THE SEARCHERS, BOOK ONE:
CITY OF IRON
Chet Williamson
Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press
© 2011 / Chet Williamson
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OTHER CROSSROAD PRESS PRODUCTS BY CHET WILLIAMSON:
NOVELS:
Ash Wednesday
Defenders of the Faith
Dreamthorp
Hunters
Lowland Rider
Reign
Second Chance
Soulstorm
UNABRIDGED AUDIOBOOKS:
As author & Narrator:
Ash Wednesday
Soulstorm
Lowland Rider
Second Chance
As Narrator:
Blood: A Southern Fantasy – by Michael Moorcock
Fabulous Harbours – by Michael Moorcock
War Amongst the Angels – by Michael Moorcock
Nightjack – by Tom Piccirilli
Blood Lust: Preternaturals Book I – by Zoe Winters
Save My Soul: Preternaturals Book II – by Zoe Winters
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For Andrew,
warrior-poet who exposes the secrets and brings light to the shadows
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author would like to thank the following people for their assistance in the writing of this book: Barbara Strong Ellis, T. Liam McDonald, Thomas F. Monteleone, and Andrew Vachss. I would also like to thank my agent, Jimmy Vines, and especially my editor, Stephen S. Power.
Pilate saith unto him, What is truth?
—JOHN 18:38
I will teach you. When the time of dissolution arrives, the first power of darkness will come upon you. Do not be afraid, and say, "Behold! The time has come!"
-THE DIALOGUE OF THE SAVIOR, VS. 122
Chapter 1
The man looked up into the night sky and saw only a dizzying blur of whiteness. Individually the snowflakes were so light and airy that a single breath made them vanish, but together they had an immense power. Like The Twelve, he thought.
The plane that was to take him to the meeting was only a dark shadow in the sea of white that swirled in the lights of the tiny airport. A smaller shadow detached itself from the mass and walked toward him. "Sorry, Mr. McAndrews," the pilot shouted over the roar of the wind. "There's no way, sir."
The man the pilot called McAndrews, but whose real name was Mackay, did not speak loudly, but he knew the pilot would hear nonetheless. His voice, low and resonant, held the trace of a Scottish brogue. "I have no choice," he said. "I must leave. Tonight."
The pilot shook his head, giving the man a smile that indicated both sympathy for his plight and disdain for the man's irrational insistence. "Not tonight," he said. "And probably not tomorrow. It's supposed to keep on like this for the next thirty-six hours. Man, you couldn't fire a rocket through this stuff," and he waved his hand in the snowy air.
"I must leave," Mackay repeated. "My meeting is tomorrow evening."
"You're out of luck, then," the pilot said, giving his "Sorry, you idiot" smile once more. "Roads are bad and gettin' worse. You'd never get to New York State by tomorrow night."
"As I said, I have no choice. You're not willing to fly me? I'll pay you handsomely."
The pilot shook his head firmly. "You'd have to pay my widow," he said. "No way, sir."
"Then are you willing to sell your plane?"
"Sell my—?" The pilot barked a laugh.
"I'm a businessman. And I have ... an extremely important agenda. It would be more than worth my while."
"And you'd fly it?"
"I can fly."
"Not in this. Besides, nobody's gonna get clearance for takeoff tonight."
In his many years of life, Mackay had learned when discussion became futile. He glanced back toward the small terminal building and saw only the haze that its lights cast through the storm. No one there could see him or the pilot.
His gloved hands slid from the warmth of his topcoat pockets, and he grasped the pilot by the shoulder and pulled him close. The heel of his other hand sharply met the pilot's temple. The pilot gave a short groan and went slack in the man's arms.
Mackay lowered him to the snow-covered tarmac, rolled him onto his back, and pulled the hood of the pilot's insulated jacket up around the unconscious man's face. He'd be all right for the few minutes it would take for Mackay to get the plane in the air.
Mackay went through the pilot's pockets until he found the key to the plane. Then he picked up his valise and walked to the Cherokee. The light single-engine plane would not have been Mackay's first choice to fly in a storm like this, but he had taken greater risks in his life. As he stepped onto the wing and opened the door, he knew that God would continue to be with him. Just the same, he was glad to see that a chute was lying on the small backseat. Best to stack the deck in the Lord's favor.
He had no choice but to fly instruments-only, as he wheeled the plane onto the runway and opened the throttle. A voice began jabbering at him from the radio, so he shut it off and concentrated on getting the small plane aloft.
It rose some, but then the wind pushed it down. He kept his eyes fixed on the artificial horizon and pulled back slowly, struggling to keep it level. Then he was up, coursing through a storm that tossed his plane about like a feather, making him think of the hurricane that had struck the schooner that had first taken him to America.
When he felt confident enough to free a hand, he turned the radio back on and informed the tower that the pilot was lying out on the runway, and that they had better find him before he was buried by the falling snow and froze to death. Profanity rattled back at him, and he switched the radio off again and watched his instruments closely.
He had just crossed into Wisconsin airspace when he felt the plane stall. The altimeter spun backward, slowly at first, then more rapidly, bleeding off altitude as the craft dropped into a full dive.
A glance out the window showed him the reason. Rime ice coated the edge of the wings. He pulled back on the stick, but there was no response.
He reached into the backseat, grabbed the chute, and wrestled it on in the tight quarters, pulling the straps tight. Then he wrapped his fingers around the handle of his valise and hugged it to him. With his left hand he pulled back on the door handle and tried to kick it open, but the hinge was toward the front of the plane, and the pressure blew the door shut instantly.
Now he pushed against it with his shoulder, pressing against the air rushing up from below. At last there was room to get his head and shoulders through, and the cold air whipped at him, tearing off his hat and whirling it away into the night. He tightened his grip on the valise.
Mackay knew he would have to jump fast so that the door would not slam shut on him. He pressed his feet against the instrument panel, took a deep breath, and launched himself into the storm.
The door slapped shut, nearly crushing his right
foot, and pain tore through him for a red second. Then he was lost in darkness, and the storm screamed victory in his ears, and the only thought that came to his mind as he yanked at the ripcord was that this would be the first meeting of The Twelve that he had missed in a hundred and twenty years.
The following evening, twenty minutes before midnight, eleven men performed various tasks in a remote lodge in the heart of the Adirondack Mountains. In the small kitchen, a man named Ferguson placed a loaf of bread on a silver plate. Though he knew that vanity was a sin, he admired it for a moment.
It had risen beautifully, and the top was crisp and golden brown, the sides a buttery yellow. A delicious yeasty smell rose with the steam and made Ferguson think of a priest's censer and burning incense. Both this bread and the incense, after all, were intended for the worship of God.
Campbell scurried into the kitchen and looked at the door that led outside, then at Ferguson. "No Mackay yet," he said, then went back into the main room. Ferguson didn't even think of asking if they would wait. On the few rare occasions when one of their party was absent, they had never waited, and they never would. When midnight came, the meeting would begin. That was as sure as the sun rising in the east.
Ferguson stepped to the window and looked out at the road that led to the nearest town, twenty miles away. It lay empty in the clear, cold moonlight. Mackay still had twenty minutes, and Ferguson would be surprised if he didn't show up. Ferguson smiled to himself. They were all fanatical about attending, sure enough, and Mackay was the most single-minded of the lot. If he were alive, he would make it. Mackay would come.
Wallace came into the kitchen. He had finished setting all the glasses and now took the decanter of wine from the kitchen table. "Still no Mackay," he said, and Ferguson nodded as Wallace returned to the main room.
Ferguson whispered a quiet prayer that Mackay had not died. It seldom happened, but it happened nonetheless. Grant had been crossing to the meeting on the Lusitania when it was sunk, and Macallan had been murdered by slaves of The One back in 1944. But for the most part, The Twelve knew how to take care of themselves. Those were the lessons that longevity taught, and the lives that faith preserved.
He glanced at his watch and saw that he had been daydreaming longer than he'd thought. That was the problem with constant youth—it made time itself seem unimportant. But tonight time had reasserted its authority once more. Ferguson took the bread knife and placed it on the silver plate next to the loaf. Then he bore it into the meeting place.
All but Mackay were there. Kerr was at the head of the table, going through the mission sheets, both those that would be reported upon, and those that would be assigned this night. Wallace was standing with Campbell, and both were eyeing the table, seeking some imperfection in their settings but finding none.
Ferguson excused himself, and Murray and Ramsay stepped aside with a murmur of admiration at the artistry of Ferguson's baking. He set the loaf on the table at Kerr's right hand, and the taciturn elder's gaze remained on it long enough for Ferguson to sense his approval.
Then Ferguson went to his place, the second chair on Kerr's left, glanced at his watch, and picked up his portfolio of papers. Seven minutes. That was enough time to pretend to refresh his memory on the past year's missions. In actuality, everything that had happened was so deeply engraved upon his mind that he needed no review. But they continued to pretend, even after all these years, that what they did was more efficacious when committed to paper.
Ferguson looked over his reports with no little amusement. How absurd it all seemed, the ways in which humans deluded themselves and others, the methods they used to express their hatreds and insanities. The Twelve immersed themselves in such excreta like men cleaning out sewers. Ferguson sometimes felt that he had seen as much madness and human vileness in his time as God Himself, though he knew that was not true: God saw all.
Still, they had to follow every lead, track down every clue, trace every crumb of human barbarity on the off chance that The One had inspired it. And if He had, then it was up to them to end it.
"It's time," Kerr said, just loud enough to be heard by the others. Each went to his given seat, and Ferguson sat between Ramsay and Stewart. From across the table, young Gordon smiled at him, and Ferguson smiled back. Best to smile now, for the reports to come would bring no merriment.
"A year has passed," said Kerr, "since we met near Brisbane. So it is time once more to report on our various missions undertaken since that time. As you can see, our brother, Andrew Mackay, is not present. We have discovered that he ... commandeered a small plane last night but has not been seen since. You all know what the charter says about such occurrences. If Sir Andrew does not appear within eight weeks, he will be considered as passed over, and we will gather to choose a replacement. I pray that is not the case and urge all of you to do likewise so that our brother might be restored to us.
"Now we shall give our individual reports, which will be followed by assignments of new missions. Sir Angus?"
Even after all these years, Kerr's deep faith in their traditional rules of order had not been compromised. The assembly always found this reassuring. Angus Reid, at Kerr's immediate right, stood up, holding his papers in his hands, but he did not look down at them. Instead he fixed his blue eyes on the rest of the company and told the stories of the year that had passed. He spoke of a madman in Savannah who had ripped apart two women and three men. When Reid had finally found him, the man had been torturing a child he had kidnapped. "Though I interrogated him at length," Reid said, "he spoke of nothing that would lead me to conclude that any of what he did was at the behest of The One."
Everyone around the table nodded. Their skills were such that they knew the man could have held back nothing during Reid's interrogation. Reid shook his head sadly. "Despite my best efforts, the child died." None of them had to ask what Reid had done to the madman. Ferguson hoped Reid had shown no mercy, and that the madman's death had been hard.
Reid then spoke of a dozen other matters, not all of them violent. He talked of a man who had been supposed to possess strange healing powers, but did not; of satanic symbols appearing in holy places as if by magic, until Reid had found the clever and amoral college pranksters who had done it for a lark and stopped them; of bursts of lights that were supposed to have appeared mysteriously in the sky over a small Nebraska town, but were due to hoaxers with a searchlight.
At last he finished and looked at Kerr, who spoke the words they all knew: "And did you, then, find any event to be caused in any way by The One?"
Reid gave the expected answer: "No, and I thank God for the binding."
Ramsay was next, and his report was along the same lines: killings, mutilations, stories of supposed vampires and ghosts, and unexplained lights and other phenomena. Kerr's question was once again answered in the same way.
So it went, down the table, until young Cameron at the end spoke. "There was an occurrence," he said, "on an airplane early in the year—March seventeenth. It was Pan Am Flight 504, from New York to London, and a man in first class went berserk." Ferguson and the others nodded. They were kept well apprised of each other's missions. "He had had only a single glass of wine when he took the bottle, shattered it, and rammed the broken glass into the face of the person in the next seat. It took five people to subdue him.
"I was able, several weeks later, to question him privately. He claimed to have no knowledge of what he had done, no awareness whatsoever. He was telling me the truth." Ferguson believed Cameron implicitly. They all had the ability to ferret out lies. "I believe," Cameron went on, "that The One was directly responsible."
No one asked, "How so?" Their years had taught them patience and economy of language.
"The flight taking Him to his new destination on March seventeenth passed within a mile and a half of the path of Flight 504. Although it's impossible to be certain, it seems the event occurred at the time of that close conjunction."
Stewart said what they w
ere all thinking: "The first time He was ever transported by air."
"Correct." Kerr nodded. "And the last. Too dangerous. Seems the safest place in the world up there, but let the guard down and the bolt is shot." He didn't congratulate Cameron on his findings; they were not in the market for self-congratulation. "This will be reported to the Council," Kerr said. "I have no doubt but that they will change their procedures."
Cameron sat down as Kerr stood and picked up a stack of dossiers. "It has been a relatively calm year, brothers, although with the activity of the past two decades, the Council has been concerned that His power is growing. Constant vigilance, I need not remind you, is still required on our part. We must not allow ourselves to be lulled into a false sense of security. And if perchance His power is waning, ours is not to celebrate that, but rather to ensure its perpetuity.
"So here are the missions for the coming year. Nearly all are located in the United States and Canada, since this is where The One's influence would be felt most readily since His relocation."
Kerr passed out the dossiers. None opened his, but each set it beside his silver plate.
"Now," said Kerr, "let us share the bread and wine." He leaned over the silver plate with the golden loaf of bread, broke off a small piece, and placed it into his mouth. Then he passed it to his right. The plate ran down the length of the table and then up again, and by the time it returned to Kerr, only a small piece was left. Kerr made the sign of the cross on his breast and spoke some words in Latin. The others responded in the same language.
Then Kerr slowly opened an intricately carved wooden box lined with velvet. From it he took a crude wooden cup whose lack of decoration contrasted sharply with the ornamentation of the box. The cup's surface was black with age, though it gleamed as though polished by the oil of countless hands over the centuries.
City of Iron Page 1
