Into The Jaws Of The Lion (The Arkana Archaeology Mystery Series Book 5)

by N. S. Wikarski

  The guide appeared alarmed. “I don’t know, sir. The Diviner told me to say those exact words but I don’t know what they mean.” He turned the door knob and gestured for the doctor to pass in. “I’ll wait here until you’re through.”

  The doctor entered warily, not knowing what to expect. What he saw didn’t match any of the mental scenarios he had conjured. He found himself alone with a thin, pale woman in her mid-twenties. She was seated in a rocking chair next to an empty crib, staring off glassy-eyed into space. There were no other children about.

  “Hello,” Aboud advanced tentatively. “My name is Doctor Aboud. What’s yours?”

  Her eyes moved ever so slowly in his direction. “Annabeth,” she murmured barely above a whisper.

  Aboud suspected she had been sedated. “I’m here to examine you.” He ventured a few paces closer.

  “There were other doctors here this morning,” Annabeth offered. “They stuck needles in my arm and now I’m sleepy.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “No doubt they gave you something to help you rest.”

  She mustered enough energy to sit upright. “Do you know where they took my son?”

  “Why no,” he protested in surprise. “Is your son missing?”

  “Yes. Everybody keeps telling me that he’s dead but I know he isn’t. He’s been gone for such a long time now. I have to keep looking. I have to...” Her voice trailed off and she gave him a puzzled look. She had apparently lost her train of thought.

  “Let’s see how you’re doing.” He placed his fingertips on her wrist, counting the beats. Her pulse was fluttery and weak. He then performed a cursory examination of her breathing and reflexes. When he stared into her dilated pupils, she focused narrowly on his face.

  “I think you’re the one.” She uttered the statement in mild surprise.

  Aboud straightened up. “The one what?”

  “The one my lady angel told me would come. She said you would be able to take me to where my son is.”

  “Did she?” he asked indifferently.

  She peered at him through her drug-induced haze. “Yes, I’m sure it was you she meant. Have you come to take me to him?”

  Aboud was thrown by the question. “Not today, dear,” he replied evasively. “Another time perhaps.”

  “Alright then.” Accepting his statement at face value, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

  The reason for sedating the woman was now obvious to Aboud. Given that she was in the habit of conversing with angels, she must have suffered some sort of psychotic break. Annabeth was much mistaken if she thought he was a messenger from her lady angel, whoever that might be. The doctor smiled grimly to himself. The only angel with whom he maintained a nodding acquaintance was the angel of death. He slipped quietly out of the room.

  His guide appeared to relax at his re-emergence. “She was very calm with you,” he observed.

  “Isn’t she usually?”

  “Um... not lately,” the young man hedged. “This way, doctor.” He gestured down the hall. “The Diviner is waiting for you.”

  They traveled down yet another labyrinth of corridors before arriving at Abraham Metcalf’s office. The obsequious guide bowed the doctor in and then vanished.

  Metcalf stood facing the windows, his hands locked behind his back. He wheeled about to greet his visitor. “So, you’re here at last.”

  Aboud ignored the churlish comment but looked pointedly at his Rolex. He had arrived at the compound precisely on time. It was no fault of his if he’d been whisked away to have a chat with a madwoman.

  “Sit down,” the old man ordered, taking his own chair behind the desk.

  The doctor noticed a change in his benefactor’s demeanor since their last meeting. Metcalf’s eyes appeared sunken and his gaze flitted uneasily from place to place. It wasn’t insomnia. Rather the old man’s face bore an expression that could only be described as haunted.

  “I thought you wanted me to keep my distance from this place, sir,” Aboud began.

  Metcalf squinted at him for a few seconds, as if he hadn’t quite heard. His mind seemed to be elsewhere. “What was that?”

  “I was wondering at your decision to summon me here rather than meet me at the lab. I thought I was to keep my distance.”

  “Something urgent has come up,” the old man said cryptically.

  Whatever it was, the matter had clearly taken a toll on his benefactor’s health. “Is there anything I can do?” Aboud offered tentatively.

  “Yes, that’s why I called you here.” Metcalf stopped speaking abruptly. Without explaining further, he hoisted himself out of his chair and walked back towards the windows. With his back to the doctor, he asked, “What headway have you made in your experiments?”

  Aboud shrugged off the old man’s elliptical thought process. “A good deal, sir. I have continued to refine the strain of pneumonic plague bacteria to increase the speed at which it can kill.”

  This caught Metcalf’s attention. He turned around. “How fast?”

  “The most recent test subjects you sent me succumbed in less than eighteen hours.”

  The old man nodded but remained silent for a few seconds. He seemed to be mulling something over. “Are you in need of any more subjects?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact I am,” the doctor assented readily. “I would be obliged if you could provide me with at least one more. I’ve been able to shorten the incubation period by culturing an unusually aggressive strain of bacteria. It may be able to produce mortality in fifteen hours and I’d like to confirm that theory using a human host.”

  “Very well, then. I have just the person for you. Annabeth.”

  “Annabeth?” Aboud echoed. Up to that point, the individuals Metcalf had sent him were either men in the prime of life or older women. Apparently, those were the two demographic groups inclined to give him the most trouble.

  “She’s healthy enough, isn’t she?” the old man challenged. “That’s why I wanted you here to examine her.”

  “Certainly, she’s physically healthy,” Aboud concurred half-heartedly. “Might I ask why you specifically singled her out?”

  Metcalf looked guiltily over his shoulder as if he believed he was being overheard by some invisible presence. He resumed his seat and leaned over his desk. “What I am about to tell you is confidential, doctor.”

  “That goes without saying,” Aboud reassured him. “Your secrets are safe with me.”

  The old man hesitated, his eyes darting toward the door. “Annabeth is afflicted. She is beyond help.”

  “I see,” the doctor murmured gravely. If Metcalf was proposing to use Aboud’s bacteria as a form of euthanasia, pneumonic plague could hardly be called a merciful kind of death. “From what disease is she suffering?”

  “The disease of spiritual corruption. She is a witch. Like all witches she has bowed down to Satan and rebelled against the righteous authority of God,” Metcalf replied flatly.

  Aboud had to struggle not to register shock. “Really?” he asked blandly, trying to keep a look of contempt from crossing his face.

  Metcalf was lost in his own thoughts and barely noticed the doctor’s disdainful reaction. “She is the principal wife of my son Daniel. He will inherit the title of Diviner from me one day.”

  This bit of news shocked Aboud even more. “So she’s your daughter-in-law?” he asked in amazement. “A member of your own family?”

  “Why should that surprise you?” Metcalf retorted. “Satan can corrupt any vessel he chooses. In fact, those nearest to me are his preferred targets. He’s already spirited away my youngest wife, Hannah.”

  “But sir, surely something can be done to help your daughter-in-law short of...” He paused trying to clarify the danger. “You do realize that I’ve perfected a strain of bacteria that is impervious to all known antibiotic treatments. I haven’t devised an antidote yet. If she is exposed to it, the results will be fatal. There is no turning back.”

  “Of c
ourse,” Metcalf agreed. “I don’t see the difficulty. She has merited that fate. Exodus is very clear on the subject: ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live’.”

  “Actually, I’ve heard that’s a mistranslation,” the doctor corrected mildly. “A more accurate interpretation would be: ‘Thou shalt not suffer a poisoner to live’. Given my line of work, I found that bit of trivia amusing.”

  “What!” Metcalf roared. “Do you presume to quote scripture to me?”

  “No, sir.” Aboud immediately realized his error and back-pedaled. “That’s your unquestioned area of expertise as biological warfare is mine. But as I am an expert on the subject of toxins, I feel compelled to point out that pneumonic plague is not a pretty way to die. The bacteria ravages the lungs so that the test subject is left coughing up blood and gasping for breath. Every inhalation brings with it searing pain until death itself seems a kinder alternative than struggling to capture one more excruciating breath of life. Each time I shorten the incubation phase of the plague germs, I intensify the misery of my test subjects. They succumb more quickly but much more painfully.”

  His words failed to make any impression on the old man. Metcalf stared at him stonily. “There is divine justice at work here. A woman who is weak-willed enough to allow Satan to seduce her deserves some punishment in this world in exchange for a reward in the next.”

  Aboud held no particular spiritual beliefs but he couldn’t help feeling unnerved at the readiness of his benefactor to kill a physically healthy young woman for no better reason than a superstitious dread of witchcraft. He opened his mouth to protest but Metcalf cut him off.

  “God has spoken to me. He has said that blood restitution is required of Annabeth. If she pays with her life, He will pardon her heinous offenses and allow her to enter the kingdom of heaven. She will receive peace everlasting.”

  When the doctor continued to gaze at him blankly, he elaborated. “Don’t you understand? Her death must be painful. The more agonizing, the better. How else is she to atone for her many sins and be forgiven?”

  In the face of such a ludicrous question, Aboud merely said, “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Well, of course you don’t!” Metcalf exclaimed. “God doesn’t speak to you. He speaks only to me. I am his prophet.”

  “Yes, sir,” the doctor assented mildly, not wishing to antagonize the old lunatic any further. “When may I expect my new test subject to be delivered?”

  “In a few days. I’ll phone you in advance when she’s about to be transported.”

  “The usual spot?”

  “Yes. You may send your driver to the pick-up point when I give the word.”

  “Very good,”Aboud agreed unenthusiastically, rising to go.

  His guide unobtrusively reappeared to show him the way out. They walked in silence, Aboud musing all the while on the strange conversation he’d just had. Over the years, his work had brought him into contact with dictators, power-hungry generals, impoverished revolutionaries and directionless anarchists. He had witnessed many atrocities and caused more than a few of them himself. But never in his long professional career had he ever been caught in the crossfire between the forces of heaven and hell. Not for the first time since he entered Abraham Metcalf’s employ, he found himself wondering where it would all end.

  Chapter 45—Dead-End Street

  Erik wiped a trickle of sweat off his forehead and glanced up at the noonday sun. It was way too hot for mid-October. He’d been standing in the same spot since 8 AM wondering if this was the day he would officially die of boredom. He’d managed to fast talk his way into a job as a flag man with a construction crew that was paving a stretch of access road leading from the Nephilim’s secret lab to an intersecting county highway. All day long, he held a reversible sign that read “Stop” or “Slow” to regulate traffic around the road work. Of course, he was the only one who knew there was an underground lab at the end of the road. To the rest of the crew, it was some kind of weird bunker but they all lacked the imagination to speculate about what went on there.

  The Paladin had been onsite for a week. He’d chosen the ideal method for identifying who went in and who came out of the mysterious facility. Although he didn’t stare into windshields at the cars parked obediently in front of his Stop sign, he gave them all a thorough going-over without being obvious about it. He estimated that there were a couple of dozen lab technicians because he came to recognize their cars as they went to work each morning and headed for home at night. He could also identify a BMW that probably belonged to the lab’s director—an Arab who favored expensive suits and flashy jewelry. He’d made a note of the license plate so he could check out the owner later. Everybody’s routine was fairly predictable except for one car. It was a black sedan with livery plates driven by a nondescript suit. He would arrive at odd hours—probably running personal errands for the director.

  Erik snapped out of his reverie when he saw the very black sedan he’d been thinking about approach. Luckily, his sign was set to “Stop” so he had time to take a closer look. The driver had a passenger with him for a change. The Paladin tried not to register shock when he realized it was a Nephilim woman. He recognized her by the weird hairdo, grey smock and white apron. They all dressed alike and wore their hair braided and coiled around their heads like a giant beehive.

  She appeared young though not a teenager. Pale and thin. Maybe in her twenties. Definitely not a looker. His walkie-talkie squawked, telling him to let the incoming traffic through. He reversed his sign to “Slow” and motioned the car forward. The woman gazed listlessly out the side window. She didn’t seem to notice his presence as the sedan glided by.

  His gaze narrowed as he watched the back of the car receding down the road. This time he made a point of memorizing its plate number.

  “They go in but they never come out.”

  He swung around to identify who had spoken to him. It was a middle-aged hard hat with a beer belly and a black moustache. He was leaning on a shovel.

  “Huh?”

  The hard hat gestured toward the retreating car. “I said they go in but they never come out. I mean the funny looking ones.”

  Erik took a few steps toward him. “Which funny looking ones?”

  The man shrugged. “The guys wear black suits—like extras from a Cold War spy movie. The dames wear grey dresses and their hair is wound around their heads tight as a corkscrew. It’s always the same driver though. He takes them in but I never see them come out. He always comes out alone. You watch next time. You’ll see.”

  “How come you know so much about it?” Erik challenged.

  “Cause I used to have your job before I got promoted.” He held up his shovel and laughed ruefully. “You go out of your mind standing here baking in the sun if you don’t find a way to kill the time. I used to make a game out of it. Count the weirdos.”

  Erik gave a friendly smile. “So how many weirdos did you count?”

  The man scratched his head. “I think I lost track after the first three dozen.”

  “That’s a lot of weirdos.”

  “Between you and me I hope we finish this job soon. That underground place gives me the creeps. Some days the smell coming out of there is worse than the asphalt.”

  Erik raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I didn’t notice anything since I got here.”

  “You ain’t been here long enough. Wait a little. They got some kind of incinerator going down there. I don’t know what they’re burning but it smells like rotten meat.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  The hard had held up his hand. “Swear to God. You hang around a while. You’ll see, and smell, for yourself.”

  Erik nodded as the man shouldered his shovel and wandered off to spread fresh asphalt.

  His casual comments made the Paladin’s mind race with possibilities. Hannah had already told Faye that some kind of experiments were going on in the lab. An incinerator would be needed to get rid of the carcasses of dead animals
except Erik now had a suspicion that the lab was experimenting on something a lot bigger than guinea pigs and rats. He had to find out exactly what was going on in there. The Nephilim driver probably knew at least a few of the answers. The Paladin felt an overwhelming need to make the chauffeur’s acquaintance.

  Chapter 46 —Azrael’s Apprentice

  Doctor Aboud checked his appearance in the mirror on his office wall. He smoothed his hair and dusted a speck of lint off the front of his clean white lab coat. He usually changed into his hazmat gear later in order to avoid alarming his test subjects upon arrival. First impressions were important. He gave a nod of approval to his reflection and headed for the underground facility’s reception area to wait.

  He’d gone through this charade many times before. Metcalf’s hand-picked sacrificial lambs were sent to him one at a time to avoid frightening the entire flock. How many had been slaughtered thus far? The doctor had lost count. Three dozen at least. Each one entered the facility warily but Aboud would give a friendly smile and immediately put them at ease. He would explain that the Diviner had chosen them to test a new type of medicine which was to benefit the Nephilim brotherhood and prevent them from catching a disease that was common among the Fallen. There was absolutely nothing to worry about and the test subjects would receive a special reward in exchange for their participation. It was critical not to arouse their suspicions. He imagined that the personnel overseeing the showers at Auschwitz used much the same approach. Once people deduced that they were about to be exterminated, it was hard to gain their cooperation.

  The elevator doors opened and his driver emerged with the pale woman named Annabeth. She leaned on the man’s arm slightly for support. Although physically weak, she didn’t appear to be under the influence of any sedatives today. Aboud was about to launch into his routine greeting but she forestalled him.

  “Oh, hello.” Her face brightened with recognition. “You’re the doctor who came to visit me.”

  “Hello, Annabeth.” He nodded gravely. What was the protocol under such circumstances? Saying “nice to see you again” seemed ludicrous.