until the ultimate lesson is finally learned. Before it's too late. That is, if it's not too late already.'

  The man with the container of sludge pressed it against Schmidt's mouth.

  Schmidt wailed, then clamped his lips tightly together, jerking his face away.

  'Now, now,' the man with the container said. 'You must take your medicine.'

  The other men held him firmly.

  'Accept your fate,' the man with the flashlight said. 'Taste the product of your success.'

  Schmidt struggled, desperate, yanking his arms, straining to escape the rigid hands of his captors.

  'Destiny, mein Herr. We must all confront it.' The man with the container raised it again toward Schmidt's clamped jaws.

  Again Schmidt jerked his face away.

  'Well,' the man with the flashlight said, disappointed. 'That leaves us no choice.' With relentless strength, he tugged Schmidt downward. The other men helped him, using their knees along with their hands to force Schmidt onto his back, straining to keep their prisoner's thrashing face pointed toward the murky, fog-and-smoke-clogged sky.

  The man with the container knelt and pressed a nerve behind Schmidt's ear.

  Schmidt screamed reflexively.

  At once, another man rammed a funnel into Schmidt's mouth, clamped it firmly between his lips, watched the container being raised toward the funnel, and nodded as foam, slime, sludge, and sewage were poured down Schmidt's throat.

  'Perhaps, in one of your future lives, you'll be more responsible,' the man said. That is, if we're successful, if anyone has a chance for a future life.'

  Later…

  After the corpse was discovered and the autopsy was performed…

  The medical examiner debated about the primary cause of death. In theory, Schmidt had drowned.

  But the chemicals that filled his stomach and swelled his lungs were so toxic that, before he drowned, his vital organs might easily have failed from instant shock.

  TWO

  Craig, you were with me. You heard me talk about Joseph! You saw what was in his bedroom. If the killers followed both of us, to protect their secret, they might come after you!

  Remembering Tess's warning when she'd phoned him at One Police Plaza, Craig squirmed against his seatbelt and directed his troubled eyes toward the smog beyond the window of the Trump Shuttle 727 about to land at Washington National Airport.

  Come after me! he thought.

  Until Tess had mentioned it, that possibility hadn't occurred to him. He recalled – and had meant – what he'd replied. Let the sons of bitches try. The truth was, he would welcome a confrontation. Anything to stop the madness. Anything to save-!

  Keep running, Tess! he thought. Be clever! Don't take chances! Soon. I'll be there soon!

  Prior to leaving One Police Plaza, he'd phoned the security personnel at LaGuardia's Trump Shuttle terminal to alert them that he was a police officer who'd be bringing credentials, that he'd be prepared to fill out all the forms and comply with all the complex procedures, including an interview with the pilot, that allowed him to carry his handgun aboard this plane. On the way to the airport, he and Tony had done their best to make sure they weren't being followed, although in the chaos of noon-hour traffic that was almost impossible.

  Now, concealing his gesture from the passenger next to him, Craig kept his right hand beneath his suitcoat, his fingers clutched around the.38 caliber, Smith and Wesson revolver's handle. Not that it mattered. If there was trouble, it certainly wouldn't happen during the flight. Certainly not shooting. Too dangerous. The bullets would rupture the fuselage and depressurize the cabin, at the risk of causing the jet to crash. All the same, the feel of the weapon gave him confidence.

  As casually as his nerves would allow, Craig glanced around. No passenger seemed to care about him.

  Good, he thought. Just keep control. He strained to reassure himself. You've taken every precaution you could think of. You're in the flow now! You're committed! You've got to go with whatever happens!

  Still, he hadn't noticed the gray-eyed man ten seats behind him, who appeared to nap, thus hiding the color of his eyes, and who, under various names, had bought a ticket for every Trump Shuttle flight from LaGuardia to Washington National Airport since the woman had disappeared last night.

  Not that the gray-eyed man had intended to use all the tickets. Instead he'd waited, unobtrusively watching the terminal's entrance, in case the woman's detective-friend arrived. One of his counterparts had kept a similar watch at the Pan Am shuttle terminal.

  About to give up hope, abruptly seeing his target get out of a police car, the gray-eyed man – pulse speeding – had strolled inside the terminal, passed through the security checkpoint, presented the ticket for his flight, and boarded the jet before the detective did. In that way, he followed the detective paradoxically from in front and almost surely prevented the target from suspecting he had company.

  Yes, the woman had escaped last night. But thanks to the onboard phone, which the gray-eyed man had asked a flight attendant to bring to him, he'd been able, using guarded expressions, to alert additional members of his team that the detective was en route to Washington National Airport, presumably to rendezvous with the quarry.

  The woman.

  She was dangerous. She knew too much.

  So – it had to be assumed – did the determined detective, who showed far too great an interest in the woman.

  When the two came together, they would both be silenced, the photographs would be destroyed, and the covenant would at last again be protected.

  THREE

  'Evil,' Priscilla Harding said.

  The stark word caught Tess's attention.

  She, Priscilla, and Professor Harding had moved from the kitchen to a downstairs study in the Victorian house near Georgetown in Washington. Now that Priscilla's insulin had taken effect and her blood sugar was stabilized by the lunch she'd eaten, the elderly woman seemed ten years younger. Her eyes looked vital. She spoke with strength, although her cadence was slow and deliberate, as if by habit she used the lecture style she'd perfected during her many years as a professor.

  But Tess didn't have time for a lecture. She needed to know about the statue right now. Hurry! She had to meet Craig .

  Priscilla noticed her impatience and sighed. 'Stop looking at your watch. Sit down, Tess, and listen carefully. This isn't something I can condense, and if you're in as much trouble as you described, your life might very well depend on an absolute understanding of what I'm about to tell you.'

  Tess hesitated. Suddenly tired, she obeyed, sinking toward a leather chair. 'I apologize. I know you're trying to help. I'll do my best to… If this is complicated, I'd better not… In fact, I don't dare try to rush you. Tell it your way.'

  Nonetheless Tess felt her muscles ache from tension as she watched Priscilla take several thick books from a shelf and place them on a desk.

  '"Evil",' Tess said. 'You mentioned "evil".'

  Priscilla nodded. 'Evil is the central dilemma in Christian theology.'

  'I'm afraid I… What does that have to do with…?'

  'Think about it. How do you reconcile the existence of evil with the traditional concept of a benign, all-loving, Christian God?'

  Tess frowned in rigid confusion. 'Really, I still don't understand.'

  Priscilla raised an arthritis-swollen, wrinkled hand. 'Just listen. W
e know that evil exists. We encounter it every day. We hear about it on the radio. On TV. We read about it in the newspapers. Moral evil in the form of crime, cruelty, and corruption. Physical evil in the form of disease. Cancer. Muscular dystrophy. Multiple sclerosis.' Priscilla's voice dropped. 'Diabetes.'

  She hesitated, then sat despondently behind the desk.

  Brooding, Priscilla continued. 'Of course, some deny the existence of, even the concept of, evil. They claim that crime is merely the result of poverty, inadequate parental guidance, or lack of education, et cetera. They place both the causes and the blame on society, or in the case of someone so repugnant as a serial killer, they attribute the killer's violence to insanity. They also refuse to consider that diseases have theological implications. To them, cancer is a biological accident or the consequence of substances in the environment.'

  'But they're not wrong,' Tess said. 'I work for a magazine that tries to protect the environment. Carcinogenic substances are all around us.'

  'Absolutely,' Professor Harding said. 'The poisons are evident. My lilies struggle to blossom. They're not half as brilliant as they used to be.'

  'Richard, if you wouldn't mind…' Priscilla tapped her gnarled fingers on the desk. I'm suddenly, terribly thirsty. I'd appreciate very much if you went to the kitchen and brewed us some tea.'

  'Why, of course.' Professor Harding grasped his cane. 'Any special preference?'

  'Whatever you choose, I'm sure will be fine.'

  'In that case, I think Lemon Lift, dear.'

  'Excellent.'

  As Professor Harding hobbled from the study, Priscilla narrowed her wrinkle-rimmed eyes toward Tess. Alone, the two women faced each other.

  'Carcinogenic substances and so-called biological accidents are exactly my point,' Priscilla said. 'Physical evil. Theological evil.'

  Tess shook her head. 'But how can cancer have anything to do with theology?'

  'Pay attention. According to Christianity, a generous loving God made the universe.'