by Mark Frost
A blast of cool, refreshing air washed over them. The Reverend breathed deeply, leaning against the doorway for support.
"You okay, sir?" asked Dante plaintively.
The Reverend nodded, laughed slightly at his concern, tousled Dante's hair, and waved him inside. A clean room, carved out of smooth stone, as cold and welcoming as springwater. An earthy smell that reminded Dante of a graveyard in the rain. The Reverend lowered himself slowly into the room's only chair, fumbled out his watch, and checked the time again.
"You are to wait here, lad," he said, taking Dante's hand, speaking simply and directly. "Leave that door open. Frederick will be along with something that I need; when he does, ring this bell, here on the wall, and I'll come for it. Do not go back to the surface or follow me into that passage...
The Reverend pointed to a dark, curving hallway leading out of the room, carved from the same black marble.
"If anyone besides Frederick comes in, you are to kill them. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir, Reverend."
"That's a good boy," he said, patting Dante's hand. "Help me up and we'll get started."
Dante pulled the Reverend to his feet; the man felt as insubstantial as a scarecrow. Reverend Day gripped the lantern in one hand and walked to the edge of the black hallway, smiled, and waved once to Dante. Dante waved back and the Reverend limped out of sight around the corner. Alone in the dark, Dante sat on the chair facing the door, laid his briefcase across his lap, and undid the clasps. He picked out his two favorite knives by touch, closed the case, and set it carefully beside the chair. His eyes adjusted to the dark, and soon a faint red glow lit up the outline of the open door.
He noticed that outside the church bells had stopped ringing.
Long before it reached him, Jacob saw the light of a lantern approach from the maze, reflecting off its smooth black walls; he'd been lying so long in total darkness, it took him a few moments to figure out which way he was looking: straight up? straight down? For some time he had been hearing the disorienting ghostly echoes of a thousand murmuring voices, the generalized hum of a crowd, drifting down from somewhere above.
He remembered he was on the floor, cold stone beneath him, hands and feet numb from the constrictions of the rope. When consciousness had first returned and Jacob found himself still breathing, he couldn't have been more surprised; surely the
Reverend must have killed him by now. Maybe he had. Maybe this was proof of an afterlife. If so, you'd think they could afford some lights over here.
Considering how lousy I feel, thought Jacob when he realized he was alive, I might as well be dead. But if this is Reverend Day I hear coming, maybe I won't have long to wait.
The shuffling footsteps; spurs jingling.
Yes, it was him.
Reverend Day entered the chamber, and by the light of his lantern for the first time Jacob saw the round room where he had been lying. In a slight depression scooped from the center of a round pattern, a detailed mosaic of some kind, set in the stone floor. Arrayed around him at the edge of the circle, he counted six silver pedestals. A squat coal-burning brazier stood off to one side. The cold wind he had felt issued from a rough gaping hole in the earth at the end of the room opposite the maze; a wide trough cut iri the floor ran down to the lip of the hole from the hollow where he lay. Set in the ceiling above him, he saw a tight circle of grills that looked like manhole covers; the spectral voices he had heard were issuing from there.
The Reverend hobbled around the room, lighting a series of lanterns on the walls from the one he carried. He moved to Jacob, stood over and studied him a moment; when Jacob didn't move, the Reverend nudged him with the toe of a boot.
"I'm awake," said Jacob.
"Really? I would have settled for alive; awake is something of a bonus. I was afraid you might miss all the fun."
Jacob kept silent.
"I know how extraordinarily conversant you are with your Torah, Rabbi; how are you with Scripture?"
"Forgive me, I—"
"The Book of Revelation, for example."
Jacob's heart skipped a beat; he tried to adjust his position to jar it back into rhythm, and in doing so for the first time since the man entered, he caught a glimpse of the Reverend's face.
Good God. He looks worse than I feel. Like an exhumed corpse.
Caked blood encrusted his face, which had gone whiter than ivory. Blood vessels rimming his forehead undulated as if they had come to life and broken free of their moorings. His eyes looked as red and savage as raw meat.
"Let me refresh your memory," said the Reverend. " 'The blood of the innocent shall rain down into the wound that hath opened in the earth and the Beast shall ascend, which is the angel of the bottomless pit, whose name in the Hebrew tongue is Abaddon. And he shall make war against them and overcome them and kill them.' Ring any bells for you, does it, Rabbi?"
Jacob shook his head.
"Oh, it will," said Reverend Day, craning his neck to look at the grills overhead. "When the bells start to ring again and the Holy Work begins."
Dante saw a shadow creep across the wall outside the door; he stood up, holding his knives, ready to pounce. The door pushed open; Frederick. Dante relaxed, then saw the terrible look on Frederick's face.
"Is he in there?" asked Frederick, pointing toward the maze.
Dante nodded.
"Then we'll never find him." He looked furious, more agitated than Dante had ever seen him.
"Do you have the book?" asked Dante.
"No. Here is our situation, Mr. Scruggs: There is no more time and the Reverend has defaulted on what is owed to me, an enormous sum, and there is no money"—Frederick's face contorted in a spasm of rage—"anywhere in the town that I can find. Giving our lives without recompense is not part of my arrangement. Do you understand? No further service is required here; I am taking my leave. If you want to live, I suggest you do the same."
Dante looked toward the hall, thought for a moment, then shook his head. He liked Frederick well enough, but he liked the Reverend even more.
"Suit yourself," said Frederick, and he vanished up the stairs.
Dante walked to the center of the room: What should he do? Ring the bell, have the Reverend come all the way back just to tell him Frederick didn't bring the book? That would only make him mad. Maybe he should go look for him. But the Reverend had said not to follow him into the hallway.
Dante stood paralyzed with indecision, until he again heard footsteps on the stairs.
As they neared the front of the church and saw the black-shirted guards rolling something on wheels into place, Jack directed them behind the cover of a stonecutter's hut. Presto and Lionel tried to make sense of the movement around the cathedral.
"What we're looking for is under the tower," said Jack.
"Right," said Presto.
Looking to her right about a hundred yards away, Walks Alone caught sight of a man in a suit climbing up out of the earth and sprinting off into the darkness.
"Over there," she whispered.
She led them to the spot from where she'd seen the man emerge; two steel flaps hinged back, stairs descending.
"This is it," said Jack.
Walks Alone led the way down the stairs.
"According to the dream, there are supposed to be six of them in total, whoever or whatever they're supposed to be, correct?" asked Innes.
Innes had hardly stopped talking since the moment he'd been shot; he's warding off shock, thought Doyle. He had led Innes and Eileen to shelter at the north edge of the shanties and was watching Jack and the others through his spyglass as they cautiously approached the church.
"Agreed," said Doyle.
"So Jack, Presto, and Mary what's her name, there's three of them," said Innes.
"Jacob and Kanazuchi," said Eileen, lying between them, rifle in hand.
"That's five," said Doyle.
"So my question is, if how many of them there are is so all-fired important—and it
seems to be—"
"Who's number six?" said Doyle. "Not an uninteresting question."
He moved the glass right to follow their friends, as Walks
Alone led them to a flat, featureless area where they stopped and studied something in the dirt.
"What are they doing?" whispered Doyle.
A moment later, he watched them disappear into the ground.
"What the devil?"
"What is it?" asked Eileen.
"Are you up to moving on?" Doyle asked Innes.
"Right; lead away."
"Eileen?"
"I don't fancy hanging back here by my lonesome, thank you."
They helped Innes to his feet and crept closer.
Dante withdrew into the blackness of the hall behind him as the door swung open, grateful the Reverend had given him ; permission to kill whoever came through that door. He gripped the knives tightly, flush with heat, poised to rush forward and go to work.
He stopped dead when he saw the Indian woman.
The shock delayed his attack long enough for the three men to step into the room behind her. All carrying guns; one with a small suitcase. His eye jumped to the chair where he'd been sitting.
Damn, he'd left his case sitting on the floor.
The lead man, a tall, thin one who vaguely reminded him of Reverend Day, went to the case, flipped it open, showed its contents to the others, then tossed it aside. They talked in whispering voices—Dante heard the word "Chicago"—then j the tall man pointed them toward the hall where Dante was hiding.
Dante quickly felt his way along the wall to the first corner. He took a quiet breath, reached out to feel his way, and headed deep into the darkness.
Presto opened Edison's suitcase and took out the flash-a-light. Jack pulled from a pocket in his vest a handful of small square patches and the compass. Narrowing its aperture to a pinpoint, Jack turned on the flash-a-light, shined it briefly on the patches, took a reading off the compass, turned off the light, and led them to the mouth of the hallway.
"Do you remember this part of the dream?" he asked, voice low.
"Tunnels," said Walks Alone. "Twisted passages."
"Something like a maze," said Presto.
"Right," said Jack, attaching one of the patches to the wall at eye level; its back was coated with adhesive and it glowed a faint luminescent green. "We'll head north by northwest, towards the church."
Jack opened the suitcase and took out the night-vision glasses, handing the flash-a-light and the compass to Presto and Lionel. Jack slipped on the goggles and peered ahead into the corridor.
"Keep the light handy. Stay close," said Jack.
Wide enough to accommodate two people abreast, the hall gaped before them like a black throat. The other three followed Jack into the corridor, and its vast darkness instantly swallowed what little light issued from the room behind. Ten cautious steps on, they came to the first corner. Jack examined each of the three open passages.
"Compass," he whispered.
Presto turned on the flash-a-light; a minuscule beam hit the face of the compass in Lionel's hand.
"Northwest," said Presto, pointing left. He turned off the light.
Jack attached another glowing patch to the wall, and they inched their way down the left-hand passage. The red-tinged field of vision afforded by the goggles revealed little more to him than the crude outline of the walls; the glasses primarily detected objects that radiated heat. None were in sight.
Walks Alone caught the scent of something on a wind that blew toward them: chloroform, formaldehyde. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end.
Was it possible? She quietly pulled the knife from her belt.
Doyle, Innes, and Eileen crept down the stairs to the sanctum, entered the foyer, and waited for their eyes to adjust. Innes noticed a glowing green patch inside the hallway. He wanted to follow but on instinct Doyle held them back.
"Not yet," he said.
He led them back up the stairs where they stopped below-ground, rested their rifles on the plates, and trained them on the church.
"I'm not trying to be critical, but what are we waiting for?" whispered Eileen.
"I'm not entirely sure," said Doyle.
"Did you miss me, Arthur?" she whispered a moment later.
"Not at all," he said. "Desperately."
"Good," she said. "Sorry."
Dead silence from the direction of the church; looking through the glass, he saw a huge man in a long, gray coat move along the line of men in black outside the front doors. The big man stopped to glance at his watch; he gave a signal, the bars across the doors were removed, and a team of men began turning what looked like a machine gun around to face the cathedral.
"Good Christ," said Doyle.
Another patch went on the wall; they were following the track of the compass, but Walks Alone could have led them on the air coming toward them alone. Jack stopped, his foot encountering an irregular shape.
"Light," he whispered.
Presto directed the light to the ground and turned it on; Jack pressed his foot down onto a slightly elevated patch of marble. A three-foot-square section of floor directly ahead of them dropped away. Shining the light into the pit that opened, they saw a field of gleaming spikes.
"Jump over or double back?" asked Jack.
"This is the right way," said Walks Alone, pointing ahead.
"Jump, then."
Presto opened the aperture and used it to guide the leap across; Lionel carried the book and went first; Presto last, carrying the light. By the time they readied themselves on the far side and Jack had taken another reading of the compass, the light began to falter.
"Battery's fading," said Presto, switching it off.
They tested each step ahead. Reached another intersection that branched to the left and right; three passages from which to choose, all heading in the same direction. Jack stared down each of the corridors through the goggles. Presto thought he could make out a faint aura of light in each of the tunnels ahead.
"We're close," said Walks Alone.
Jack stuck a patch on the wall then handed the remaining ones to Presto and Walks Alone. "We'll each take a path a short way ahead. Lionel, with me. Call out at once if the light increases; we'll meet back here."
Jack attached a second patch next to the first.
They separated and edged up each of the three corridors. Presto widened the aperture and kept his finger on the switch of the light, a pistol in his other hand. Walks Alone gripped her knife and felt her way along the wall. Lionel held on to Jack's belt; Jack stopped when he heard a faint echo of voices ahead.
"Jacob!" Jack cried out.
"Father!" Lionel shouted.
Through the dim filtered screen of the goggles, Jack saw a line of heat and movement cross his vision in the nest of passages ahead and he realized his mistake.
Reverend Day's head twisted around as he heard the voices call out from the tunnel.
No, this was wrong, too close; the boy was supposed to stop them.
He pulled out his watch; two minutes before Cornelius gave the signal and the Holy Work began. He heard a laugh and whipped his stiff neck around to look at Jacob; the Jew was smiling at him.
"Expecting someone?" asked Jacob.
A low sustained rumble sounded from deep inside the pit.
"As a matter of fact, I am," said the Reverend, returning the smile.
Here we go again, thought Frank.
His hands were in the air; Kanazuchi had the rifle pointed at his back.
What the hell, maybe Hammer's black pajamas looked enough like what these men were wearing to get them close. If they didn't, not much else mattered.
They marched down the embankment and across the space between them and the line of men, then along toward the Gatling gun. The first of the men in black caught sight and just stared at them. Word traveled fast down the line, reaching the gun well before they did, just as Cornelius Moncrief walked around the
side of the church.
"Two minutes!" he called out.
Two of the men in black pulled the bar out of the brackets on the doors. They swung open, and the team manning the machine gun pointed it inside.
Cornelius saw the two men approaching and started straight at them, pulling a pistol; Frank could tell they were going to meet up right in front of the gun. He noticed that its safety was off and the feeder belt had already been attached to the mouth of the gun.
Good.
"What the hell is this?" asked Cornelius.
They came together and stopped three feet apart.
"One of the intruders," said Kanazuchi.
"Hi, Cornelius," said Frank. "Remember me?"
Cornelius stared at him, eyebrows wriggling like caterpillars. Frank saw the pupils in the man's eyes constrict: Cornelius's gun started up.
"You dumb fuck," said Frank.
Frank drew the Colt and fired six times, punching a circle around his heart.
Kanazuchi turned and emptied the rifle on the men at the Gatling, killing all three. Before the men in the line on either side could react Kanazuchi pulled the Grass Cutter and attacked to his right.
Frank jumped to the Gatling and swung it back left; he caught a glimpse through the doors of a sea of white shirts down on the cathedral floor, a splash of red moonlight shining on them through a round glass window. His hand found the crank and he let the Gatling rip; a stream of bullets kicked up a cloud of dust, hitting the ground to the left of the line— damn thing wasn't calibrated; fucking army didn't know how to fucking maintain its fucking equipment.
Men in black in the line returned fire. Frank found the balance in the gun as it continued to fire and wrestled it to the right. Now bullets ripped directly down the flank of their line, chewing it up, tossing men back and to the sides; ones in the rear ran for cover as they saw the others fall.
