The Tenth Circle

by Jon Land

  “Make it fast, McCracken, because I’ve deciphered the message you found in that crossword puzzle,” Folsom told him, “and we haven’t got much time.”

  PART THREE:

  THE WHITE DEATH

  CHAPTER 46

  Washington, DC

  Alvin Turwell fastened the knee brace into place over his right leg, keenly aware of the younger man alongside him watching the whole time. They had the gymnasium all to themselves. The air inside it felt cold, but was still rife with the scent of stale sweat, and only the lights strung over the half of the court they’d be using had been switched on.

  “Sprained ligament, sir?” Congressman David Forlani asked.

  “Torn ACL. Happened on a parachute jump. Training mission. Too many young greens like you I had to keep my eye on, make sure their chutes opened.”

  “You’re sadly missed in the House, sir.”

  Turwell finished strapping on the brace, getting to the point now. “I’m glad to hear that, my boy, glad to hear it. I take that to mean the boycott of the president’s State of the Union speech this Tuesday that you’ve undertaken on my behalf is going well.”

  Forlani swallowed hard, realized he could hear the rhythmic tapping of his Nike hightops echoing in the emptiness of the gym. “No, sir, it’s not.”

  Turwell took the basketball resting between them and bounced it once, squeezing it in his big hands, discolored from burn scars. “We’re trying to save the country here. You tell me they can’t see that?”

  “They’re afraid of the optics.”

  “Optics? This country’s at war for all intents and purposes, and they care about optics. Do you think any of them can tell me how many were killed in that Ohio church bombing, how many children?” With that, Turwell snapped a chest pass Forlani’s way, the younger man just managing to catch it before it slammed his face. “I sent a dozen men to their deaths in Afghanistan,” Turwell continued, the lights making his skin gleam as if it had been painted on. “But I took the objective and rejoiced afterwards because I thought it would take twice that many. No great victory comes without great sacrifice, and only a true hero is willing to accept that sacrifice in view of the greater picture.”

  “I was a Ranger, Colonel. Please spare me the lecture.”

  Turwell finally realized what Forlani was getting at, feeling as hot and winded as he might have after a full game. “You already signed on to this. You stood by my side with the planning. You helped with the recruitment, for Christ’s sake, because you know where this country’s headed if action, drastic action, isn’t taken. You’re either with me or against me, my boy—there’s nothing in the middle.”

  “You’ve gone too far, just like you did in Afghanistan when you sent those men to their deaths.” Forlani whipped the ball back toward Turwell, who snatched it effortlessly out of the air. “This isn’t what I signed on for. End it before it goes any further, or I’ll end it for you.”

  “I thought you were a hero, son, but you’re just another coward.”

  Forlani moved forward, getting right up in Turwell’s face. “Do you want to play or not, Colonel?”

  Turwell opened his hands and let the ball drop to the floor. “Oh, most certainly.”

  He drove the knife he’d slipped from the pocket of his warm-up pants under Forlani’s thorax, deep and then slicing across from left to right. Continued jerking the blade until Forlani stiffened and started to drop, shocked eyes starting to glaze.

  “Game over, Congressman,” the colonel told him before he died.

  CHAPTER 47

  Blountsville, Florida

  Kneeling in the root cellar-like basement where he’d constructed­ his personal altar, Jeremiah Rule couldn’t get the wondrous sight of the contents of the storage hold in West Virginia out of his mind. The means to cleanse the country, to achieve the mission he’d been chosen to fulfill, at last before him. The mere thought brought tears to his eyes.

  And yet he felt unworthy. In this glorious moment of his greatest achievement, of his word being heard and followed, he was struck by emptiness. An unclean part of his soul and spirit that no amount of scrubbing seemed to relieve. He had failed the Lord horribly once, and now, in the moment of his ultimate redemption, he found himself fearing terribly that he’d fail Him again.

  Oh Lord, show me the way… .

  The fear threatened to consume Rule, left him steeped in sweat in the squalid, festering heat. He’d prayed as he had as a child until his knees throbbed and skin stuck tightly to the wood, peeling off when he finally rose. His shirt was sodden with perspiration, reeking so much from the nightmares that had spawned it that the odor had roused the reverend from his sleep just before dawn and sent him down to his personal sanctuary. Growing worse the more he prayed, more fetid the more he remembered.

  Rule’s sample Bible went flying off into the mud, and the dog lunged at him again when he stooped to retrieve it. Rule took the good book in hand and smashed the dog’s snout with it.

  Could he not vanquish the memory of that horrible day from his mind and memory? Was it destined to haunt him for the rest of his days and deny him entry into the Kingdom of Heaven, no matter how much of the Lord’s work he did?

  “You killed my dog, mister! You killed my dog!”

  How was he to repent if no deed was good enough? How was he to find his way back into God’s good graces with such an unpardonable sin marring his past?

  Rule caught him just short of the steps, intending to just get him quiet, settle the boy down a bit.

  And then it struck him. Light shining amid the murkiness of his basement.

  First slapping the boy, then striking him with closed fists until his knuckles split and bled, and the wailing became a whimper and then a strange airless gurgle that left his blue eyes bulging and sightless.

  Only now, with his eyes closed, the boy’s broken, battered, and bloodied face appeared whole to him again. He looked at Rule not in recrimination, but with love, and Rule wondered if this was the boy’s ghost or a vision of him from before the beating, before he’d staggered away covered in mud and sprayed blood, feeling the boy’s urine soaking through his own pants. And in that realization Rule’s eyes snapped open with a vision of what he had to do. Snapping alert with a jolt, his voice dry and hoarse as he resumed his praying, he sank back to his knees as motion scuffled amid the dank darkness behind him, accompanied by a sound like wounded animals whimpering in the woods.

  “Oh Lord, I see how I can never be redeemed, but I see too how I must prove to you that I’ve changed. That I’m a different man now, having learned to follow your word above everything else.” Rule’s heart hammered against his chest, starting to steal his breath. His vision narrowed, the scope of the world shrinking before him. “I thank you, Lord, I thank you for showing me the way, for giving me this test I must pass in order to prove myself worthy of your graces.”

  He rose with his heart pounding, as excited as he could ever remember when he turned to the rear of his basement carved from the earth itself.

  “I’ll be back soon, my children.”

  CHAPTER 48

  Panama City, Florida

  Back upstairs in the steaming heat, Rule bolted the hatch and slid the carpet back into place to conceal it, then set about on a mission that had suddenly become his one and only concern.

  He went out and scoured used-car lots and salvage yards until he found a near perfect replica of the Dodge Ram van he’d driven in those dark, cursed times. The rear hold emptied of all else but space for his boxes of Bibles and his meager possessions and sleeping bag, so he might wallow away the nights to the static-riddled sound of a transistor radio and smell of his own stink. He hadn’t seen then how his unclean body was just a metaphor for his unclean soul. But he was a different man now, a changed man, and had to prove it the only way he knew how.

  The used 1981 van, its un
der panels little more than a patchwork of rust and steel worn thin enough to stick a finger through, came with the same 225-cubic-inch Slant Six engine. Same bald tires, even missing a hubcap from the same rear wheel. It had once been burgundy in shade, now faded to a pinkish red with rust bubbles all over the hood and roof, whereas the original had been olive green. Its engine, though, started and sounded exactly the same. It smelled of the same mold-ridden upholstery and stale plastic, duct tape holding the driver’s seat together.

  Rule bought it for five hundred dollars in cash, filled the tank, and drove off to prove once and for all he was past the anger and hatred that had left him staring down at the young boy he’d just killed, his eyes frozen open. Looked like a doll’s, all that had been human robbed by his pounding fists, now aching and bloodied, the knuckles swollen and torn.

  The Reverend Jeremiah Rule took to the Panhandle roads he knew so well, letting God and instinct direct him to the freeway leading out of Blountstown. Staying on it until just outside Panama City, where he was guided to the Countryside Estates Mobile Home on the corner of Boatrace and South Gay.

  “Estates” was hardly an apt description and neither was “Countryside” for this place. A nestling of one-level homes perched on concrete slabs mixed among the iron husks of RVs. Even though it was winter, Rule saw lots of open water and power connections, what passed for the best locations sitting in rare shaded spots spared by the recent scourge of storms. Rule didn’t know what he was looking for, only that it was here and he’d find it.

  A dog’s incessant barking grabbed his ear through the ancient Dodge Ram’s open window. He realized he’d been sweating up a storm ever since spotting the entrance to the mobile home park from across the road, his heart thudding against his rib cage with enough force to turn his breathing shallow and raspy. The sweat wedged him to the old vinyl and duct tape like glue. Trying to peel his trousers free made a squishing sound and the sticking grew only worse when he settled down again. The heat of the sun was relentless, burning off the light-colored and steel roofs and turning the Countryside Estates into a vast steaming pit.

  Rule stopped the van in the lee of some shade trees nestled in the back rear corner, a choice spot that featured a pit bull chained to a steel pole rising out of the ground no longer supporting whatever it once had. The reverend remained inside the Ram, feeling nothing, none of the terrible impulses from that fateful day returning.

  He was certain the evil inside him that defined his unworthiness was vanquished, but Rule had to prove it to God, so he opened the door with a whining creak and climbed down to prove himself worthy.

  The dog’s crystal-blue eyes followed his approach, repetitive barks seeming to merge into one as drool flew from its lips.

  “Easy there, fella.”

  The dog snarled, growled.

  “Easy, I just wanna make friends.”

  The dog bared its teeth.

  “Good boy, good boy,” Rule said, crouching closer to the animal, feeling in his pockets in the hope of finding some stray bit of candy or something.

  The dog lunged, taking all the chain would give. Rule rocked backwards, falling over and hitting his head on the rock-infested ground. Then he lurched back to his feet with the biggest rock of all clutched in his grasp, starting to come upward. Pictured it splitting the dog’s skull in two.

  “Don’t hurt my dog, mister.”

  Rule stopped, turned, saw a boy standing there just down from the mobile home’s steps, half in and half out of the sun. Dirty white tank top draped over tight blue jeans and bare feet. Fear in his eyes.

  Just like the other boy. Could have been the other boy.

  And the Reverend Jeremiah Rule felt the rock heating up in his grasp, saw it coming down on the dog and then the boy. Again and again.

  And again.

  CHAPTER 49

  Washington, DC

  “You’re serious,” Hank Folsom said, standing next to McCracken­ on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.

  Beyond the memorial, the sky had clouded up with the wind carrying a frigid bite and the promise of snow in the offing. From here, McCracken had a clear view of the Vietnam Memorial Wall that inevitably left a lump in his throat every time he was close by, intensified today by the strange desolation around him. Other than a smattering of tourists, the National Mall and all the attractions contained upon it were all but deserted, out of fear this would mark the ideal site for the next attack. In ironic counterpoint, Blaine actually thought he counted more Capitol police and National Guardsmen about than those they were protecting.

  “That’s right, Hank,” he told Folsom. “The man you had inside the Reverend Jeremiah Rule’s organization was trying to warn us that the Reverend Rule’s after whatever it was that wiped out the lost Roanoke Colony. Those settlers didn’t disappear, they didn’t vanish into the ether, and they weren’t murdered by Indians. They died within minutes of one another, maybe even quicker, died horribly in a single night.”

  “Who killed them?”

  “Not who—what, something the local Indian tribes called the ‘White Death,’ ” Blaine said, and then explained Captain Seven’s theory.

  “You’ll have to do better than that, McCracken,” Folsom said when he’d finished.

  “Then try this. I think someone from Rule’s camp was on Roanoke Island eight, nine months back. I think they killed a Croatan Indian boy who happened to be in the absolute worst place at the absolute worst time. Friend of the kid said the tribe figures he ran away. But if you check the area carefully enough, you’ll find him buried probably not too far from where his ancestors buried the colonists before Governor John White returned to burn the remnants of the camp.”

  “You have any idea how crazy all this sounds?”

  “No crazier than plenty of the other shit I’ve been dealing with since you were in diapers, Folsom.”

  “Make your point, McCracken.”

  “I thought I just did, Hank,” Blaine said. He felt himself stiffen, noticed Folsom recoil slightly at the slight gesture. “The Reverend Rule and whoever’s behind him may have their hands on whatever wiped out Roanoke.”

  “Back in 1590. This ‘White Death.’ ”

  “That’s the assumption so far.”

  “All this because my undercover wrote Croatoan in a crossword puzzle.”

  “Not quite,” McCracken told him. “I saw it in action myself. The White Death helped me take out part of the contingent that probably killed that Indian boy and it seems a safe bet there’s plenty more where they came from.” McCracken shifted about until Lincoln’s statue was positioned between him and Folsom. “Your undercover—Samuels—was an experienced field agent, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “He’d know he was in danger. He’d know he’d uncovered something that might be about to cost him his life. My presence, the meeting, just accelerated things. He needed to get out of Dodge, report in on his suspicions.”

  “Keep going.”

  “Assumptions, Hank. Your man was killed for what he’d figured out. It had nothing to do with the fact that he was about to meet with me. My presence was just icing on the cake. You put that together with Captain Seven’s conclusions and you’ve got your answer, Hank.”

  “A crazy man with a super weapon.”

  “And somebody, or somebodies, not so crazy backing him. The question today being what they plan on doing with the White Death and how all this is connected to innocent victims of the terrorist attacks they’ve unleashed.”

  “Any word from Missouri on that kid?”

  “Nothing.”

  Folsom tried very hard not to show what he was thinking. “Well, the answers you’re looking for may be in Boston.”

  “Boston, Hank?”

  “The likely site of the next attack, McCracken.”

  CHAPTER 50

  Panama City, F
lorida

  “You killed my dog, mister! You killed my dog!”

  Rule heard the words, but the boy before him didn’t speak them, his lips never moving. In his mind, he could squeeze the rock in his hand as if it were soft and spongy. In his mind, it was coming forward, the boy first this time and then the dog.

  Oh my God, it’s happening again!

  “Mister?”

  But Rule heard nothing. It was thirty years ago again and he was living out of the bug-infested rear of his van, sleeping in a sauna that became more like a steam bake by dawn that found him drenched in his own sweat with even his boxer shorts soaked through. Frustrated, bitter, lost. That awful part of him he’d thought was gone forever was just dormant, waiting to be awoken. His true self, his true nature.

  “Something wrong, mister?”

  The voice was the same, everything was the same, even the drool-infested snarls coughed his way by the boy’s dog. The sounds bounced about his head, pangs of agony left behind that had to be quelled. Just one way to do it. The rock smashing bone, brain matter and skull fragments hurled mist-like into the air to be scattered by God’s winds. The only way, the only way. Then as well as now.

  The reverend started toward the boy, hiding the rock behind him. The dog gone crazy now, the clinking sound of the chain fully extended, stretched to its absolute limit just as Rule was.

  Another step, then another, the boy starting to retreat, back up the stairs, losing his balance and grabbing a rusty railing to regain it.

  Just one lunge away now, time having sped backward, the color washed out of the world so there were only sepia tones that vibrated in the super-heated air.

  Rock starting forward.

  The door jerking open to reveal a massive shape, too big to emerge without ducking under the jamb.

  “Dad,” the boy said.

  The dog stopped barking.