2013: Beyond Armageddon
Date: 2012-10-17T23:00:00+00:00
Keywords: King; Armageddon; apocalypse; Devil; evil; Hell; Koontz; lucifer; end of days; angelfall; 2013; 2012; Satan; Mayan Prophecy; Sandra Ee; End Times; Messiah
Description: DECEMBER 21, 2012. The Mayans chose this as the point of alpha and omega. The day when one age would end and a new one begin. They called it Creation Day. BEFORE THE BEGINNING... The war between Good and Evil began in the untime. Long before the universe existed, God's most beloved archangel and his legion rose up against Him, and were cast into Hell. And Lucifer became Satan. OCTOBER 1947. Two scrolls are discovered. One was written by Lot, after his escape from Sodom. The other is the precursor to the Book of Revelation: the Apocalypse of Enoch, personal scribe to God. Their eyewitness testi

2013

BEYOND ARMAGEDDON

ROBERT RYAN

Copyright © 2012 by Robert Ryan
All rights reserved
www.robertryanwriter.com

Book Design: Booknook
www.booknook.biz

Cover Design: Todd Hebertson
http://digitalspin.deviantart.com

Font Arkham by Ablaze
Font Cheap Fire by Richard D. Collins

This book is dedicated to Shirley
with all my love
for support far above and
beyond the call of duty

Contents

BOOK ONE

Chapter 1 • Chapter 2 • Chapter 3

Chapter 4 • Chapter 5 • Chapter 6

BOOK TWO

Chapter 7 • Chapter 8 • Chapter 9

Chapter 10 • Chapter 11 • Chapter 12

Chapter 13 • Chapter 14 • Chapter 15

Chapter 16 • Chapter 17 • Chapter 18

Chapter 19 • Chapter 20 • Chapter 21

Chapter 22

BOOK THREE

Chapter 23 • Chapter 24 • Chapter 25

Chapter 26 • Chapter 27 • Chapter 28

Chapter 29 • Chapter 30 • Chapter 31

BOOK FOUR

Chapter 32 • Chapter 33 • Chapter 34

Chapter 35 • Chapter 36 • Chapter 37

Chapter 38 • Chapter 39 • Chapter 40

Chapter 41 • Chapter 42 • Chapter 43

Chapter 44 • Chapter 45 • Chapter 46

Chapter 47 • Chapter 48 • Chapter 49

Chapter 50 • Chapter 51 • Chapter 52

Chapter 53 • Chapter 54 • Chapter 55

Chapter 56 • Chapter 57 • Chapter 58

Chapter 59 • Chapter 60 • Chapter 61

Chapter 62 • Chapter 63 • Chapter 64

Chapter 65

BOOK FIVE

Chapter 66 • Chapter 67 • Chapter 68

Chapter 69 • Chapter 70 • Chapter 71

BOOK SIX

Chapter 72

About the Author

Watch, therefore, for ye know
neither the day nor the hour
wherein the Son of man cometh.

Matthew 25: 13

BOOK ONE

The Scrolls

And when I looked, behold,

A hand was sent unto me;
and, lo, a roll of a book was therein;

And he spread it before me;
and it was written within and without:

and there was written therein
lamentations, and mourning,
and woe.

Ezekiel 2: 9-10

CHAPTER 1

Jerusalem. October, 1947

The sharp knock at the door startled the priest. It sounded more than urgent.

Frightened.

Who could be calling at this ungodly hour? Hostilities were escalating daily between the Arabs and Jews. Ancient foes stalked the streets, looking for someone to kill. Even a priest in his rectory after midnight could get caught in the crossfire of their hatred.

Father Boyle smiled at his paranoid Catholic guilt. He’d been thinking sinful thoughts of pride and betrayal, so naturally a deadly penance had come knocking at his door.

He put down the magnifying glass he’d been using to study an ancient fragment of text, wiped his bleary eyes, and went to answer the door. The familiar weatherbeaten face at the peephole, tanned almost black from a lifetime in the desert, made him click on the foyer light and open the door. He waved his visitor in and spoke to him in Arabic.

“Tarik. What are you doing here so late?”

“I got lost. I can never find this place.”

It always amused the priest that the Bedouin could find his way around the uncharted Judaean Wilderness, but got lost coming here. The Old City section of Jerusalem could be a confusing labyrinth, but Tarik had been here before. “Just turn off Via Dolorosa when you see that marker for the 5th Station of the Cross.”

“Hard to see when it’s darker than Jahannam.”

Gehenna, Father Boyle thought, automatically translating the Arabic word for Hell into its Hebrew equivalent. Something else was troubling the Bedouin. Tarik held something cradled against his chest. The priest couldn’t see what it was, but he could guess.

Since July, the Bedouin had been making incredible scroll discoveries and selling them wherever they could. The Vatican got word that they were missing out on possible Biblical texts, so they’d quickly dispatched himself and Monsignor Donatelli, their two top paleographers, to Jerusalem with the full resources of the Holy See behind them. Two adjacent failed shops in the Old City had been hastily converted into a scrollery and residence. Tucked away on a side street in the Christian Quarter, no sign announced its existence. The two priests had discreetly gotten word to the Bedouin that this was a good place to bring anything old with writing on it.

Tarik eyed Father Boyle’s sweatshirt and faded pajama bottoms with suspicion. He’d never seen him in his lay clothes.

The priest explained. “Once I’m in for the evening, I change into something more comfortable.” Tarik still looked skeptical, so he added, “It’s allowed.”

“Where is the old man?” The door was still open and the Bedouin looked around nervously at every rustle of the wind.

“He is at the Vatican on business.”

It was a lie. Monsignor Donatelli was asleep in the back room, dead to the world. Father Boyle needed to keep him out of this. Two months ago a Bedouin had tried to sell a complete scroll to the “Official Vatican Paleographer for Jerusalem,” but the senile old fool had turned him away. Said it couldn’t be genuine. Father Boyle had assured him it was, but he wouldn’t listen to a twenty-four-year old assistant fresh from the seminary. Never mind that he’d been rated as a genius in languages from the time he was eight.

“I will come back,” Tarik said, turning to go.

“No. Wait. What have you got?”

The priest smelled his chance. If Tarik had something good, and he could procure it instead of Donatelli, it could be a shortcut to the title he coveted: Official Paleographer for the Vatican. Even then it might still take years. Donatelli had been working toward the position his whole life. Too bad. His time had passed. It was every man for himself and the devil take the hindmost.

Father Boyle waved the Bedouin in and closed the door.

Tarik held out a terra cotta jar, about eighteen inches high. “Two complete scrolls. Perfect condition. And the jar. It has writing also. Tell the old man it will cost him a hundred thousand American dollars.”

Father Boyle stifled a roar. He sensed a bluff. Something about the scrolls was making the Bedouin nervous. He wanted—needed—to get rid of them quickly. “Tarik.” He made a humble face. “I must see them first. Then we can decide what they are worth.”

“I tell you one hundred thousand. One of these already slipped through your fingers.”

Not mine. His. “My friend, be reasonable. Where would a lowly young priest like me get that kind of money?”

“Tell your Pope to sell one of his costumes.”

His attempt at humor was masking something else. Father Boyle knew he couldn’t come close to this man’s ridiculous asking price, yet he must see these scrolls. He couldn’t make the same mistake Donatelli had made.

“Let’s do this,” he said. “Come into my office, so I can see what you have. Then we can discuss terms. If we cannot agree, then there is no harm and I will wish you well. What do you say?”

“I say I will let you see them. I also say I will have my money.”

Father Boyle smiled and beckoned for Tarik to follow him. He glanced at Donatelli’s large, well-appointed office and felt the usual twinge of resentment when he entered his small hole on the other side of the hall. The light from his pole lamp near the desk barely reached the edges of the room. A picture of the Pope hung crookedly on one wall. He was smiling beatifically and waving a hand in benediction: God Bless This Mess.

The other walls were filled with shelves crammed with books. Stacks of research materials covered the floor. In the middle was his small rolltop desk and a battered wooden chair, looking like an island surrounded by the flotsam and jetsam of a shipwreck.

Tarik followed along a narrow makeshift aisle in the stacks on the floor. He carefully placed the jar on the desk and remained standing.

The priest sat. Two full scrolls. Not maddening little pieces. Heart pounding, he took a breath and reached for the jar.

“Be very careful.” The Bedouin stood at the priest’s right elbow, scrutinizing his every move. His hand brushed open his jalabiyya and came to rest on the knife at his waist.

“Maybe you’d better open it then, to be on the safe side.”

“A good idea.” Tarik secured the jar in one arm and gently twisted.

The stopper was black and wrinkled. Bits of it flaked off. An animal skin, perhaps, wadded up for the purpose. The jars of the Qumran scrolls reportedly had lids, not stoppers, and were considerably larger. Father Boyle pushed the thought aside. He could figure all that out later. First he needed to close the deal—if what he saw was any good.

After much careful twisting the stopper came out. A sound, like a mournful sigh, escaped.

Startled, Father Boyle said, “What was that? A jinni?” He used the Arabic word rather than the American genie.

“You believe the Arab superstition?”

“Don’t you?”

Tarik tried to smile but his eyes betrayed him. The priest wanted to believe the sound was thousands of years of pent-up air being released—except that Tarik must have already opened the jar to know what was inside.

Father Boyle barely believed in God, so he wasn’t about to believe in genies, but maybe that explained the Bedouin’s haunted look. If he was worried about a curse, he’d be eager to part with the scrolls at any price. The priest fostered the idea.

“Do you think the jinni serves Allah—or the outcast Iblis, leader of the fallen ones?”

“I do not joke about such things. Neither should you.”

They stared at each other for several seconds before Tarik proceeded. Like a man handling nitroglycerine, he slowly removed the smaller of the two scrolls, then eased it onto blotter atop the desk. Father Boyle swung his hinged desk lamp over and shone the bright circle of light on the roll of parchment.

Since Donatelli’s colossal blunder, all they’d gotten were tiny fragments that had been driving them mad. Now they had a second chance at not one, but two complete scrolls. Perhaps their last chance.

The priest tried to control his accelerated breathing while he assessed the situation. Any ancient scroll should be humidified before opening to avoid damaging it, but there was no time. The old man’s bladder was like clockwork. He’d be getting up to go to the bathroom any minute now.

Father Boyle grabbed a small spray bottle of water and lightly spritzed the scroll. That would have to do. “If it starts to crumble I’ll stop immediately.”

Tarik gave a curt nod and set the jar on the desk.

The priest pulled two bars of solid glass and a ruler from a cubbyhole in his desk and placed them within easy reach. The glass bars were about eighteen inches long and an inch thick, rounded except for one flat side, to which a strip of felt had been glued. Father Boyle’s invention, he called them his “papyrusweights.”

With hands as steady as a surgeon’s, the priest unrolled a few inches until the first words became visible. With quick deft movements, he used one glass bar to keep the unrolled scroll from springing closed and the other to secure the leading edge. The exposed portion now lay flat on the desk. He measured the width of the scroll at ten inches. He could only guess at its length when fully unrolled. Probably a foot or so. His eyes rapidly scanned the text.

The state of preservation was astonishing. The ink had hardly faded at all. For several minutes he stared at the writing. It was perfect Hebrew, written with an untrained hand. “Where did you find this?”

“In a cave.”

“Near Qumran?”

“No. South of there.”

“How far south?”

“Below Ein Bokek.”

Ein Bokek was very far south of Qumran. Still on the western shore of the Dead Sea, but near the edge of the southern basin. Which meant this scroll—if it was genuine—could not have come from the same community.

He couldn’t make sense of it. The hand was crude, non-scribal, and yet there was a fluency to the language. Slowly, as though a blurred photograph were coming into focus, he began to decipher the opening lines. Donatelli would have needed weeks. He jotted his translation onto his notepad, then stared in disbelief at what he had written.

He looked back at the scroll in astonishment. The faint whisper of a voice dead for four thousand years began to speak. He started to unroll more, but the Bedouin stopped him.

“No more, my friend. You might rip it, and then we would have a very bad problem on our hands.” His hand rested on the knife.

The priest looked at what he’d deciphered. In the wake of Qumran, forgeries were flooding the antiquities market, but if this was genuine, it would turn the world of paleography upside down.

I am Lot, nephew to Abraham. God hath sent his two most trusted angels to lead us safely west from Zoar to this cave.

According to Genesis—the only account there was—God had indeed sent two angels to escort Lot and his wife and two daughters to safety before Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed. If this was genuine, not only would it be the oldest writing ever discovered, it might shed light on one of the Bible’s darkest and most intriguing mysteries. After Lot’s wife looked back and turned into a pillar of salt, he and his daughters had made it to a cave. The daughters had gotten their father drunk on wine and had intercourse with him, wanting to keep the human race alive because they believed they were the only ones left in the world.

“What else did you see in that cave? Any signs of who might have lived there?”

“I saw some things.”

“What?”

“Bones.”

“Bones?”

“The skeleton of a man.”

According to the Bible both of Lot’s daughters had gotten pregnant, giving birth to children whose descendants became the Moabites and Ammonites. So they had obviously left the cave. Why had Lot stayed behind to die? And the scrolls apparently been left to die with him?

“Was there no other evidence you could bring?” Father Boyle asked. “Everything helps to understand this.” He pierced the Bedouin’s blank stare by adding, “More money for you.”

The fearful look flickered across the leathery features. “I’d had enough of caves. Do you want this or not?”

The priest needed to make a decision. The fragments they’d procured of the Qumran scrolls seemed to contain parts of the Old Testament, but they’d been written much later, around the time of Christ.

This was far older, written by someone who had lived during the Old Testament. In the time of Genesis. It was priceless—if it was genuine.

Lot.

It defied all current knowledge of paleography that Lot could have written this. Lot was a shepherd, not a trained scribe. The priest hastily tried to come up with a hypothesis that would make the impossible possible.

Lot and his uncle, Abraham, had lived in Ur, a busy trade crossroads and intellectual haven of the day. They would have been exposed to many cultures. Eventually they left Ur and ended up in Egypt. According to the Bible, somewhere during that time God told Abraham he was to be the patriarch of the chosen people. Perhaps Abraham, feeling the enormity of that responsibility, decided it would be advantageous for his nephew to learn to write, so that records could be kept. Whatever the case, the overall crudeness of the writing supported the idea of an unskilled person as the author. But even allowing for this improbable theory, there was another problem.

If Lot wrote this, his use of parchment pre-dated its earliest known use by a thousand years. But there was some evidence that Egyptians had written on skins a thousand years before Lot. And what’s so surprising about a shepherd writing on sheepskin?

He pulled the jar into the light.

Rust-colored terra cotta; crudely handmade; finger marks not smoothed out as a craftsman would have done. The clay appeared consistent with potsherds found near the Dead Sea from that era. Some marks were scratched near the base. He examined them with his magnifying glass.

An inscription. Three letters. He compared them to a similar grouping on the scroll. They matched.

Lot.

He looked at the other words he’d written on his notepad:

God hath sent his two most trusted angels to lead us safely west from Zoar to this cave.

Astonishing. The unknown story of Lot after he escaped the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. He had to read the rest of this.

“Well?” Tarik said.

If he turned out to be wrong, his career was over. It was a chance he had to take. He couldn’t know at this point. He had to go with his gut.

The checkbook was in a locked drawer in Donatelli’s desk. The lock could be picked with a paper clip and Donatelli’s signature was easy to forge. He’d already done it for supplies the miser was too cheap to buy. A check for a hundred thousand would be too big to hide, but if he could get the Bedouin down to a reasonable figure, he’d write the check and figure out a way to keep Donatelli from finding out about it.

“Tarik, I cannot be sure this is even genuine without a complete examination, but I am willing to trust you and take a chance. I can write you a check now for ten thousand dollars.”

The Bedouin shook his head and gestured impatiently to give him back the scroll.

Father Boyle rolled it back up and handed it to him. “So you don’t mind having the jinni follow you around for the rest of your life?”

Tarik made a dismissive wave and put the stopper back in the jar.

“Fifteen thousand,” Boyle said.

“Seventy-five.”

“Twenty.”

“Sixty.”

“Thirty.”

“Fifty. Take it or leave it.”

“Wait here.”

He closed the door behind him and went into Donatelli’s office, already thinking of ways to cover his tracks. The odor of spices and incense that had once been sold here still lingered. They combined with the cheap cologne the old man bathed in to create the smell of something going bad.

It took barely a minute to pop the lock and forge the check. He had just inserted the paper clip to lock the desk drawer back up when he heard the familiar irritating slide of slippers coming down the hall.

He yanked on the paper clip. It was stuck. The footsteps were at the door. He jammed the check in his pocket and left the paper clip dangling.

Donatelli came through the doorway in his stained pajamas, eyes blinking against the light, wisps of white hair sticking up wildly from his liver-spotted scalp. He wasn’t wearing his glasses. Boyle hurried to intercept him.

“What are you doing in my office?”

“I was doing some work on those new materials and couldn’t find my magnifying glass. I thought you might have left yours on your desk.”

“What kind of paleographer loses his magnifying glass?”

“A tired one.” Donatelli shuffled toward his desk. Father Boyle walked ahead of him. “I’m sorry I woke you. We should both go to bed. Those fragments will need all of our concentration.”

“I’ve been telling you that.” Donatelli looked at his desk as if to see if anything was amiss, eyes blinking as they tried to focus. He drifted behind the desk. The light from the pole lamp glinted off the paper clip. The priest hurried to click the light off, leaving only the dim light that spilled in from the hallway.

“Come, Monsignor, let’s go to bed. I will have the coffee ready for you in the morning.”

Donatelli allowed himself to be led from the room. “Stay out of my office unless I am here. You know I like everything just so.”

“Yes. I will. Good night.”

Father Boyle watched the stooped old man become a silhouette down the hall. He heard his own office door open behind him. Tarik came out and saw the figure disappearing into the darkness.

“Who is that? I thought you said—”

“It is a priest visiting from Bethlehem. He is staying in the Monsignor’s room while he is away.” The Bedouin’s dark eyes bore into him. The priest reached into his pocket. “Here.”

Tarik studied the check, then said, “I was not here.”

“What do you mean?”

“You never saw me tonight. There was no scrolls.”

Father Boyle started to ask why but thought better of it. He knew the most likely reason. Tarik had found his scroll far outside the territory of his Ta’amireh tribe. All assets were supposed to be given to his sheikh, who would then decide how to divide them up. Tarik didn’t want to share. The priest didn’t blame him. Neither did he.

At the door the Bedouin lingered a moment. Father Boyle saw something in his face. Concern, perhaps. “What is it, Tarik?”

“There is more to these scrolls than meets the eye.”

Father Boyle frowned. “What do you mean?”

“They have a power. Something about it. Something not good. I felt it in the cave. Like something guarding the jar, something that did not want me to take it. Did you not feel it?”

Bedouin were superstitious, but no more so than many groups he’d studied. There had been that ominous sigh when Tarik opened the jar…“No. Only the power of the words.”

Tarik stared at him for a long uncomfortable moment. “Very well,” he said. “My conscience is clear.” He disappeared into the darkness.

The Bedouin’s words nagged at the priest, but back at his desk he quickly became absorbed by what he’d deciphered:

I am Lot, nephew to Abraham. God hath sent his two most trusted angels to lead us safely west from Zoar to this cave.

Tarik’s parting words came back to him, and he felt a growing unease.

He stared at the jar, aching to get to work on the scroll, but it would have to wait. He needed to start fresh, not when he was barely able to keep his eyes open. Its secrets would have to wait a little longer. He hid the jar behind some books and went to bed.

In the twilight world between sleep and wakefulness, he saw a shadow in the corner of the room. For a moment he thought Donatelli might have wandered in, but the shadow was far too big. He was so exhausted he tried to ignore it, but each time he opened his eyes it was still there. And each time it was closer.

He clicked on the lamp by his bed.

Nothing.

Turning off the light, he put his pillow over his head. Listening to the darkness, he almost expected to hear breathing. A gust of wind rattled his window, then all was quiet. The silence seemed different, stealthy somehow, and he was unable to shake the feeling of being watched.

Tarik and his mumbo-jumbo. There were no such things as jinn.

He took the pillow off his head. Nothing moved in the darkness. The window rattled again. He looked toward it. Two fiery red dots hovered outside. The priest’s eyes locked onto them, trying to figure out what they were.

Cigarettes of soldiers on patrol? Some kind of reflection? The eyes of a bird?

Eyes.

An instant later they were gone. Father Boyle pulled the pillow back over his head and tried to convince himself he had been imagining things.

He could not.

CHAPTER 2

Washington, D.C. Christmas Day, 1972

“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritu Sancti.”

The priest made the sign of the cross on nine-year-old Zeke Sloan’s forehead. The boy’s mother, holding her son’s hand as they rolled toward the emergency room, knew that wasn’t a good sign. Extreme Unction called for the anointing of all five senses, unless the priest thought there wasn’t time. Then he only did the forehead.

Extreme Unction. The Last Anointing. With Herculean effort she shoved that boulder from her mind, but another one quickly rolled in to replace it.

Her husband’s plane had been shot down yesterday in a bombing raid over Hanoi. The Air Force was looking for Hank, but—

I can’t lose them both, Rita thought. I can’t.

Zeke’s closed eyelids fluttered as the priest gently forced the communion wafer into his mouth. The gurney stopped at the ER doors. One of the emergency team saw what the priest was doing and shook her head. There wasn’t time for the wine.

The priest took his hand off the cruet as the boy was whisked through the swinging doors. “God bless and keep your soul,” he said, hoping the blessing would catch up to the fast-disappearing gurney.

Rita Sloan turned to follow through the still-swinging doors. Before going in she stopped and turned. “What is your name, Father?”

“Connolly. James Connolly.”

She squeezed his hand. “Thank you, Father Connolly.”

She rushed into the emergency room. A nurse hurrying by tried to intercept her. “I’m sorry ma’am, you can’t—”

“I’m his mother. I’m staying. I’ll keep out of the way.”

The nurse looked to the nearest doctor for help. He shrugged and a circle of green-clad ER personnel closed around Zeke. His mother found a spot several feet behind and kept glancing nervously at the heart monitor. Her son’s heartbeat was weak and irregular.

Why did I have to get him a sled for Christmas?

Thank God for Freddie. Zeke’s best friend had come running to tell her that a car had slammed into Zeke at the bottom of his very first run.

The beep of the heart monitor suddenly became a continuous hum. Rita looked at the flat line in horror. Someone called out an emergency procedure she couldn’t understand. Several people sprang into action. Every cell in her body screamed that a mother should go to her son, but she willed herself to stay out of the way. The defibrillator was rolled into place. Rita’s burning eyes kept flicking from the heart monitor to her son’s closed eyes, while six strangers worked frantically to bring Zeke back from the dead.

In a single instant all the power went out and the room went black.

Zeke floated in a pure white cloud of nothingness. He felt as if a pair of arms were cradling him, holding him suspended in midair. From somewhere above came a soothing voice:

“I am the one who sits nearest the throne of glory. He has sent me to bless and keep you, Ezekiel. You shall be put to the supreme test. If you pass, you shall become the portal through which the Messiah will come. You are the beginning and the end.”

CHAPTER 3

Vietnam, near Dien Bien Phu. September 13, 1993. 2330 hours

Captain Zeke Sloan led his eight-man Delta Strike Force team quietly through the jungle. Night-vision goggles enabled them to see clearly as they pushed through smothering humidity and a leafy curtain of darkness. A tiny sliver of moon hung overhead like the blade of a scythe. The maniacal zing of insects sounded a scream of protest. Or warning.

So far so good. The HALO—high altitude/low opening—insertion had come off without a hitch. Jumping from 25,000 feet and not opening their parachutes until just under 4,000, they had been impossible to detect while making a pinpoint landing on the Cambodia-Vietnam border.

The clock had started ticking the moment they left the plane. They had—at most—a six-hour window before daylight would erase their advantage of being able to see in the dark. They couldn’t be sure who or what they might encounter, but eight American soldiers coming through the Vietnamese jungle in full combat gear would not be good. They had a lot of ground to cover and needed to get out before the sun came up. Period. The timing had to be flawless. Seconds would count.

They bulled their way through three miles of thick woods and relentless underbrush that wanted to cling to every piece of equipment. Monkeys howled and screeched at the invaders into their territory. Zeke suppressed the thought that if anyone wanted to find his team, all they had to do was follow that sound.

Nothing to be done about it. He forced himself to concentrate on the mission.

Operation Lazarus. Only three people outside the team knew of its existence, and the Commander-in-Chief wasn’t one of them. The odds against it were too high. If it failed and the public found out, not only would the political fallout be fatal, it would reopen one of the country’s deepest wounds. Adding salt to that wound was the fact that they were heading into the very place where the seeds of American involvement in Vietnam had been sown in 1954.

The French had suffered their final defeat at Dien Bien Phu, and two American pilots had been lost while lending air support. Now we were returning to the site of those first combat deaths to prevent four men captured in the final days of the conflict from becoming the last. The chance to honor the memory of those two pilots had been a strong motivating factor in putting together the highly improbable Operation Lazarus.

No one had believed the report when it first came in. Privately, most involved still didn’t. But after checking it out, the intelligence was deemed reliable—or as reliable as such a far-fetched story could be. Reliable enough that it had to be acted upon.

Somewhere near here, four MIAs from the Vietnam War were supposedly still being held. Their names were not yet known. The intelligence had come through channels from a Vietnamese family who claimed to know the exact whereabouts of the four captives. In exchange for divulging information that would essentially make them traitors, the family of six wanted safe passage to the Unites States.

The deal had been made and the team put together and trained.

Captain Zeke Sloan held up his hand and the men behind him stopped. He felt his undershirt sticking to his skin. Between gaps in the thick foliage he saw something moving. A shadow in the shape of a man. He thought he’d seen it earlier, but when they’d checked it out and found nothing, he’d dismissed it as paranoia. Now he felt sure someone was stalking them.

He decided to risk breaking radio silence, whispering into his mike as softly as he could: “Does anyone see anything over there?” He told them where to look and what to look for. A long silent minute later the responses came.

Negative. It was unanimous. Zeke kept staring. The shadow slowly evaporated. Continuing to stare at the same spot, he saw only two red dots at eye level. For an instant he thought they were laser sights from a weapon, but that made no sense. Why would they be aiming in that direction? Maybe it was the eyes of some jungle animal. He asked the team if they saw the spots.

Negative.

No more time. He motioned for them to get moving. A few minutes later he pointed through a small gap in the thick foliage. The other men came up beside him and nodded. They saw it too. A small house, little more than a hut, stood twenty yards dead ahead in a clearing.

Communicating with hand signals, Zeke motioned for his men to begin a drill they’d rehearsed hundreds of times. He remained stationary while the others fanned forward into a U. With his Guilly Suit of leaves and debris added to his camouflage, Zeke became one of the trees as the team slowly eased along both sides of the house.

Standing at the edge of the clearing, Zeke sensed the shadow watching him, but looked all around and saw nothing. While his men got into position he ran the key points of the mission through his head one last time:

Get the location of the MIAs from the family. Leave the signal beacon on top of their house so the chopper could find them for extraction. While the family stayed put, Zeke’s team would find the MIAs, who were supposedly—that word had been a nagging splinter in his brain from day one—no more than two miles from the house. Liberate the MIAs, as quietly as possible. That could be tough, depending on how well-guarded they were. Almost as tough would be getting the MIAs back to the house. At best that meant a fifteen-minute sprint through dense jungle. Plus the MIAs couldn’t be counted on to have the clothing or stamina for the trip, so stretchers had been brought to carry them. Not to mention that the Landing Zone was the family’s front yard.

He looked around the small clearing. With a perfect landing the chopper’s blades might miss the trees by inches.

A dozen things could go wrong but Zeke slammed a door in his head to keep those thoughts locked out. Things had to be dealt with as they happened. Only one thing mattered: get the mission accomplished and everyone in the LZ at the appointed minute. Period. No second chances.

Finally he heard Lt. Nolan’s whispered confirmation in his earphone: everyone was in position. Satisfied that there were no hostile forces waiting in ambush, Zeke whispered a single word back: “Go.”

Like silent lightning they burst through the front and back doors of the house, unlocked as the family had assured them they would be. Cowering in the living room were the two parents and four children. In seconds the complete interior was checked. Lieutenant Reese Nolan, standing at Zeke’s right side, signaled that the objective was secure. Zeke held his friend’s stare for an extra second.

Reese. Rock-solid and right where he was supposed to be. Always.

Zeke’s gaze swept from man to man, each at combat ready and waiting for his orders. The room almost seemed to vibrate with intensity. The moment for which they had endured months of constant training was here. Crunch time. What got said in this room in the next few minutes would mean success or failure.

Zeke signaled for Becker and Scimonetti to get the signal beacon onto the roof. They disappeared out the back door.

Even though it was mandatory that each man on the team speak Vietnamese, Zeke had appointed Kevin Andrews as the spokesman, since he’d attained perfect fluency.

Zeke stood in the center of the small room facing the nervous family. The wife stood half-hidden behind her husband. Zeke gauged the man at 5’6”, 140. Even at that he was the largest in the family. He nervously affected a protective posture. Zeke admired him for doing his duty in the face of all this firepower.

The four children huddled behind their parents. The three smaller ones formed a knot behind the biggest and oldest, a pretty girl Zeke guessed to be barely out of her teens. She gave him a faint smile.

He tried not to smile back. It struck him that she was about the same age as his sister. Behind her were a boy and two more girls, ranging in age from about fifteen to six.

Nolan stood on Zeke’s right, Andrews on his left. The other men guarded the doors and windows. That left Michael Price to keep his eyes moving and cover everyone’s back. He stood several steps to the right of Nolan, just inside a small open window, his AK-47 at the ready. They were all using the Soviet-made assault rifle to avoid having anything traceable to the United States if hostilities broke out.

Zeke’s gaze lingered on Michael Price. At thirty-nine he was the oldest member of the team. Zeke had specifically requested him, not only because of his reputation for fanatical dedication to drilling and staying in shape, but even more for the maturity and stability his age could bring. And yet a disturbing change had come over him in the last few seconds that had Zeke second-guessing his decision.

Hot rage seethed on Price’s face as he glowered at the family. What had brought that on? It made no sense to play hardass here; these people were on their side. Maybe the stare was what Price needed to psyche himself up.

Zeke nodded to Kevin Andrews. Everyone listened intently while he questioned the father. The timid man kept apologizing, bowing and chattering nervously, before Andrews could drag it out of him.

The MIAs had been moved. The family no longer knew where they were.

“He’s lying!”

Price had unshouldered his AK47 and thumbed the selector switch to fully-automatic. One pull of the trigger could empty his 30-round magazine in seconds. The rifle was trained on the middle of the father’s chest.

“Stand down, Sergeant.” The softness of Zeke’s words did not disguise the threat behind them.

Price lowered his rifle but the wild look remained. The safety was still off. Nolan edged a step toward him. One false twitch now and something really bad could happen. Price yelled at the father in Vietnamese. “Where are they, you gook son of a bitch!”

The father shook his head, body language totally subservient. The family had knitted themselves into a damp clump of fear.

Zeke spoke more forcefully. “Stand down.” When Price hesitated he added, as loud as he dared, “Now.”

Nolan leaned closer. If Zeke jumped he might get there in time to swat the barrel aside—

“WHERE’S RANDY STOKES YOU WORTHLESS PIECE OF SHIT?”

Tears started streaming down the father’s face. His wife was weeping and howling. Zeke barked to Andrews. “Get them calmed down. Tell them no one is going to get hurt.” He rested his hand on the butt of his pistol and gave Price his most intimidating Delta stare.

“Sergeant, what are you talking about? Explain yourself. Quietly.”

Price was almost hyper-ventilating. “Randy Stokes was my best friend. He was in Nam in ’73, when our last guys were being evacuated. He never made it. He’s got to be one of the four we came for, but now that we’re here these fuckers are changing their tune. Somebody got to ’em, sir.” He held Zeke’s gaze. “I didn’t go through all this to get this close and not bring Randy back.”

Zeke stared at him thinking: how in the hell did the Army not find this out? And how did Price pass his psych evaluation? A flicker of guilt flashed through him. Price was his responsibility. And there’d always been something simmering beneath the surface, but Price was so solid in every other way Zeke had let it slide…

Didn’t matter. He needed Price to settle down so he took another approach. “Soldier, it’s honorable to want to save your friend, but there is no possible way you can know that one of the four men we’re here to find is Randy Stokes. None of us knows their names. Not the President, not the SecDef—no one.”

Calm overtook Price so suddenly that it alarmed Zeke almost as much as his anger.

“I know,” Price said, with a smile of complete assurance.

Beyond Price, Zeke saw the camouflaged faces of Becker and Scimonetti easing into view at the window. The opening looked too small for either one of them to get through, but maybe they could do something. As a last resort they could shoot the crazy son of a bitch. They lingered at the edge of Zeke’s vision like the disembodied heads of two jungle ghosts. Before he turned back to Price, he saw something else that disturbed him.

Hovering above and behind Becker and Scimonetti, he saw two pinpoints of red, like the ones he’d seen hovering in the jungle earlier. Again he thought of weapons being laser-sighted, but that was impossible. The area was secure. Besides, who would be aiming at air?

Forcing himself to continue the crucial exchange, he said, “How could you possibly know?”

“God told me.”

“God?”

“Yes. He gave me this one last chance to save Randy—and myself, for not enlisting with him back then.”

Nolan inched toward Price but Zeke stopped him with a small shake of the head. Zeke felt his heart constricting. There was no contingency for one of their own team suddenly turning into a religious wacko.

“Fine,” he said. “That’s good. Let’s just all be calm, then, and see if we can talk these nice people into telling us where Randy is.”

Price made a small nod and turned back to the family. He stood with the rifle at his side and his finger on the trigger. Anger was creeping onto his face again and making Zeke nervous. One wrong word…

Through the open window he saw that Becker had pulled his pistol. Unseen by Price, Zeke gave Becker a nod but held up a finger. He told Andrews to resume the interrogation.

The father begged and pleaded while his wife talked over him to emphasize that he was telling the truth. Andrews was getting nowhere. Nolan was now a yard away from Price and leaning toward him. Becker held steady aim with his pistol. Zeke looked at Price.

He seemed to be listening to something not in the room and nodding. Then he turned slowly to Zeke and spoke with a menacing calm. “If we lose Randy because of these scumbags, it’s on you.” He cocked his head again as if listening.

Zeke watched him tense up as anger started taking over. They couldn’t risk another blowup. Becker was going to have to take him out. Before he could give the signal, Price exploded.

“We’ve been set up! It’s an ambush!” He fell to one knee and pulled the trigger.

Price’s move took him below the window so that Becker couldn’t get a shot at him. Nolan had just begun his lunge but when Price went down he missed and stumbled past him. The other men started to collapse inward to protect the family but had to back off to avoid the hail of bullets.

Sounds of screaming madness erupted like vomit from the soul. In the instant before Zeke slammed Price to the floor, the pleading and anguish on the faces of the children were like flames leaping out from hell.

Five seconds later it was over.

Zeke and Nolan had Price pinned—but not before the family had been ripped apart.

Andrews was also the team’s medic. It took him less than a minute to confirm what everyone could see. Every one of those seconds burned the horror deeper into Zeke’s soul.

“They’re all dead.”

Zeke put his mouth an inch from Price’s ear and released a volcano of whispered rage:

“You crazy son of a bitch. What’d you do that for?”

“I heard the voice again.”

“Voice?” His hands tightened around Price’s neck. “You crazy fuck. You think God told you to slaughter six innocent people?”

“Not your god.”

Price’s vacant stare sent a chill wriggling across Zeke’s back. The man he’d spent three years with was no longer there.

Nolan pulled on Zeke’s shoulder. His voice was calm but commanding. “Sir. We’ve got to get out of here. Remember our orders. Under no circumstances is anyone to know we were here. If anything goes wrong we are to abort and extract immediately.”

Zeke wanted to smash Price’s face over and over, but he knew his friend was right. They had a task to perform, and he was the one in command. The one who had just lost this entire family and the last chance for the MIAs.

His eyes bore into Price. He leaned even closer, their faces almost touching. “Listen to me, you vile motherfucker. If I ever have the chance, I will personally send your ass straight to hell.”

He recoiled up into a standing position as if he had just released a deadly snake to slither back into the woods.

He looked at his watch. Extraction wasn’t scheduled for another two hours, but that was based on a four-mile round trip through the jungle that wasn’t going to happen. The noise from Price’s rampage made it imperative that they get out of there now.

Zeke gave Becker the emergency order to break radio silence and tell the chopper to come get them, then ordered everyone out front to the LZ to await extraction. Price had staggered to his feet like he was coming out of a trance.

“Secure that piece of shit,” Zeke said to Nolan before stomping out of the house. He didn’t dare look back at the carnage on the floor.

Outside, he looked toward the sky in the suddenly foul-smelling air. All he could see was the faint smile on the oldest girl’s lips as she lay dead.

She seemed to be forgiving him.

CHAPTER 4

Washington, D.C. October 5, 2012

Zeke Sloan sat in his office, staring at the phone, trying to make sense of the call. He hadn’t spoken to Professor Connolly since—when? Since his former theology professor at Catholic University had finally reluctantly retired. Zeke had taken him to lunch to thank him for helping turn his life around. They’d parted with the usual promises to keep in touch.

That had been ten years ago, at least. Maybe fifteen. With a pang of guilt Zeke realized that not only had he not kept his promise, now it might be too late.

Professor Connolly’s voice had sounded so weak. But his words had come through loud and clear. The chilling echo still reverberated inside Zeke’s head:

“It’s a matter of the utmost urgency. It may be mankind’s last hope at salvation.”

What could a retired college professor possibly be involved in that was that serious? Nothing. Not possible. The poor guy must be having delusions. He had to be in his eighties. Maybe his mind was going. Whatever. He was obviously desperate, and Zeke owed him for helping revive a faith he thought had died that night in the jungle.

His eyes flicked to the digital clock on the wall. 4:31. He flipped to the page in his appointment book for today: October 5. The self-defense class that he and Reese taught on Fridays from six to seven was crossed out. Reese would be handling it by himself tonight. The one word written underneath the crossed-out entry made him smile: Leah.

Normally she took the self-defense class and they went to dinner afterwards, but his birthday was tomorrow, and she wanted him at her place by six so they could get an early start with “a nice, romantic pre-birthday celebration.” He’d have to hustle to see Professor Connolly and still make it by six. His eyes were drawn to the two pictures on his desk.

In one, a five-year-old Leah stood on a dock, beaming proudly, as a fish dangled from a little pink plastic fishing pole. The fish was only a few inches long, but her father stood behind her holding his hands as far apart as he could.

In the other, Zeke and Leah stood on a beach at sunset in Maui, arms around each other, lush foliage in the background. Their perfect tropical paradise. God, they looked good in that picture. Tall, tan, in shape, their dark hair bleached light by the sun and the water. What beautiful kids they would make.

Best week of my life, Zeke thought, closing the appointment book. He locked his desk and put on his coat, trying to remember the name of the guy who’d invited him to the party where he and Leah met. One of his customers at the gym. Ron, he thought it was.

“Zeke, you have to come to this party,” Ron had said. “It’s on Capitol Hill, right down the street from where you live. The congressman I work for is throwing it. The woman who runs his office is perfect for you, and she said she’s coming.”

“Now why would you think she’d be perfect for me?”

“Same sense of humor, likes the same music, likes to work out. Sometimes when I’m talking to her it’s almost like talking to you.”

Zeke had gone—reluctantly. The rest, as they say, was history.

The sudden knock at the door yanked him back into the moment. He was mildly irritated, knowing he needed to get going, but the instant he saw Leah’s face his irritation disappeared.

“This is a pleasant surprise.” He wrapped his arms around her. “I was just thinking about you. I was sitting here staring at that picture when you caught your first fish.”

“I was quite the little angler, wasn’t I?”

“Absolutely. Very nice angles. You certainly had no trouble angling me.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. You put up a little fight. I was ready to get the gaff.”

Zeke laughed. “Yeah, I was a regular Moby Dick.”

“Well, I don’t know about the Moby part—”

“Hey, watch out.”

She gave him a mischievous smile and went to the chair on the other side of the desk. Zeke rolled his chair until they sat facing each other, knees touching, holding hands.

“Listen, sweetie,” she said, “there’s a slight change in plans. Your parents called me at work. They’re in the neighborhood with Valerie. They wanted to see if we can meet them for happy hour, before they head back to their place. I think they just want to help you milk your birthday a little, since we’re not having a party. I told them I’d meet them at the Bipartisan, since it’s right down the street, and you could join us as soon as you get off work.”

They’re up to something for my birthday. The “since we’re not having a party” remark was a tipoff, and his parents wouldn’t just happen to be “in the neighborhood.” And his sister Valerie should still be at work.

“What about our romantic evening? I’ve been looking forward to it all day.”

“That’s still on. It’ll just start a little later than I had planned.”

“Okay. I’ve got something to do first, though. I got a call from my old college professor, Dr. Connolly. You remember me talking about him?”

“He was kind of your mentor at Catholic University, wasn’t he?”

“Savior was more like it. Anyway, he said he needs to see me very badly, so I told him I’m on my way. He lives out by CU, so depending on how long I spend with him, it might take until six-thirty or so to get to the Bipartisan.”

“That’s fine. I’ve got a quick errand to run, so I’ll call them back and tell them six-ish. We can hold the fort till you get there.”

“It’s a plan. You need me to bring anything special tonight?”

“Just that gorgeous body of yours. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“What about my brilliant mind?”

“Save it for Alex Trebek. Tonight is not for thinking. It’s for feeling.”

“I like the sound of that. You are one heck of a woman, you know that? I’m so glad that little girl in the picture grew up and said ‘yes’ to me.”

“I’m glad you’re the one that asked the question.”

Zeke tightened his grip on her hands. Sometimes it almost hurt to look at her. The blue eyes, beautiful face and skin, an inner goodness that shone through. “You’re the love of my life, Leah Hardin. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do. As you are mine.”

He forced himself to get up. “Come on, then. The longer we sit here the longer it’ll be before we can get to romancing.”

They kissed and she squeezed his butt. “Nice buns.”

“Backatcha,” he said, and she was out the door.

Up front, Zeke smiled when he saw Reese Nolan at the bench press machine. Early as usual, warming up for the class. In the Army, when they’d been Captain and Lieutenant on the same Delta team, Reese had been his right-hand man. As general manager of Zeke’s Gym since the day it opened, he’d become more like his right arm.

Zeke stood monitoring conditions in the gym. The temperature was right, not too hot or cold, no weird body smells, nobody was clanking the weights too hard, the grunts of the serious lifters weren’t in the danger zone. Oldies played at a soft volume. Zeke loved his father’s music more than most stuff from his own era. Somewhere around the mid-eighties he’d given up on pop music entirely—all that technocrap, robotic garbage. From day one he’d decided that the music in his gym would be stuff he liked, played at a reasonable volume. That’s why they called it background music. If people didn’t like it, they’d have to work out somewhere else. He’d never gotten a single complaint.

“Sea Cruise” by Frankie Ford came on and he waited for one of his all-time favorite lyrics:

I got to get to rockin’

get my hat off the rack,

I got the boogie-woogie
like a knife in the back.

He boogied over to the bench press and looked at Reese. “How much you benching now?”

“Well, this here’s just warmups. About 250 when I get serious.”

“Nice. Keeps me on my toes.” Zeke was up to a few reps at 300. “Listen, buddy,” he said when Reese had finished his set, “I gotta get moving. A little emergency just came up. Then I’m meeting Leah and my family at the Bipartisan. Thanks for covering the class tonight.”

Reese stood and toweled himself off. “No problem. Since I won’t be seeing you tomorrow, happy birthday, birthday boy.”

“Ain’t no boys around here. We mens.”

Reese shook his head “You been hanging around black folks too long.”

“Born and raised in D.C. What are the odds?”

They did the latest three-part black handshake and Zeke turned to leave. At the door he paused to zip his coat before going into bitter cold that was unheard-of this early in D.C. Yesterday they’d gotten hit with the earliest snow on record: October 4. And not just a dusting, either. Four inches. He glanced through the front window, shaking his head at the white that still covered the sidewalk. Pulling up his collar, he completed his nightly ritual by taking a last quick look around before leaving. Inevitably his eyes lingered on the words painted on the back wall:

Zeke’s Gym.

The ritual wasn’t complete until he looked at the quotation painted in large letters on the wall behind the customer service counter. People thought it was the gym’s motto, but for Zeke it was the solution to all the world’s problems:

DO UNTO OTHERS AS YOU WOULD HAVE THEM DO UNTO YOU.

Half an hour later he parked his car in front of Dr. Connolly’s house near Catholic University.

“House” seemed a very generous thing to call it. The tiny dwelling rose up through a blanket of snow, making it seem even more like a sad outpost in the vast, engulfing wintry darkness. Sitting in the middle of a small parcel of land at the edge of woods, it had an air of a poor man’s mausoleum, long forgotten in a potter’s field. Summoning all the lightheartedness he could muster, Zeke trudged up to the door and knocked. He noticed a sign in the window to the right, a slashed circle emblazoned over a lit cigarette. Underneath the picture it said: NO SMOKING. OXYGEN IN USE.

The sign added more weight to the already leaden thought uppermost in his mind: what in the name of God had happened to Professor James Connolly?

CHAPTER 5

“Come in,” said the barely audible voice.

Zeke stuck his head inside the door and gave his jauntiest “Anybody home?”

“Just us ghosts,” came the weak reply. “Come in, Ezekiel.”

Professor Connolly looked ghastly. He sat in his recliner, face almost chalk white. The sound of his labored breathing through the tubes in his nostrils filled the room. He seemed to have shrunken—no, shriveled—to the size of a ten-year-old boy. His body seemed way too small for the recliner. A chill rippled across Zeke’s back. He could only stand and stare.

“I know I look horrible, son, but I’m not contagious. Come over here and sit down.” He indicated a small frayed couch beside his chair.

Snapped out of his daze by the wheezing voice, Zeke haltingly advanced to the couch, appalled at the beer cans and cigarette butts, the dirty laundry and dishes, the squalor that was everywhere. Professor Connolly was a smoker, and had a fondness for beer, but—this. The reek of stale tobacco and beer hung in the air. Everything about the scene screamed: here is a man who does not want to live.

Zeke sat and groped for something to say. “We know each other too well for me to say something phony like ‘how are you?’ I can see how you are. Awful. What’s happened?”

“I’m dying, Ezekiel. I know that’s obvious. I’ve probably got a month at most. The doctors have said maybe six, but they’re wrong. A month. No more. I doubt seriously it will be that long.” He caught Zeke frowning at the beer cans and cigarettes. “Bad habits,” he wheezed. “I’ve always been too afraid to stop them.”

Afraid? Zeke puzzled over the word choice, but his friend went on.

“I’ve been an alcoholic since 1947. All these years I’ve used alcohol to keep from thinking about a horrible secret I’ve kept hidden from the world. To keep from thinking about what a coward I am for never having done anything. Of course the alcohol couldn’t kill the secret. All it has done is kill me. With a little help from the cigarettes. Coffin nails, I’ve heard them called. How apt.”

A feeble smile at his gallows humor only resulted in a wizened puckering of his mouth, which made the grotesque scene all the more unnerving.

“What is this ‘secret’?” Zeke asked over the professor’s labored breathing.

“I must tell someone, Ezekiel. You are the only person I have ever known who possesses the physical and moral strength to deal with this. Time is running out for me. This knowledge must be given to someone before I die.” He leaned closer. “I have chosen you.”

He let loose a series of gasping coughs. It seemed very possible that the old man could die tonight. He needed medical help, fast.

“Dr. Connolly, Washington Hospital Center is right up the road. Why don’t you let me take you there, so we can get you fixed up. Then you can tell me what you want to tell me.”

“No!” Zeke recoiled from the sudden force of the word. “No hospital, no doctors, Ezekiel. This must be done now. I have much to tell you and not much time. After that—believe me—it will not matter if I die. Please.”

Fearful of upsetting him further, Zeke nodded. The scene had taken on a surrealistic air, as if the entire universe had ceased to exist except for these two men, grimly staring at each other in the sickly pool of yellow lamplight. Beyond that light, all was silence and nothingness.

The old man feebly motioned toward the only closet in the small efficiency. “On the shelf there is a clay jar. Please bring it here. And be very, very gentle with it. It is extremely old and fragile. Like me.” His lips withdrew in a ghastly smile.

Zeke peered into the shadows. Gradually he made out an upright shape. Cradling it carefully, he leaned to hand it to Dr. Connolly.

“No, no,” he said. “I am too weak. I might drop it. You take care of it, Ezekiel.”

He placed the jar near the door so it would be out of the way. That far from the light, it loomed like a shadowy sentinel.

Despite the grim situation, Zeke felt a moment of inner amusement at Dr. Connolly’s never failing to call him Ezekiel. No one else ever had, not even his parents. As a theologian, the professor thought the full Biblical name much more distinguished. Surely, he’d always said, that’s why his parents gave it to him—because of the Biblical power it evoked. The professor had never accepted the utterly un-Biblical reason for his name: his father named him after his favorite NFL quarterback, Zeke Bratkowski. The choice turned out perfectly when Zeke grew up to have a rocket arm and quarterbacked his high school team to a championship his senior year. The final irony came when Zeke looked up Zeke Bratkowski years later. His name wasn’t Ezekiel. It was Edmund Raymond.

The sharp claws of the old man’s voice tore through his reflection as the dying Professor of Theology began his unholy tale.

CHAPTER 6

“I used to be a priest. Did you know that, Ezekiel?”

The revelation stunned him, but instantly he remembered how the professor had always spoken on the topic of God with such assurance. One of the courses Zeke had taken from him had indeed been called “The Philosophy of God.” Many questions sprang to mind, but Zeke didn’t want him to waste any of his waning strength on explanations that didn’t matter, so he merely shook his head.

“In 1947. I was twenty-four, a so-called genius in languages. The best interpreter of ancient manuscripts the Catholic Church had. The best in the world, really. It was uncanny. I have—had—a photographic memory, so I was able to remember every character and symbol from all the ancient writing systems. I could decipher in minutes what it took others months, even years, to figure out.

“The Qumran Scrolls were just coming to light. Dead Sea Scrolls, they’re called now. Rumors were flying that Biblical manuscripts were being discovered. The Vatican quickly decided they needed to procure what they could. These were documents that formed the very core of the Christian faith. The Bible itself. So they sent their two best paleographers to Jerusalem, with the full resources of the Church available for any negotiations. Word quickly got out that we were good men to see if anyone had anything old with writing on it. Even though the country was on the verge of war, I was full of blind, stupid ambition then, glad for the chance of a career-making opportunity.”

He stared toward the shape by the door with a lifetime of regret. “Until I got my hands on that jar.” A short cough escaped. “One horrible decision in my life has led me to this end.” He coughed again. “Be careful what you wish for.”

He stopped to regain control of his breathing, then went on.

“The jar contains two ancient parchment scrolls. I bought them from the Bedouin who found them.” He spoke as if to himself. “Tarik. I never saw him again. I’ve often wondered what happened to him. He was a few years younger than me, but he looked much older.” Sadness came into his eyes. “I hope our Faustian bargain turned out better for him than it did for me.”

With his invocation of Faust the air seemed to get heavier, a shroud of death slowly closing in on them. Zeke suppressed a chill and waited for the man who had once saved his soul to go on.

“The Bedouin found them in a cave very far south of Qumran. Clearly they are not part of the Dead Sea Scrolls.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I have studied reproductions of the Dead Sea Scrolls. And I have translated these.” His withered frame become taut. He leaned forward, his eyes boring into Zeke. “You remember your Genesis, Ezekiel?”

Zeke nodded once, grimly.

“One of the scrolls was written by Lot. Just after he escaped the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah.”

“Whoa. Lot? Abraham’s nephew?”

“The same. His scroll picks up where Genesis leaves off. It was written in the cave he escaped to when Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed. He tells of the two angels God sent to protect him, escorting him and his two daughters to the cave. He says the Archenemy and some of his minions followed them.”

“Archenemy? Meaning Satan?”

Connolly nodded. “Lot says he saw him crawling up from an opening in the earth near Sodom and Gomorrah. According to Lot the opening leads to what I have translated as Sheol. More loosely, Hell.”

His statement raised so many preposterous improbabilities that Zeke could remain silent no longer.

“Dr. Connolly, wait a second. What you’re talking about would be one of the greatest finds in history. A document written by Abraham’s nephew? That would have to be—what? Over three thousand years old? Closer to four, probably.”

“Something like that.”

“And you said the scrolls were parchment. This would predate the known use of parchment by—”

“In the neighborhood of a thousand years.”

Zeke let that pass. “You’re telling me that in that jar is an eyewitness account of the existence of the Devil himself?”

“That is my interpretation. Not only that, but there are clues in the text that could lead to where he lives.”

“To Hell.”

The professor nodded again. Zeke quelled his rising impatience before responding.

“But the notion that some entity is responsible for the all the evil in the world—Archenemy, Satan, Lucifer, call it what you will—that idea didn’t exist in Lot’s time. You devoted a whole lesson to how different religions dealt with the question of evil. We can’t know what Lot believed, but he was in the Hebrew line of descent, and you talked about Judaism believing in yetzer hara—the belief that evil lives within us all, that it doesn’t come from some outside agency.”

“I had to maintain academic neutrality in my classes, knowing that new discoveries often force us to revise previously held views. These scrolls changed everything, but I could never say that.

“Yes. Humans have always believed in evil, we have just called it by different names. Baalism was probably the predominant belief in Sodom and Gomorrah, although we cannot be certain. Baalism had its own evil entity, Mot. The word ‘satan’ is found in the ancient Hebrew of Lot’s time, but then it simply meant ‘adversary,’ something blocking your path. Even so, long before he evolved into the Adversary with a capital A of the Christians, Satan makes an appearance in the Book of Job. Many scholars—myself included—believe the time of Job could have overlapped with the time of Abraham and Lot. What I have translated as ‘Archenemy,’ based on a lifetime of studying ancient words and their meanings, and considering the word in its context… Yes. I believe Lot is warning us against Satan himself. In any case, the only concrete proof we have of what went on in Sodom and Gomorrah is that scroll. From, as you say, an eyewitness.

“But we are getting ahead of ourselves. Before you can form your opinion, you would need to read my full translations. Believe me, they are beyond anyone’s wildest imaginings. The other scroll is the original Book of the Apocalypse, the one that inspired Revelation—which of course is also known as the Book of the Apocalypse. It was written by Enoch. Lot refers to Enoch as Metatron, the name given to him by God as an angel in Heaven. Lot says the two angels sent to help him escape from Sodom and Gomorrah are with him at the cave: Metatron is one. The other is Michael—God’s chief warrior against Satan.

“Legend calls Enoch the inventor of writing. The first astronomer, the first to measure time. He is known as the heavenly scribe, the one who sat closest to the throne. So if you accept the scroll as authentic—and I do—what we have is proof that God exists. In effect, the scroll is Enoch passing along His warning to us.”

“Warning of what?”

“The Apocalypse. Judgment Day. Enoch describes it as a pivotal moment in our history, when we must choose between good and evil or be destroyed. Interestingly, God—through Enoch—says it will come this year. On the winter solstice. Which coincides exactly with the Mayan prediction for the final day of their so-called long count calendar. The Mayans don’t predict the end of the world, per se, but they do call that last day Creation Day. The day when the old world will end and a new one begin.”

“It’s certainly an interesting theory,” Zeke said. “The idea that after making a complete mess of things for thousands of years we will be given a second chance. I don’t have much faith in the human race, but you’d like to think that maybe—just maybe—we’ve learned something and could get it right this time.”

Connolly gave a small, sad nod. “One can only hope,” he said. “Be that as it may, my interpretation of Enoch’s timeline is certainly open to debate, but since the solstice is less than three months away, it added to my sense of urgency in calling you.”

Zeke smiled. “Finding Satan and confronting Armageddon. That’s a tall order in less than three months.”

“Indeed.” Obviously taxed by so much talking, Connolly held up a hand to give him a moment.

While he waited Zeke groped for an elusive wisp of memory, triggered by Dr. Connolly’s comment about Enoch being the one in Heaven who “sat closest to the throne.” Where had he heard that before?

Connolly gestured to continue and the tantalizing memory floated away.

“Enoch,” Zeke said. “He’s a mysterious figure in Genesis, as I recall. Methuselah’s father.”

“Among other things. There are many legends and myths associated with him. Enoch scholarship is a field unto itself. There are even cults devoted to him. Apocryphal works attributed to him exist, but they were written by others. Here we have his own firsthand version of events. His Book of the Apocalypse. Most incredible, I know, but I am convinced.”

“Do you believe in his 2012 prediction?”

“The evidence in his scroll his very compelling. Of course no one can know what—if anything—will happen. History and common sense tell us nothing will. Be that as it may, the opinion I’ve seen most often about 2012 is that the human race is coming to a day of reckoning. A day when we must finally decide to pursue the path of righteousness or perish.”

He paused to gain control of his labored breathing before going on.

“Enoch’s scroll is filled with astonishing information, but I do not have the strength to tell it to you. You would need to read my translation and my notes, then decide for yourself. I have taken minor liberties with punctuation and certain words, using their modern equivalents to make the text more readable. But I stand by my translations, and I have tried mightily not to have any preconceived notions or Catholic bias. Still, getting a second translation might be wise in so grave a matter. I do believe that if you came face to face with Satan in Hell, whether in 2012 or not, a cataclysm would result. I suppose that is not a difficult prediction to make.”

The ex-priest leaned back in his recliner. “I need another moment, Ezekiel.”

Zeke considered everything he’d just heard.

Completely aside from the implausibility of scrolls written by Lot and an angel, Zeke had never bought the notion of a literal Hell. There was undeniably evil in the world, but he believed it came from the human heart—yetzer hara—not some horned, pitchfork-wielding Devil. It was a cop-out to blame everything on a demon from the fiery pit. Hell was here on Earth. He had been in one of its chambers that night in Nam. Still, Dr. Connolly was the smartest man he’d ever met, so he forced himself to treat his conclusions with respect.

“There’s no chance that these are forgeries?” he said.

“No. They are autographs.” He saw Zeke puzzling over that usage of the word. “Originals, written by the authors themselves.”

“I don’t mean to seem rude, but I think you’ll agree this sounds more than a little absurd. I mean, a discovery confirming the existence of Satan and Hell? It would answer one of the central questions that has plagued humanity since the dawn of civilization. It’s what drove me to Catholic University. Why is there evil? And yet no one has ever heard of these scrolls. How could that possibly be?”

The professor’s iron resolve crumbled. A look of shame contorted his features as he fought back tears. Zeke leaned toward him, wanting to help but not knowing how. Finally the old man was able to speak.

“It could possibly be because…because…I have never shown them to another soul.” His steely gaze gone, unable to look Zeke in the eye, he looked toward the jar instead.

“I spent months poring over them. Reading them over and over. Translating them ten thousand different ways. I became convinced they were genuine, became obsessed with the idea that we might track Satan down, that Armageddon might be confronted. That we might defeat him, once and for all, so the human race could live in peace. I actually convinced myself that I had been chosen as the Teacher of Righteousness, as he is called in the Dead Sea Scrolls, the one to lead us out of the darkness. A rather arrogant and ironic conclusion, considering that Lot is frequently referred to as a teacher of righteousness in the Koran.”

His voice fell to a hoarse whisper. “If I was the Chosen One, God help us all.” He continued to stare at the jar. “I didn’t want to turn it over to the Vatican.”

“Why not?”

“I was afraid it would disappear into the Secret Archives, never to be heard of again. You’ve heard the rumors. Suppression of any text that might shake the faithful’s acceptance of Catholicism as the One, True, All-Powerful Church.” Zeke nodded. “Finally I decided I would turn it over, try to persuade them to mount a dig to find that opening in the earth. They certainly had the resources. I had none. But, every time I started to, I…I…couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I started hearing a voice. Having visions. Nightmares. I came to believe it was the Archenemy.”

His reference to a “voice” struck a chord. “What did the voice say?”

Fear came into the old man’s eyes. “Satan himself was warning me. Warning me not to come after him or…”

“Or?”

“Or he would keep my soul forever in Hell.”

Dr. Connolly was starting to sound like one of those crackpots who spent too much time reading Revelation. All that stuff about “the Beast” and Satan being “loosed out of his prison.” But even in his present condition, this man was no crackpot. As a former Catholic priest and theology professor, his entire life had been based on the premise that God and Satan were the ultimate sources of good and evil—the very premise apparently put forth in Lot’s scroll. A scroll Dr. Connolly believed was written by no less than the nephew of Abraham.

Abraham. Progenitor of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam.

Of Jesus Christ Himself.

It was all too much. As he watched the old man seemingly dying before his eyes, Zeke’s overriding thought became to call 911 on the slim chance his dear friend could be saved. But first he had to see this bizarre meeting through.

The raspy voice clutched his brain and pulled it back into a world beyond this one.

“My belief in Satan became stronger than my belief in God. I became convinced he was the more powerful one. Whatever secrets the scrolls contained were best left alone. Finally—God help me—I stole them so no one would ever see them.”

He began to weep softly, uncontrollably. “I changed my name. Turned my back on God. Since then my whole life has been a lie. I have not really lived since I got that infernal jar. In a very real sense, it has stolen my soul.”

Zeke gently grabbed the once-proud scholar’s hand and held it. Sadness welled up in him, then was swept away by anger at the realization that this poor man’s life had been ruined not by a lack of faith, but by too much of it. While Dr. Connolly regained control, Zeke tried to look at things from the old man’s perspective.

To a fallen priest, trying to rationalize his enormous betrayal of the sacred trust placed in him by the Pope, evidence that confirmed the existence of Satan might almost be a comfort. It would relieve him of the need to take full responsibility for his own unforgivable actions: The Devil made him do it.

Finally the weeping stopped. The old man wiped his red eyes and looked at Zeke for a moment before speaking. “I have long felt our fates were intertwined, Ezekiel. That destiny brought us together.”

“What do you mean?”

“I came into your life long before you came into mine at Catholic University. In 1972. I had laid low after leaving Jerusalem until all records of my new identity were flawless. By very clever maneuvers I eventually managed to become a parish priest in D.C. But my hypocrisy finally made ministering to a congregation intolerable. So I went from one hypocrisy to another: teaching others about the difference between right and wrong.”

“1972? I would have been nine, but I don’t remember.”

“You wouldn’t. You were unconscious. You had been hit by a car. I happened to be in the hospital and gave you Extreme Unction.”

Zeke stared in disbelief. “My mother told me about it later. Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“I didn’t want to bring up anything that might allow my past to catch up with me.”

Zeke couldn’t stop shaking his head. “That’s incredible. That by sheer chance I should end up studying with you twenty-some years later.”

“I don’t believe it was sheer chance.”

“What are you saying?”

“After I anointed you in the hall, I slipped into the emergency room. I wasn’t supposed to, but no one saw me, they were too busy working on you. A couple minutes into the procedure, the power went out. Just in that room, I found out later, not the whole hospital. None of their backup systems worked, but there was a glow around you that enabled the doctors to keep working. Do remember anything about it?”

“I vaguely remember hearing a voice while I was out. My mother told me about the glow later. We talked about it. Of course nobody could say what it was. The doctors told her it saved my life, that it gave them the light they needed to do their work. They also said I was technically dead for twelve minutes.”

“What do you remember about the voice?”

“It sounded profound, even to my nine-year-old brain, but I’ve never been able to remember exactly what it said. Something about being put to a test, a mention of the Messiah… Since we were good Catholics, we pretty much decided it was God telling me I’d be okay. But it was more than that. I just can’t remember.”

“I was never the most devoted priest, but I know I felt a divine presence in that room.” He made a feeble wave at the beer bottles and cigarette butts. “Perhaps this is the moment He kept us both alive for. I should be long dead. And yet here I am. Pushing ninety.”

“Oh come on. That would make you some celestial messenger and me some kind of ‘Chosen One.’ Why on earth would He choose me for this? I’m thinking that if and when such a person comes along, he—or she—is going to be from Bethlehem or Nazareth. You know, the Holy Land. Someplace a little holier than Washington, D.C., anyway.”

“Maybe that is exactly why. Maybe He has decided to go in the complete opposite direction. He tried the Holy Land before, when Jesus died for our sins.”

He glanced heavenward.

“Forgive me Lord, but that noble sacrifice hasn’t exactly been a rousing success. Evil still threatens to destroy the world. More than ever. Because now we have weapons of mass destruction instead of bows and arrows and rocks.

“And don’t forget, Ezekiel. This area is called the Holy Land of the West. Brookland has the highest concentration of Catholic institutions outside Rome.” He smiled his feeble smile. “Maybe a smart tough guy from D.C. is exactly what He needs. Knowing how skeptical people are about religion, maybe He thinks an average Joe taking on such a mission would be more believable in our cynical world, more concrete than all the preaching about a Messiah coming to save us…one of these days.”

Zeke shook his head. “People couldn’t buy into the idea of a mission to find Satan unless they knew about it. How exactly would you publicize something like that? Contact CNN? ‘Good evening. The top story tonight is the search for Hell, which will be led by D.C. gym owner Zeke Sloan.’ I don’t think so. Quite the opposite, I think you’d want to keep something like a search-and-destroy mission for Hell a secret. No, your hypothesis is intriguing, to say the least, but I don’t buy it.”

“Do you believe in God?”

Zeke shrugged. “Not as much as I did when I was a kid, but I try to. It seems like with the glow thing, and coming back from the dead and all, I pretty much have to. But it’s hard when you’ve seen innocent people slaughtered.”

“And if there is an entity behind the slaughter of innocents? An entity that could be stopped?”

His breathing was becoming more labored. He reached to turn the knob on the oxygen, but it was already all the way open. He waved it away impatiently and summoned all his remaining energy.

“Ezekiel, this is why I called you here tonight. I am going to ask you to do what I never could. Take the scrolls. Take the translations with all my notes and observations.”

“But if I do that, then what?”

“What you do then is up to you. At the very least you could sell them and make a great deal of money. I paid—the Vatican paid—fifty thousand for them in 1947, so God knows what they would be worth now. Millions, certainly.

“Or you could try to mount an expedition. No one has ever found Sodom and Gomorrah. Certainly any artifacts you found would be priceless, because finding Sodom and Gomorrah would rank with finding Atlantis.”

He leaned closer, his haunted stare making Zeke extremely uneasy. He held up a finger to emphasize the gravity of what he was about to say.

“Before you make up your mind, you must know this, Ezekiel. If you choose to do this, that will mean that—like me—you will have headed down a road that leads to a belief in Satan. In which case, you must believe in God. You must fully accept the reality of what until now has been only a man-made story, a theological Christian construct: the belief that God—or Jesus—will save us. That He will somehow help you defeat Evil, whatever you want to call it. You must believe that. Because, even if we agree that you are the one chosen to do this, I do not for one second believe that any man—any army of men—can defeat an entity whose power is—hopefully—second only to God’s. To believe that you can defeat him without divine help would be the ultimate act of arrogance. The ultimate hubris. You would be marching to your doom. Enoch says as much in his scroll. He says that a man must pave the way, but that ultimately we are too weak and that a Messiah must come to save us.

“So you must believe in what is essentially the Second Coming. Or the first for Jews and Muslims. You remember the lecture I gave about Christ’s Harrowing of Hell?”

“Pretty much. I had said the line from the Apostles’ Creed many times as an altar boy, that after Jesus was buried ‘He descended into Hell,’ but never really thought about it until you put it into theological context. You said nobody could know if it actually happened. And if Jesus did descend into Hell, you said, nobody could know what happened down there. It always came down to faith. You either believed it or you didn’t.

“You said different religions came up with different versions of the story. The one you leaned toward was the idea that He descended…not into Hell, per se…more like Hades. Sheol. An abode of all the dead, not just the wicked. He redeemed the just and left the damned behind.”

“Yes. That was the First Coming. This time He will descend again to rescue all, but only after you—or someone—blazes the trail. The first time that person was John the Baptist. The Forerunner. Now it will be you. But only if you believe. Completely. ‘For many are called, but few are chosen.’”

His long weary exhale sounded like the final breath in the unburdening of his soul. When he spoke again, it was barely a whisper.

“Think about it, now. The Bedouin tried to warn me about this accursed scroll, but I dismissed it as superstition. Believe me when I tell you that this document has a power. Power you might be very wise to leave alone.”

He abruptly fell silent and collapsed into his chair, closing his eyes as if for the last time.

Zeke thought about the enormous amount of forgiveness involved if Jesus did descend into Hell to redeem all those souls. Souls who deserved to be there. Millions perhaps, including monsters like Hitler. Would they—could they—all be forgiven? He couldn’t see ever forgiving just one: Michael Price, who had ruthlessly murdered that Vietnamese family.

He wondered about forgiveness itself. To forgive sounded noble, but in his experience humans neither forgave nor forgot. He yanked his mind back from that worn philosophical path that never led anywhere. He looked at his dying mentor and spoke softly, choosing his words carefully.

“I don’t doubt that these scrolls have a power over you, I can see that. But it just doesn’t make sense. All we know about Lot are those few chapters from Genesis. He escaped the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah with his wife and two daughters. His wife turned back to look and turned into a pillar of salt, everybody knows that part of the story. Then Lot went into a cave with his two daughters. The cave where he wrote the scroll and where the Bedouin found it. Fine. But if the scroll somehow became cursed—never mind how much that sounds like the oldest horror-movie cliché in the book—we have to ask: who would have cursed it and why?”

“Very good questions. Ones I have asked myself a thousand times. You’re right about the Bible being our primary source of information—on Lot, the Devil, everything these scrolls talk of. It was my primary source for trying to reason my way through all this. I finally decided that the scroll was cursed, based on the Bedouin’s statement and my own experiences with it. By whom? Satan. Lot says the Archenemy followed him.”

Zeke seemed to have fueled Dr. Connolly’s old passion for lecturing. His breathing became regular and his withered frame found a reserve of strength that, a moment ago, seemed impossible. Zeke was a rapt student in his classroom again.

The professor licked his lips. “Get me a beer, please, Ezekiel.” It sounded like the last request of a man preparing for his execution.

Zeke quickly got the beer and returned, stealing a glance at his watch. Past six. He needed to get going. Leah and his family were waiting.

“Your second question is harder,” the professor said after taking a long drink from the beer. “Why?”

“Yes,” Zeke said. “If Satan is this superhuman entity, second in power only to God, why would he be worried about Lot or anyone else? And why put a curse on the scrolls? Why not just destroy them? For that matter, why be worried about them at all—pieces of writing sitting in a cave?”

The old man set his beer down.

“Good questions, all. I can give you my reasoning, but it is no more than an educated guess. Perhaps Satan knew there would one day have to be a reckoning between he and the Lord. But according to the Bible—and Enoch—God would not show up for Armageddon until the people had been warned. In the Bible He mentions a ‘watchman’ who would blow the trumpet when he sees ‘the sword’ coming. If the watchman sees the sword and doesn’t blow the trumpet, the blood is on his hands.”

He looked at his own frail hands, then to Zeke.

“If the scroll is Lot blowing the trumpet—and he says as much—then cursing it would be Satan’s way of keeping it from being heeded. Certainly I did not heed it. So passing the scroll on to you is me trying to get the blood off my hands. Satan might also have enjoyed the potential for inflicting suffering on anyone who defied the curse.”

It sounded like a stretch. Zeke tried to keep the skepticism off his face.

“By the way,” the professor went on, “that passage about the watchman is in the book of Ezekiel. I know you said your name had something to do with being an athlete, but the coincidence is interesting, don’t you think?”

“Sure—‘coincidence’ being the key word.”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss it. Have you read the book of Ezekiel?”

“Being a Catholic with that name, I almost had to.”

“Then as you know, it’s essentially a conversation between God and Ezekiel. Ninety-three times He refers to Ezekiel as the Son of man. He does that in no other book except Daniel, and then only once. Of course, in the New Testament, Son of man refers to Jesus, while in Ezekiel, many Biblical scholars say God is only emphasizing the prophet’s humanity. Still, it’s quite compelling, don’t you think?”

“Not really. Ezekiel was a prophet, for God’s sake. I can’t even handicap a horse race good enough to cash a show ticket. And you still haven’t answered the question.”

“I don’t have the answers, Ezekiel. Just a hypothesis, which I think is a good one. The only way to get definitive answers is to undertake this quest. And succeed. Then you can ask Satan, Lucifer—whoever, whatever he is—face-to-face, and you will have paved the way for His return. Remember the famous passage from Malachi, the last book of the Old Testament? It was another of my lectures: ‘Behold, I will send my messenger, and he shall prepare the way before me.’”

“I do remember that passage. Most Biblical scholars think Malachi was talking about John the Baptist.”

“Perhaps. They’re guessing like the rest of us. Their guesses are just more educated.”

The old man collapsed into his recliner again, sorely taxed by more talking than he had probably done in months, maybe years. After several deep breaths he went on.

“I see your skepticism, Ezekiel. And I don’t blame you. The idea of a literal Satan skulking around, responsible for the evil that men do. It flies in the face of everything we know of human nature, of all the theories so carefully worked out by demigods like Freud and Jung. But factor this into your thinking. The safe, the easy thing to do is dismiss the idea as hogwash. Believing is much more difficult. It will bring you scorn. But if we do not believe there is such a thing as evil we are doomed. Beaudelaire said it best: ‘The Devil’s deepest wile is to persuade us that he does not exist.’”

Dr.—Father—Connolly closed his eyes. Zeke looked at the jar looming by the door, then around the room at the devastation it had caused. The priest’s most chilling words echoed inside Zeke’s head:

“Satan himself was warning me…he would keep my soul in Hell…keep my soul in Hell…keep my soul in Hell…”

Father Connolly had never been one to accept any idea without subjecting it to rigorous intellectual scrutiny. But shut up like this for years, alone, tormenting himself over a stolen scroll… Zeke couldn’t imagine a person not hearing voices in this hellhole.

He shook his head, an involuntary twitch against the professor’s theory. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life on a patently absurd wild goose chase. But what if Father Connolly were right? Zeke forced himself to at least consider his notion that some divine destiny had brought them to this moment.

His mind went immediately to the voice he’d heard that day in the emergency room. Had it been God reaching out to him? Was the scroll his way of reaching out again through Enoch? God’s messenger? Zeke closed his eyes and tried to conjure up those lost twelve minutes. A few words bubbled up from the depths of his unconscious.

“…bless and keep you, Ezekiel…supreme test…Messiah…”

Voices. He stared at the jar.

That night in the jungle, Price mentioned hearing the voice of God. “Not your god,” he had said. Zeke had wondered about it ever since. Had Price heard the voice of Satan?

A feeling deep within him stirred. It was the compressed ball of rage he kept locked away in the darkest chamber of his heart. The memory of that night was its fuel.

He had felt a shadow stalking him that night. Had the Archenemy pulled the trigger?

The question couldn’t be answered. Even if it could, he saw no way to launch an archaeological expedition. He would be getting married soon. And Leah couldn’t get that kind of time off—not that she’d want to. Zeke focused on the essentials of the situation.

To refuse would be to deny his friend’s dying wish. He owed Father Connolly this much. Just taking the scroll wouldn’t hurt anything. He wouldn’t make any promises, that’s all.

“I will take the scroll. And I will look into it.”

The man who called himself James Connolly opened his eyes and smiled, a much more pleasing and contented smile now. A peaceful smile. “I have known for years that if anyone could do this, you were the one.”

Zeke wasn’t about to get into a drawn-out debate about Fate and Destiny and being Chosen. For both their sakes this conversation needed to be ended. The priest’s failing body and Zeke’s brain had been pushed to their limits. The hot stale reek of tobacco and beer and death was like a hand jutting up from the grave to smother him. He needed fresh air badly. But now that he had agreed to take the scroll, there was one more crucial bit of information he needed to help him decide what to do with it later. He didn’t want to tax Father Connolly any further, but as much as possible he had to know what he was getting himself into.

“Before I go,” he said, “I have to ask you something. You said at one time you wanted to lead an expedition to try to defeat Satan. But you also said you don’t believe any human can defeat him; that you’d need some kind of divine intervention, some assistance from God. How exactly did you hope to attain that? If I were going to confront Satan—on his home turf, no less—I’d need something more concrete than hoping God would show up to bail me out.”

The old man found some final reserve of strength and pulled himself into an alert and upright position.

“Believe me, I thought about that long and hard. I could never escape the conclusion that defeating Satan in Hell is beyond the capacity of Man alone. The ultimate Evil could only be defeated by the ultimate Good. Meaning God. Enoch’s scroll confirms this. But you’re right: you can’t go down there with nothing but hope. So I decided that, if I ever did it, I would take the most sacred relics I could get my hands on. It would be like taking portable bits of God’s power with me. But I’m not a naïve fool, either. I know that’s no guarantee of anything. That’s why I emphasized the need for faith. You have to believe that there is a God, and that He will be there for you in the final showdown. After all, it’s his final showdown, in a battle that’s been brewing since before the beginning of time. You’re just the point man. If you don’t believe He’s going to be there, you have no chance. At least that’s how I see it.”

His speech was punctuated by frequent small gulps, as though he were hiccupping up what was left of his life. It pained Zeke to continue, but his own life might be on the line, too.

“And how were you going to obtain these relics?” he asked. “My first thought is that the Vatican would have had the best ones, but you had burned that bridge.”

“True. But the Vatican would never give up their prized relics anyway. No, I had another connection, but I never pursued it. An ex-colleague of mine on the faculty at Catholic University. He was a layman, but he was more zealous about Catholicism than any of the clergy I ever knew. His specialty was eschatology—the branch of study having to do with the end of the world. That inevitably includes speculation about Judgment Day, the Second Coming, the Messiah, those types of things. He ate, slept, and breathed it. His courses were usually the most popular. When the new millennium was approaching, he told me he couldn’t maintain his academic neutrality any more. He believed the end was near and wanted to do something to pave the way for the Second Coming.”

Zeke waited an agonized moment for him to catch his breath, which did not seem a certainty. He still had the useless oxygen tubes in his nose. Zeke wanted to tell him that it might help his breathing to take them out, but before he could say anything the ex-priest went on.

“So he quit and moved to Jerusalem. It turned out he was quite rich, had made some clever investments. Occasionally I would get a call from him, telling me about his latest acquisition. The rarest of finds: pieces of the Crucifix, the Crown of Thorns. It’s virtually impossible to prove the authenticity of those things, but his stories were always quite convincing. His plan was to buy up anything remotely associated with Christ, thinking that if he got enough Jesus relics, their combined power might bring Him back. Whatever the case, if I had ever gone through with my plan, he’s the one I would have contacted.”

“Do you still have a way to reach him?”

“He gave me his number, but I’ve never used it. The last time we spoke he was getting himself worked up again about 2012. He had retreated to some hidden lair and sounded like he was fashioning himself into some kind of latter-day John the Baptist. He used the word Forerunner to describe himself. John the Baptist was called that, because his mission was to pave the way for the Lord.”

It sounded far-fetched, but if it came to that, it might worth checking out. “I’ll take his number,” Zeke said, “just in case.”

The old man nodded at his personal phone book on the table. “It’s in there, under U. Anthony Unger.” Zeke copied the number. “My notes on the scrolls are in a briefcase on that same shelf in the closet. Take it with you also.”

Zeke set the briefcase beside the jar at the door, then went to the recliner. He crouched and wrapped both of his large hands around one of his friend’s small ones. “This has been a most interesting evening. I will be in touch soon. Are you sure you’re all right staying here by yourself?”

Father Connolly appeared to be at peace. “I will be fine—now. I thank you from the bottom of my soul for coming, my dear Ezekiel. You will never know how much.”

Zeke gave the small hand a final affectionate squeeze. “Good night, Father. You take very good care of yourself.”

The fallen priest gave a small nod and Zeke left.

Zeke started the car and looked at the clock on his dash. Six-fifteen. His family and Leah were waiting at the Bipartisan, probably laughing and having a good old time.

Zeke sped away. He could use a drink and some happy faces.

Maybe he would make a quick stop at that florist near the restaurant and get Leah some flowers.

By the time he reached the corner he had called 911 to send an ambulance for his dying friend. In another part of his mind, he knew he’d never see Father James Connolly alive again.

Inside the cottage, the only sound was the old man’s raspy breathing, the precursor of the death rattle. In his hands he held his priest’s collar. With enormous effort he’d gotten it from a box in his closet.

He collapsed deeper into the recliner, his chest heaving erratically as he gasped for air. Even as he suffered the agonies of death he felt thankful.

Thankful Ezekiel had not asked more questions.

Thankful he hadn’t had to describe the hideous faces in his nightmares.

Thankful he hadn’t had to dredge up the worst memory of all:

The tongues.

He felt a horrible shame for not telling his beloved pupil the fullness of the evil the scroll had brought him.

Finally he heard the long-awaited rattle of death escape from his throat, and for him the nightmare was over.

For Ezekiel Sloan, it had just begun.

BOOK TWO

The Awakening

Thus saith the Lord God:

An evil, an only evil, behold,
is come.

Ezekiel 7:5

CHAPTER 7

Jericho. The West Bank. October 5

The sudden mental image brought a pang of foreboding that made the café owner put down his espresso and lean back in his chair. He had been trying to muster the energy to get up and lock the doors one last time when the startlingly clear vision had popped into his head.

Tarik hadn’t thought of the priest in years. Now, suddenly, he saw him lying dead in a chair. Next to him on a table was the jar that Tarik would never forget. The cursed jar with the scrolls.

For several seconds the vision lingered, so vivid it felt like Tarik was in the room with the priest. Why would such a thing pop into his head? Was it a premonition?

He remembered the guilt he had felt for selling a holy man something that might bode him ill. How long ago had that been? His tired old brain wasn’t up to doing the math. Sixty years, at least. Alone in his café, he had been sitting by the front window thinking about his life, about how the threat of terrorism had killed his once-thriving business. So much for the 1993 Oslo Accords. So much for U.N. resolutions.

He tried to think of happier things. Since 1950 he had made the Oasis a place where visitors from all over the world—even America—could feel safe, could come and relax on their tour of the Holy Land. He smiled at the memory of many lively discussions about the nearby Mount of Temptation, where the Devil supposedly tempted Jesus in the wilderness. Often the discussions had turned into shouting matches, with several different languages being yelled at once. The notion that Satan could defeat God had almost started more than a few fistfights. Thank Allah for Hassan.

His son had worked in the Oasis from the time he was a boy until he went away to college. Always big for his age, even as a very young teenager he had never hesitated to walk into the middle of a heated discussion and ask everyone to calm down. Invariably everyone did. Not just because of his size. Although Hassan was always polite about it, there was never any doubt that he meant business. He was fearless. He got that from his mother.

Tarik let his gaze drift around the room, savoring the memories, and thanked Allah for allowing an Arab to have a good living in what was essentially a Jewish town.

It had been a good run, but since turning eighty several years ago his body had been giving out. It was finally time to close up for good. Only six customers for lunch, but what bothered him much more was that not a soul had stopped in for breakfast. The Oasis had been the place to have breakfast for years.

Tarik ran his gnarled hand through what was left of his white hair. After all these years his conscience would still not leave him in peace. For the ten thousandth time that nagging voice reminded him that he had abandoned his tribe and fled with the money from the scroll. Months after his thievery, gnawing guilt had made him risk being seen to go back into Jerusalem and check on the priest, only to find he had stolen the scrolls and—like himself—disappeared without a trace.

Tarik made a dismissive little wave and drank the last of his espresso. Ancient history. Again he tried to convince himself that the scrolls weren’t really cursed, that he had just been a naïve young man who believed too much in the superstitions of his tribe.

Tribe. He glanced down at himself in a suit and tie. Money had taken him a long way from his tribe. Unwilling to share with them his ill-gotten gains, he’d Westernized his name to Tarik Waheed, drifted north and become a businessman. And a good one. The Oasis had survived decades of turmoil to become an institution. He consoled himself that he had instilled in his son a tolerance and understanding of the different cultures of the world. His favorite times had been sitting in this chair, holding court, looking out at the street, savoring his good fortune, feeling as though it had all been worthwhile. And through it all, inside him had beat the heart of a Bedouin.

Tarik finished his espresso while making a last feeble effort to convince himself that premonitions and curses were superstitious nonsense, but he could not shake the uneasy feeling. He’d had it that night in the doorway, the last time he’d seen the priest.

I hope the scrolls brought the priest fame and fortune.

With a sudden overpowering sorrow he knew he had been kidding himself all these years. A priest does not pay that much of his Pope’s money for two scrolls and then steal them and disappear. Something very bad must have happened. Tarik knew—had always known—that the scrolls had cost the priest much more than money. They had cost him his faith.

Which meant they had cost him his soul.

The Bedouin looked at the suit he wore and realized they had done the same to him.

These last few years had been the worst. His dying business had forced him to find another source of income to keep it alive. Once again he had turned a blind eye to his principles and become a middleman in the antiquities market. Bedouin sold archaeological artifacts to him, and he in turn sold them to the Palestinian who had a thriving market in the Muslim Quarter of Jerusalem. Tarik knew the goods were stolen, and that his Arab friend’s hatred of Israel and the West meant some of the proceeds would help to fund terrorism. He had rationalized it away by telling himself that a man had to look out for himself and his family first, and that he was helping his Bedouin kinsmen do the same.

He could rationalize no more. It was all over.

He gazed into the bottom of his empty espresso cup. Many Greek customers over the years had told of their custom of reading the grounds to predict the future.

The Bedouin stared long and hard into the thick black sludge. He saw no answers, only the quicksand that was his life.

CHAPTER 8

Washington, D.C. October 5

Leah glanced from their booth at the Bipartisan toward the loud macho posturing at the bar. Happy hour on a Friday. The weekend warriors were five deep, alcohol and testosterone stoking their bloodlust as they got louder and louder about which football team’s ass was going to get kicked. Some of the women were right in there with them, laughing and sizing up the big manly studs. She was so glad to be out of all that.

Hurry up, Zeke. It had been fun going over strategy for his surprise birthday party tomorrow, but she wished he would hurry. The longer they were here the more it took away from their romantic evening.

She looked at the happy faces at her table. Hank and Rita Sloan across from her, Zeke’s sister Valerie beside her. She felt a familiar pang of sadness at how much happier she felt with Zeke’s family than she had ever felt with her own. Her parents had divorced over twenty years ago and still couldn’t be in the same room together. Her sister had never recovered from their incessant arguing and had become an alcoholic. Leah hadn’t spoken to any of them in years, didn’t even have their addresses.

Hank told the waiter to bring the second round of their two-for-one cocktails. Leah watched Zeke’s father with admiration. He was a large man, aging gracefully with a full head of nicely cut white hair. He and Rita were high school sweethearts. They had the kind of loving, comfortable relationship she hoped she and Zeke would have.

The waiter brought the second round and Hank held up his glass. “Hey, this is a happy hour, right? Let’s take a minute to count our blessings. First and foremost, thanks for our health, our love, all the good things that have happened to us along the way.”

They chimed their agreement and drank.

Hank held his glass up again. “Speaking of good things happening along the way, here’s to Leah. We couldn’t have wished for a better wife for Zeke. I guess since you’re technically a wife-to-be, I’d like to take this occasion to semi-officially welcome you to our family. Have you two set a date yet?”

“No, but I’m thinking we will this weekend. I know he’s ready, and so am I.”

Still holding up his glass, Hank said, “We love you, kiddo.”

“Yes,” Rita echoed softly, eyes shining with emotion. Leah heard Valerie sniffle beside her and started to laugh.

“Jesus Christ,” Hank said. “You people will cry at a good steak.”

In the year she and Zeke had been dating, Hank had used that line many times, and it was funny every time. Leah loved being part of a family that wasn’t afraid to express their emotions. Such a refreshing change from her own, where everybody always kept everything inside, except for the constant explosions of anger by her parents. She couldn’t remember ever hearing the word “love.” With Zeke she heard it every day.

Hank went on. “Let’s see if we can get through this without getting thrown out before Zeke even gets here, all right?” He held for the laugh, then proposed another toast.

“Here’s to Zeke. He’ll be… pushing fifty tomorrow. We thought we’d never get that boy married.”

Leah smiled and blushed. Rita, sitting to his left by the window, gave him a playful slap on the shoulder. “Hank.”

“Ouch, woman.” He rubbed the spot with comical exaggeration, then looked at her tenderly. “He turned out to be a pretty good kid, didn’t he, sweetheart?”

“He was always good.”

Hank shrugged an apology to Leah for doting on their son. “I know all parents say that, but she’s right. Even when he was real little you could see it. Most little kids scream bloody murder when you try to take their toys, but Zeke would come over and give it to you, like he wanted you to have it. There was always some charity drive going on—you know us Catholics—and Zeke always led the class in selling cookies, raffle tickets, whatever. Then he couldn’t wait to be an altar boy. He almost became a priest, until he discovered girls. Did you know about that, Leah?”

“What? That he wanted to be a priest, or that he discovered girls?”

Rita elbowed the side of his bicep.

“What? I don’t mean to be crude, but if he’s still a virgin at his age—”

“Dad.” Valerie’s face was red.

“He’s right,” Leah said. “Pushing fifty and still a virgin might not exactly be ideal husband material. And yes, Zeke did tell me about the priest thing. He applied to the seminary at Catholic University but changed his mind. The girls thing.”

Hank held up his glass. “Thank goodness he chose girls, or we wouldn’t have you.”

Rita’s eyes welled up again. Hank saw it and wiped his hand over his face and looked away. “You people are embarrassing. We’ve barely finished one drink. I’d hate to see how you get when you’re really sloshed.” Warm laughter once more enveloped the table.

Rita said, “I was just remembering how close we came to losing him. And you. Both at the same time.”

“I guess Zeke told you about that, too,” Hank said.

Leah nodded. “He was hit by a car and you were shot down in Vietnam, right?”

A cloud came over Hank’s face. “December ’72. I was co-pilot on a B-52. The so-called Paris Peace Talks had fallen apart, and we got orders to bomb the bejeezus out of North Vietnam, help them make up their minds. The Christmas Bombings, they became known as. Our plane got shot down. I was lucky. The cease-fire was signed a month later, and we were released in February. Operation Homecoming.”

“Thank God,” Rita said. “It took a couple weeks before they could tell me you were still alive. The Christmas from hell.” She caressed his arm where she’d hit it before. “For you much more than me. You ended up at the Hanoi Hilton with a broken leg.”

“The Hanoi Hilton,” Hank said. “Those were some first-class accommodations.”

“Zeke told me about it,” Leah said. “Hoa Lo, right? One of the worst places for a POW.”

“It wasn’t nice. It was a 19th-century prison built by the French. It still had a guillotine in it, although I don’t know if it was ever used on any of us. They’d take you in and show it to you, though, make you think you were next. They whacked my broken leg a few times, probably why it didn’t heal right. Put a little hitch in my giddyup.”

Hank stared at his drink, his mind starting to wander down those dank corridors.

“Don’t think about it, sweetheart,” Rita said. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“No, it’s fine. I was just remembering something I haven’t thought about all these years. At the time it bothered me more than the beatings. It was this other POW. Some kid, a grunt right out of high school. Weird SOB. He’d been there a few months, most of it in solitary. A little while after I got there, they let him back into the general population. Barely said a word.

“Anyway, on Sundays they let us use one of the rooms as a chapel. One of the guys was a chaplain, and we’d have a little mass. One day this guy walks in and starts saying we can forget all this ‘God shit,’ he’s already tried it and look what it got him. He’s turned to Satan, he says, and that’s who’s going to get him out of there. Then he pointed all around the room, calling us the enemy, saying we’d be punished for our sins.”

“That’s awful,” Leah said.

“Yeah. For a while I wondered if there was something to the Satan thing, because a couple weeks later the guy escaped. And nobody escaped from the Hanoi Hilton.”

Rita shook her head against the Satan theory, then said, “Meanwhile, the doctor is telling me that Zeke had actually been dead for twelve minutes. The priest had already given him Extreme Unction.”

“Okay then,” Valerie said. “That was an interesting trip down memory lane. On the bright side, that’s why I’m here. As soon as dad got home, they decided to have another kid.”

Hank held up his glass yet again. “Another blessing. Here’s to life. And the Man Upstairs.”

Leah’s mind drifted to the evening she had planned with Zeke. First a candlelight dinner she had prepped last night, then a massage, then a bubble bath with drinks, then…

Having him spend the night was also a ploy so his folks could sneak over tonight and tomorrow to get his place ready for the party. The cleverness of their scheme made her smile. “I can’t wait to see Zeke’s face when he sees the home theater you got him.”

“Oh, he’s going to love it,” Rita said. “You know how he loves movies. I wonder where he got that from?” She gave Hank a coy look.

“Hey. There are worse things for a kid to be hooked on.” He looked at his drink with a raised eyebrow. “We really do need to cut ourselves off after this. We don’t need to be trying to set everything up half-drunk. I snuck by there earlier with the van and hid all the stuff in the guest room. You’ve got Zeke detail, right Leah?”

“It’s a tough job but somebody’s got to do it. He won’t be there until seven tomorrow night.”

“Perfect.” He held up his glass again. “Well, there is one more announcement I want to make, since we’re talking about movies. The deal on the business closed today. Hank’s Video is no more.”

“Dad!” Valerie said. “That’s terrific!”

Rita just looked at him and smiled. Leah could guess what was going through her mind.

Hank had opened one small store in 1979, mostly because of a love of movies that ran in his family. They had never expected to get rich, just supplement his Army pension and disability payments. But fueled by Hank’s passion for movies and his military attention to detail, the store had grown into a chain. When Hank hit seventy last year, he and Rita had decided to sell, and use some of that hard-earned money to do all the things they had put on hold for so long.

“Come here, woman.” Hank wrapped his arm around his wife. “First thing we’re gonna do is take that cruise to Alaska.”

As Rita’s head landed softly on his shoulder, Leah saw a man in a long overcoat walk by the window very fast. She wondered where he was going in such a hurry. She looked at her watch. Six-forty.

The man in the long overcoat burst through the front door. He brushed past the hostess into the middle of the room. All in one motion he flung open his coat and brought the rifle up to his shoulder. Despite the screaming diving mayhem, Leah saw Hank coolly assessing the situation.

“DOWN!”

They dove for the floor, knocking the table over as they went. Hank spread his arms out to protect Rita. Valerie pushed Leah further behind her.

The gunman began screaming gibberish and opened fire.

Amid a cacophony of death the killer turned in a frenzied circle, spraying bullets wildly. Leah saw Zeke come through the door. He had a bouquet of flowers in his hand. She watched in horror as he dove behind the hostess stand.

Please don’t let him do anything crazy.

Unable to tear her eyes away, she watched Zeke rush the gunman from behind, holding the wooden hostess stand in front of him as a shield.

That was the last thing she saw.

CHAPTER 9

Jericho. The West Bank. October 5

His movements slowed by age and sorrow, Tarik locked the front door and took a goodbye walk through the place that had been his life for so long. Postcards and letters from around the world covered one wall. Many were from diplomats, a few were from presidents and prime ministers, mainly thanking him for making them feel safe and at home. Forty-eight countries were on that wall, Tarik recalled proudly, and their citizens had all come to his place and gotten along.

He stared at the espresso machine as though it were his child, smiling at the thought that he’d had it longer and kept it just as well. The first purchase he’d made for the café. The heart and soul of his operation. He turned it off, averting his gaze from his reflection in its still-gleaming surface, wondering what he would do with the machine. Maybe give it to Hassan. Give Tarik a reason to go visit.

Every piece of furniture, every pot and pan seemed to conjure up a memory. With sudden resolve he hurried back up front to bring the curtains down on the Oasis for the last time. He pulled a cord, and the heavy drapery slowly blotted out the waning sunlight coming through the large picture window. It felt as if it were doing the same to his heart.

He locked the front door and reached to lower its curtain.

Just as his hand closed on the cord, Hassan rushed up and pulled on the locked door. He looked dazed. His clothes were torn and blackened with dirt. There was a gash on his forehead and what looked like bloodstains on the sleeves of his jacket.

Tarik frantically unlocked the door and grabbed his son’s arm as he staggered in. “Hassan. What has happened? Are you all right?”

His words came in choked bursts. “I’m fine. A suicide bomber.” He stumbled backwards and threw his hands over his eyes. “They killed Norah.”

“What? Norah? How could she—”

“We were going on vacation. She just happened to be going through the checkpoint when the car with the bomb rammed into it. A speeding maniac. There was no stopping him. I was waiting to meet her on the Palestinian side. I pulled her from the wreckage.” His red wet eyes were wells of bottomless sorrow. “She died in my arms.”

The words coiled themselves around Tarik’s heart and squeezed. “Norah. No.”

Lightning does strike twice. A terrorist attack had killed Hassan’s first wife. Tarik had begun to believe his son would never recover, but just last week he had said he was going to propose marriage. Tarik remembered his apprehension when Hassan told him the news. A marriage between a Palestinian and a Jew. It had been cursed before it began.

Cursed. Tarik had cursed it with his shady dealings. He opened his arms and Hassan fell into them. “Who is responsible?” he whispered into his son’s ear, dreading to hear the answer.

Hassan angrily broke the embrace, pacing erratically. “Who knows?” His words came out through shards of emotion that scraped them raw. “I saw the bomber’s head lying on the ground as I ran to Norah. I recognized him. He’d been arrested for looting archaeological sites. But it’s the West Bank. Thieves use the things they stole to buy their way out of jail and they’re back the next night. We chased him away several times.” His bloodless smile looked like a scar. “Ironic, isn’t it? I dig up the treasure that helps to fund the terrorism that killed Norah.”

“Hassan, this is not your fault.”

Tarik wanted to believe his antiquities dealing to keep the business alive had nothing to do with this, but he knew better. The Palestinian who bought his artifacts despised the Israeli fence around the West Bank. Just last week he had said, “If they treat us like caged dogs, then we will behave like caged dogs. But we will not roll over. If you poke us long enough with a stick, we will attack. You may win eventually, but you will pay a heavy price.”

And now the heaviest price had been paid.

Hassan sighed as though exhaling a part of his soul. “The police will put the body parts back together and someone will claim responsibility—but that is no answer. Who is really responsible, father? Us? Them? Who is responsible for the endless slaughter of innocents? Who started it? It didn’t start in 1948. And it didn’t end in 1993 with the so-called Peace Agreement. Or any of the five thousand other ‘peace agreements’”—his fingers made bitter quotation marks in the air—“that went before. Tribes have been fighting over this land for thousands of years. Who struck the first blow? The Canaanites? The Hebrews? The Israelites? Philistines? Assyrians? Babylonians? Persians? Who put the idea in our heads that we must all fight over this accursed piece of ground forever? Yahweh told Moses it belongs to the Jews. Allah told Muhammad it belongs to us. But do we not worship the same God? Are we not all his children? How could He promise this land to two different peoples? He could not possibly want this. Could He? Who could possibly want this? What god can be made happy by all this slaughter? Why can we not stop?”

Hassan collapsed into a chair. His voice fell to a hoarse whisper. “Why can we not live in peace?”

Tarik struggled for words to console his son, who stared at the floor and went on in a lifeless monotone.

“We archaeologists dig here at Jericho because it is thought to be the oldest city. But why, father? Why do we dig? What are we looking for? What do we hope to find? Our roots? I’ve been digging around Jericho for thirty years—others far longer—and we’ve found traces of civilization upon civilization, going back to the Stone Age. One failed human experiment after another, long-forgotten souls who loved and hated and fought and died. For what? For the one who threw the first stone? Their bones and their empires turn to dust and were they ever happy? Are they now?”

Hassan looked up, his face a thundercloud of despair. “I burn for an answer. So I dig and I dig, but I find none.” He extended his arms toward his father in a desperate pleading. “Do you have one?”

Stunned, Tarik remembered that an hour ago he had been looking for answers in the bottom of a cup of espresso. Now he looked at the floor.

He had no answer for his son.

CHAPTER 10

Washington, D.C. October 5

Zeke stood in Leah’s hospital room staring at the monitor showing her vital signs. He caught sight of his reflection on the screen and shivered. He looked old and near death. The image reminded him of Father Connolly. The old man’s face loomed into view beside his on the screen. Like two tormented ghosts, the faces stared at him for a chilling moment, then disappeared. He tried to focus on the line showing her heartbeat. It was erratic. Thready.

“Gentlemen, I have to ask you to leave.”

The nurse was at the door. She had been coolly efficient from the moment they wheeled Leah in, obviously someone who’d been doing this for a long time. Her hair was closed-cropped and gray, sensible. Somebody’s grandmother, maybe.

Zeke barely looked in her direction, his gaze locked onto Leah’s ashen face. “I’m staying.”

“But, sir, please—”

“I don’t leave until a doctor looks me in the eye and says she’s going to be okay.”

“But—”

Zeke snapped his head to look at the nurse. “Did you hear what I said?”

Her eyes widened. She looked at Reese, hovering nearby. He shook his head and she quietly slipped away. Reese eased up beside Zeke. “They got the bullet out and stabilized her. The doctor already told us this is as good as she can be for now.”

“He’s got to do better than that.”

“He said it might take a few days to be sure.”

“Then that’s how long I’ll be here.” Zeke saw the concern on his friend’s face. “The son of a bitch took out my whole family, Reese. She’s all I have left. I’m not leaving her alone.”

Reese nodded. The doctor materialized in the doorway, the nurse a few steps behind. The doctor came up to Zeke. “Mr. Sloan, there’s no need for you to stay. You’ll do her more good if you go home and get some rest.”

The doctor was young, in his thirties, too good-looking. Zeke hoped he knew what he was doing. “I’ll be fine here. When you tell me she’ll be okay, I’ll leave. Can you tell me that?”

“Probably, yes. But not absolutely. The bullet stopped just in front of her heart. That’s our biggest area of concern. In two or three days I can give you a better answer.”

“You’ll know where to find me.”

The doctor stared at Zeke for several seconds, then turned to the nurse. “Helen, find a cot for Mr. Sloan, please.” He looked back at Zeke. “They start serving breakfast in the cafeteria at six in the morning.”

“Thanks.”

“This first night will be the toughest. We’ll be in and out so be prepared to be woken up a lot. Please keep the path to her bed clear so we can get to her quickly if we need to.”

“Absolutely.”

The doctor nodded and left.

Zeke’s gaze went to the still-unwrapped bouquet on the stand beside Leah’s bed. Droplets of blood spattered the wrapper. The cheerfulness of the flowers taunted him. He snatched the small card from the bouquet and read it out loud: “To the most beautiful flower of all. Thanks for bringing love back into my life. Your can’t-wait-to-be-hubby.”

He sniffed the flowers. The hospital smell mixed with the cloying sweetness made him gag. He flung the bouquet across the room and doubled over in dry heaves, as if trying to bring something up from a very deep and empty place. Reese stood over him to see if there was anything he could do.

After a few final hacking coughs Zeke straightened up and spoke in a loud, raw whisper. “I just got it. It’s payback time.”

“Payback time?”

“For me. I’m getting paid back.”

“Paid back? For what?”

“For the jungle. I let that family die, so my family had to die to even it out. It’s my karma. You know: what goes around comes around, do unto others—all that happy horseshit.”

“Come on, man. The jungle wasn’t your fault. And neither was this. There was nothing you could have done to stop either one.”

“If I hadn’t stopped to get those flowers. Or gone to see Father Connolly—”

“You had to do those things, buddy. That’s who you are. There was no way to know this was going to happen. Besides, what could you have done to stop it? What could anybody have done?”

“I would have done something. Grabbed his arm, took those bullets if I had to. Better one person die than—”

His hands flew to his face. Behind them he kept muttering “no,” as if enough repetitions could undo what had been done. He collapsed into a chair and looked up at Reese through blurry eyes. “You got there a few minutes after I did. How did you know what had happened?”

“I heard the sirens inside the gym. They were so many of them I went out front to look. You told me you were meeting your folks at the Bipartisan, and all the vehicles were stopping right around there, so I took off running.”

“Did the police talk to you after I left for the hospital with Leah?”

“Yes. I told them who I was, they asked me about you and your family.” Reese looked away. When he looked back his eyes were moist. “I told them I’d get with you as soon as possible to… make arrangements.”

Zeke could barely get the word out. “Tomorrow.” He kept staring at Leah’s face, listening to her labored breathing. “How many total ended up dead?”

“Sixteen.”

“Did you get a look at the guy who did it?”

“Yes. The police took him out right past me. Raving.”

“What was he saying?”

“Crazy stuff. Stuff you don’t need to hear.”

“Yes, I do. I need to know everything if I’m ever going to make sense of this.”

“No one can ever make sense of this, Zeke.”

“Come to think of it, what you just said makes the most sense. As much as I was raised to believe in God, meaningless chaos makes a lot more sense than Divine Order. What kind of God lets this happen?” He waited for an answer he knew couldn’t come, then said: “I need to know, Reese. There has to be a reason. Otherwise, nothing matters. Life is utterly pointless.”

Reese exhaled heavily. “He was mumbling crazy stuff, Zeke. Said Satan made him do it.”

The word went through Zeke’s head like a jagged bolt of lightning. “Father Connolly warned me.”

“What?”

“The emergency I had tonight. An ex-priest who was one of my old college professors gave me two ancient scrolls for safekeeping. Said they had a power, made it sound like they could conjure up Satan.”

“Come on now. Priest or no priest, this madman saying Satan made him do it is like saying he’s Napoleon. I don’t know what your friend told you, but you’re not buying this crap, are you? Every other fool on death row starts talking about Satan so they can cop an insanity plea.”

Zeke turned back to Leah. “I can’t think about it right now. I just want to make sure she’s all right.” He held her hand between both of his.

“You want me to stay?”

“No.”

The machines hooked to Leah beeped and clicked. The sound of her unsteady breathing through the respirator filled the room.

“I think I’ll stay.”

“No, Reese. Go home to your family and hug them real tight. Maybe you can all say a prayer.”

“We will do that.” He gently squeezed his friend’s shoulder and left.

Zeke angled his chair so he could watch the line representing Leah’s heartbeat, the thin thread by which she clung to life.

CHAPTER 11

Zeke’s eyes popped open. He had dozed off in his chair and been dreaming that he was being watched. He looked at the clock on the wall. Two in the morning. Almost eight hours since the shootings.

Leah was asleep and breathing normally. The beeping and clicking of the machines was steady. Moonlight pressed against the window beyond her bed.

He closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep, but couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. He opened his eyes and looked toward the window.

A dark shape slid into view. Its movement was unnatural, not like anything that could fly. Maybe it was the shadow of a cloud, drifting across the face of the moon. All at once it stopped in the center of the window and hung there, hovering. It wasn’t a cloud.

What was that? A bird flown off course? No. A bird couldn’t hover like that.

The heavy shadow loomed a few feet outside the window. Zeke rounded the foot of Leah’s bed to go look. The dark shape hung there, indistinct. He leaned closer and squinted, trying to make it out.

A silver edge of moonlight outlined a shape vaguely like a man. Silhouettes of appendages hung where arms and legs should be, but their edges were fluttery, like a mirage. The shape drifted closer.

Two small red spots of light glowed. It seemed impossible, but as they came closer there was no doubt.

They were eyes.

Staring back at him with pure malevolence.

Zeke flinched. An armlike appendage came up and pointed at him, as if in warning.

The shape dissolved into nothingness and Zeke was left staring at the moon, struggling to grasp this new madness. That night in the jungle, he’d felt something watching from the woods. Something evil.

Had it come back? Or had it been with him all this time, waiting to strike again? The killer in the restaurant said Satan made him do it.

A sudden metallic hum penetrated his fog. He bolted to the heart monitor. The zigzag line he’d been watching all night was straight. Medical personnel came rushing into the room. Seconds later they were wheeling Leah down the hall. He started to follow but a doctor he didn’t recognize put a hand on Zeke’s chest.

Zeke pushed it aside. “I’m coming. Don’t waste time trying to stop me.”

“You’ve got to stay out of the way.”

“I will.”

An agony of time later the ER doctor touched the paddles to her chest. “Clear!”

Her body twitched but the line stayed flat.

“Clear!”

Nothing.

The doctor muttered something and an assistant began preparing a needle. He applied the paddles again. Leah twitched violently. It triggered a memory. Zeke felt a tremor.

Him on the table. Dead. Floating. Bathed in white light. A man’s voice. What was it saying?

You are the beginning and the end.

The agony of watching Leah fight for her life wouldn’t let him pursue the thought. He looked at the air above her, expecting to see her soul floating away.

“Clear.”

Again Leah’s body twitched. Nothing. “How long?” the doctor said.

“Seven minutes.”

He beckoned to the assistant with the needle. She emptied the contents into Leah’s chest. Her body arched upward in a violent spasm. All eyes stared at the heart monitor. The steady hum was like the voice of a robotic demon proclaiming its victory.

The sound changed.

A metallic beep. Then another. And another.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

A restrained cheer erupted, then the medical team resumed its work. Paralyzing tension released Zeke from its iron grip and he almost collapsed. His brain shut down and he just stood there, muttering “thank you” over and over and over.

CHAPTER 12

Zeke squinted at the first rays of sunlight coming through Leah’s window. What day was it? He had to look at his watch. Saturday. Barely twelve hours since the shooting. A lifetime.

A doctor came in, not the same one who’d tried to stop Zeke from coming into the ER last night. This one was older, sixties maybe. He was clean-shaven and his white hair was brushed back and neatly trimmed. He looked well-rested.

“She’s a tough cookie,” he said.

Zeke’s short bark was a release of pent-up tension more than a laugh. “Tell me about it.”

“I think she’s going to be fine.”

“Think?”

“Let’s give it the rest of the weekend to be on the safe side. Sometime tomorrow I should be able to take the ‘I think’ out of that sentence.”

“I’ll be here.” Zeke blinked back a surge of emotion. “What’s your name, doctor?”

“McBride.”

“Thanks, Dr. McBride. For everything.”

“Happy to do it.”

Leah woke up a little while later and spoke her first words. “What happened?”

He didn’t want to upset her with the grim news, but she needed to know. “How much do you remember?”

“The man with the gun going crazy. Then you walking in. That’s it. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” He groped for the right words. There were none, so he said it right out, as gently as he could. “He got my parents and sister. And thirteen other people.”

A loud wail escaped and she collapsed into spasmodic sobbing. Zeke held her for a very long time until it passed.

“I’m so sorry, Zeke.”

“Me too. Thank God we have each other to help us get through it.”

“What about…funerals, and everything?”

“I’ll take care of it. You just have one thing to do: get well.”

“I have to come to the funerals.”

“You can’t. The doctor says it’s too risky to be out in the cold in your condition. Your system needs all its strength to heal. We’ll get you out to pay your respects as soon as we can. They’ll understand.”

He held her through the rest of her grief until she fell back asleep.

Zeke tried to read a magazine but couldn’t concentrate. He clicked on the television, lowering the volume so it wouldn’t disturb Leah. She didn’t stir.

The first newscast of the morning came on. The lead story was the massacre at the restaurant.

“In what is believed to be the worst mass murder in Washington’s history, last evening a crazed gunman walked into the popular Bipartisan restaurant on Capitol Hill and gunned down sixteen people. Several others were wounded. The police are withholding further information as they go about the grim business of notifying families. The killer was whisked away before reporters arrived. One witness outside the restaurant later said he heard the man shouting ‘I am Anton!’—apparently not his real name—and that he was acting on behalf of Satan. Experts say this delusion is quite common among deranged killers. Mark Chapman, for example, the man who killed John Lennon, claimed to be under the influence of Satan. There have been many others. In any case, we will be following this story closely in the days ahead.”

After a respectful two-second pause, a slight smirk tilted the anchorman’s mouth. “Now we turn to the story that we know is on everyone’s mind, since we are less than three months away from December 21, 2012: will the world end this year? Don’t go anywhere. Caitlin Brewster will tell you everything you need to know, right after this break.”

Zeke clicked off the television and rubbed his eyes. For him the world had already ended.

Mid-afternoon the next day Dr. McBride came in to check Leah’s progress.

“She’s going to be fine.”

Zeke shook his hand. “That’s what I’ve been waiting to hear.”

“I’ll have the nurse come in and start unhooking some of these contraptions. I’m going to keep her here the rest of today and tomorrow, just for observation. You can take her home Tuesday.” He saw Zeke’s look of concern. “It’s routine, Mr. Sloan, I assure you. She’ll be fine. You can go home and watch the ’Skins game.”

Watching it without his father would only make Zeke feel worse. “I’m skipping this one. I’d like to stay here one more night, then I’ll be out of your way.”

“You’re not in our way, Mr. Sloan. You stay here as long as you want.” He patted Zeke on the shoulder and left.

Zeke began figuring out the timing of getting Leah home. The funerals were Tuesday at nine, the same day she would be getting released. He didn’t want to leave her here a minute longer than necessary, but the funerals couldn’t be changed, and he wouldn’t have time to get her home beforehand. He’d just have to come get her first thing after the funerals.

He took Leah’s hand between his and watched her sleep, thinking that once this was all over, he never wanted to leave her side again.

CHAPTER 13

Zeke and Leah shared a hospital breakfast Monday morning before he headed home, eager for a hot shower and fresh clothes. He’d been allowed to take showers at the hospital, but the stink of death was still on him. Odors from Father Connolly’s hellhole and the restaurant had mixed with the hospital smell, and their combined stench was overpowering even the new car smell of the Ford hybrid he’d just bought.

His spirits brightened a bit when he made the familiar turn off Independence Avenue at the Library of Congress. A few minutes later he pulled in front of his Capitol Hill townhouse, two blocks away.

Zeke felt a twinge of annoyance when got out of the car and a blast of cold air shot down the back of his neck. The unprecedented early cold wave had refused to lessen its grip, and D.C. was getting cranky at being cheated out of one of its nicest times of the year. The sooty, pitted snow that still covered most of his front yard was like a taunt.

He popped the trunk and got the jar with the scrolls, still wrapped in his winter jacket, and the briefcase with Father Connolly’s translations and notes.

He wandered slowly through the house, half-expecting it to have been ransacked by whatever demon had destroyed his family. Everything was the same until he entered the spare room at the end of the hall that he’d converted to a workout room for he and Leah.

The multi-station weight machine still stood in the middle of the room, and the free weights and stands were neatly arranged as he had left them. But there were three large unopened boxes against the wall that hadn’t been there before. He went over and read the labeling.

Components for a home theater.

Dad…

His father had kept telling him to get with the home theater program. This had to be his birthday present.

So that had been the plan. Leah was going to keep him at her place, while his father came over here to set things up.

He looked at the names of the manufacturers. State-of-the-art. Of course.

Good job, Dad.

The boxes loomed like three tombstones.

Happy birthday to me.

A cocoon of death was smothering him and he needed to get it off. He headed upstairs, stripping as he went. Twenty minutes later he emerged from the shower, clean-shaven and scrubbed almost raw. He put on his favorite flannel lounging pants, a long-sleeved T-shirt, warm winter socks, and loose, comfortable slippers. Downstairs, he threw his clothes in the washer to get rid of the stench. He took the briefcase and the jar with the scroll into another first-floor room he used as his office.

He needed to figure out what he’d gotten himself into. It was going to take a whole lot of fact-finding to even consider something as patently insane as going into Hell to confront Satan. There probably wasn’t enough fact-finding in the world to make that case, but he had promised Father Connolly he’d “look into it.” Immersing himself in research might even help take his mind off the horror.

Eventually. But not now. The funerals were tomorrow.

The grief he’d kept inside erupted as a long, shuddering moan. He stood for a long time, head in hand, eyes closed, a dull ache of sorrow beating through him, as though lead now flowed through his veins instead of blood. Finally he took the scrolls and the briefcase to his corner safe and locked them away.

Satan would have to wait.

CHAPTER 14

Zeke lay naked on an operating table, hovering in black nothingness.

The nothingness became a jungle. He was in the middle of a clearing. One by one, ghostly faces poked through the thick surrounding brush.

Vietnamese faces.

He was a cadaver about to be dissected. A dark figure, shrouded in the hooded cape of Death, was poised over him, ready to commence the autopsy with the scythe it held in its black skeletal hand. As the razor-sharp blade neared his chest, a face suddenly emerged from the cowl that had eclipsed it.

Wolflike. The thing had four legs but there was something human about the face. It looked familiar. He struggled to place it. A face from the jungle.

Slowly he was drawn into the eyes. He pressed himself flatter to get away from the inhuman hatred pouring from their gaze. Strings of saliva dripped onto his chest from bared fangs as the thing leaned toward him.

It was too evil to be a wolf. Or human.

He felt the point of the scythe on his flesh.

An absurdly happy metallic jingle floated into his dream. As he struggled to rouse himself he thought he heard another noise.

The clicking of a dog’s nails on tile.

Was it the thing in his dream retreating? Or was it coming from somewhere inside the room? Could there actually be a dog loose in the house? The doors were locked. But it sounded so real—

Still struggling to wake up, he tried to figure out where the music was coming from. It was the theme from The Sting. It sounded tauntingly cheerful, like music coming from a demonic ice cream truck. Finally it sunk in: his cell phone. He’d left it on in case anyone tried to reach him that way. He grabbed it from the nightstand and tried to focus. As he fumbled to find the right button, he heard a guttural whisper in his head: “You’re mine now.”

It couldn’t be the caller’s voice; he hadn’t activated the call yet. The inane jingle kept playing. He found the button and angrily stabbed it, mumbling a greeting while flexing the kinks out of his back.

“Zeke Sloan?”

“Yeah.”

“This is Michael Price.”

The name jolted him awake like the swipe of a straight razor. “Did you say Michael Price?”

“Yes.”

“The same Michael Price from—”

“Yes. Nam.”

Instantly Zeke was back in that hut, staring in horror at the family Price had just gunned down.

“How did you get this number?”

“I know people at the FBI.”

A cyclone of thoughts swirled inside Zeke’s head. Before he could begin to sort them out Price went on.

“Listen, Zeke, I apologize for calling so early—”

Zeke rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”

“A little before seven.”

Zeke sat up. The funerals were in two hours.

“Listen,” Price said, “I apologize, but I couldn’t think of a better way to reach you, and…we need to talk. The sooner the better.”

“Why?”

“I’ve been called in to interrogate the man who killed your parents.”

CHAPTER 15

The cemetery in Northeast was filled with statues of angels. Protecting the spirits of the dead, Zeke thought, staring out the window. Other than the chauffeur he was alone in the black limousine. It pulled up to the three freshly dug graves and he got out, wondering why his parents had chosen this as the family’s final resting place. Their plot was in the farthest corner, close to a chain-link fence, through which you could see the row houses of a rundown neighborhood. Maybe the area had been pretty when they’d picked it out. It was too late to ask them.

Incredibly, it had snowed again last night. Not much, but enough to cover the ground with a fresh white blanket. In the cold, raw October morning, gnarled black branches of prematurely leafless trees groped starkly against the gray sky, like the tortured fingers of dead hands imploring for heavenly mercy.

Good day for a funeral.

Zeke stared numbly at the three silver-gray caskets waiting to be lowered into the ground, three burnished metal containers that held all that was left of his family. Reese came up beside him with his mother and niece. Paige’s respectful smile was like the flicker of a lightning bug in the black hole of his grief. He tried to remember how old she was. Seven, maybe.

A few dozen other mourners straggled into position.

As a veteran, Hank Sloan could have been buried in Arlington, but Zeke hadn’t wanted to separate the family. Still, to keep his military service from going completely uncommemorated, he’d arranged for a military funeral.

A large flag covered the casket of Lieutenant Hank Sloan, a man who had helped end the Vietnam War. The members of the firing party stood awaiting the command to give the three-volley salute.

The priest waited respectfully until everyone was in position, then began the graveside service. “No words can lessen the pain we all feel today. And yet they’re all we have.”

As the priest tried valiantly to find meaning in death, Zeke heard only an unconvincing drone. Staring impassively at the three caskets, inside his head thoughts swarmed like angry wasps.

His sister had given her life so that Leah could live. The bullet that lodged in Leah’s chest had gone through Valerie.

That sacrifice couldn’t be in vain. He could never let any harm come to Leah.

“And so, though these children of God have finished their work here…”

From a nearby tree, as though to negate the priest’s attempts to extol the virtues of lives too soon ended, the unsympathetic “uh-uh” screech of a crow occasionally punctuated his words.

The jungle. The restaurant. Both triggered by the voice of Satan.

“We send them now to their final resting place…”

Again the contemptuous croak pierced Zeke’s heart. “Uh-uh.”

It was almost over now.

The scrolls. Father Connolly. Voices. Satan.

“Amen,” said the priest as he finished making the sign of the cross.

Silence settled over the bowed heads. Several seconds went by before the solemn command was given for the three-volley salute. Impeccably dressed in their honor guard uniforms, the firing party executed their duties with razor-sharp precision. The loud reports of their weapons crisply split the somber winter air. The sound struck Zeke as a clarion call to Heaven, announcing the arrival of one of its warriors. When the final volley died out, the bugler began Taps. Zeke felt his face tighten as he remembered the words:

Day is done, gone the sun
From the lake, from the hills, from the sky.
All is well, safely rest;
God is nigh.

The flag was folded and brought to Zeke. He nodded and stared for a moment at the piece of cloth his father almost died for. Was this a world worth dying for?

He took one last look around, fixing the location in his mind. One member of the honor guard remained standing by the grave. The Vigil, he would stay until the graves were closed. A stranger doing his duty for a fallen comrade. The power of the flag made him do that. Zeke stared at the lone figure until emotion threatened to overwhelm him, then began the trek to the black limousine. As he went he noticed something else.

On the way in, he’d been struck by the statues of angels everywhere. Now, however, in this remote corner of this bleak place, he noticed something disturbing—and yet somehow fitting.

There were no angels here.

CHAPTER 16

East of Jerusalem. October 9

Golden light from the late afternoon sun made the necropolis almost seem to glow from within. Dotted with thousands of Jewish graves dating back to Biblical times, the ancient burial ground emanated a sacred feel as it sloped steeply down the Mount of Olives.

Near the top of the revered hill, a mound of fresh dirt stood in stark contrast to the long-undisturbed earth around it. Except for two men who stood staring silently at the grave, the mourners had all gone. The two old friends had asked for some time alone, and told the others they would join them soon.

Hassan wanted some good memory to take away from the grave of the woman he’d been planning to marry, but all he could think of was Norah’s shattered body dying in his arms. He wondered about the fanatic—a fellow Muslim—who had strapped the bomb to himself.

What thoughts were going through the minds of those he left behind? Did they really think him a hero?

Bitterness curdled in his heart.

He gave up on his futile search for meaning and glanced at Norah’s father to see if he was ready to leave. Mordecai Rosen seemed to have aged ten years. He appeared lost in some final communion with his departed daughter, so Hassan returned to his own reflections.

This is the ultimate result of terrorism, he thought, the part the world never sees: the burial of the dead, the lives torn apart, the searching to make sense of the senseless. Another innocent life snuffed out, the life of a beautiful person who had never harmed a soul, had just been born in the wrong place and carried a heavy label:

Jew.

From somewhere nearby the screech of some bird of prey raked across his soul. A line from Poe’s Raven came to him: Take thy beak from out my heart.

When was the last time he had told Norah he loved her? A few days ago, he couldn’t remember.

She should never have been in the West Bank that morning. It was madness for her—for any Jew—to have been in the West Bank at all. The enmity ran too deep. She had only come because of him.

I’m sorry, Norah. I’m so sorry.

Gazing intently at the mound of dirt, he became so consumed by the notion that her death was his fault that he jumped when Norah’s father grabbed his arm and gently guided them from the grave.

They trudged in weary silence to the path along the edge of the burial ground and down to the base of the Mount. Only when they were a considerable distance from the grave did Mordecai break the ghostly silence.

“You and Norah had gotten very close, hadn’t you?”

Since neither was fluent in the other’s native tongue, they spoke in accented but excellent English.

“I loved her very much, Mordecai. I was going to ask her to marry me.”

A feeble smile struggled against the sadness. “You are a good man, Hassan. Your father raised you well. It would have brought me happiness to have you for a son.” He gently laid a hand on Hassan’s back as they continued down the hill. “How is Tarik?”

“Not well. He almost seems to be taking this harder than I am, if that’s possible. The day she died he had just closed up the café for good. Between that, and what happened to Norah, he seems to have given up. I have been after him for years to close the café, enjoy everything he’s worked so hard for. Now I hope it’s not too late. He sends his condolences. He wanted to be here, but he just couldn’t make it. I guess old age is finally catching up with him.”

“I wish him well.”

They walked on in silence. Hassan thought of all the sacred tradition that surrounded him. A feeling of reverence stirred under his heavy mantle of sorrow.

The archaeologist in him knew that little of the tradition was proven. Archaeology be damned. Right now he needed to believe in something, so he suppressed the scientist and the Muslim in him and sought solace in legends that were mostly Jewish and Christian.

Norah’s eternal rest would be on the very hill from which Jesus triumphantly entered Jerusalem. The graves of Mary and Joseph were somewhere nearby. Maybe they would look after her. At the bottom of the Mount was the Golden Gate into Jerusalem, through which the Jews believed the Messiah would come. From these very graves the dead would rise before Him for the Last Judgment.

Sleep well, Norah.

Muslim tradition had it that Saladin had bricked up the Golden Gate to keep the Messiah from returning and wresting Jerusalem from Muslim hands.

How ironic, he thought bitterly. That the Messiah should promise Jews He would come through an opening, and that another of his chosen ones should close it up.

Religious traditions. He shook his head at the folly of it all. No one would ever know any of this for certain. Certainly not the archaeologists. They still debated whether it was Saladin or Suleiman who had bricked up the Golden Gate. Neither had ever been proven conclusively.

Humans and their eternal longing for answers that aren’t there.

At the base of the Mount, they veered into the Garden of Gethsemane. A stone path wound through the grounds and they followed it into a small grove of olive trees. Halfway through, they came to a stone bench and sat. On either side of this small clearing, the trees and their branches leaned back, as if opening to admit—what? Hope? Forgiveness?—into the place of humanity’s vilest betrayal. It was here that the kiss of Judas had sent Jesus to his death.

Did my kisses do the same to Norah? In the deepening cold, Hassan shivered at the thought. Not wanting Mordecai to see his distress, he looked to his left.

At the far end of the clearing, a lone olive tree stood watching from the shadows like a forlorn sentry. A gust of wind brought a feeble sound to Hassan’s ears. He strained to hear it, but it was low and intermittent and hard to make out. It could have been laughing, or humming, or whimpering, except that there was no one else in the garden. Finally he decided it might be the mewling of a stray cat. The sound died out and the remorse about Norah began to overtake him again. Thankfully Mordecai struck up a conversation and rescued him.

“Look at us,” he said, touching Hassan’s cheek with affection. “An Israeli and a Palestinian, friends. The world says it’s impossible.” He stuck his hands in his coat pockets to warm them. “How long have we known each other?”

“Almost thirty years. I was fresh out of university and you got me my first job in marine archaeology at Caesarea. You were directing the underwater part of the dig, and you needed an assistant. Errand boy was more like it, but you still found time to teach me the best way to do things underwater. I loved it.”

“Yes, those were gentler times. Compared to this, anyway. Even though there was no love lost, it was still possible for Palestinians and Israelis to work on the same dig without looking over their shoulder for a madman with a bomb.”

The bomb reference pierced Hassan’s heart, but he struggled to keep the conversation light. “Do you miss being underwater, after all these years with a desk job at Antiquities?”

“Yes. Yes I do. I never should have let that doctor talk me out of diving. ‘Heart murmur.’ Whose heart doesn’t murmur?”

Hassan’s laugh was feeble. His heart was murmuring right now. “Maybe you should get a second opinion.”

Mordecai let out a weary sigh. “I don’t know if I’m up to it anymore. How about you? Do you miss it?”

“Yes. Terrestrial is much easier, but not nearly as exciting. I’ve thought of switching back, but I just don’t feel like uprooting myself to go where the underwater digs are. I still dive when I can, but I’ve gotten comfortable working in Jericho.”

They fell silent for a while, then Hassan said, “You used to bring Norah to the Caesarea dig sometimes. She couldn’t have been more than ten. We used to give her a little shovel. She’d get so excited when she thought she found something—which she never did, nothing of any importance—but we always let her think so.” Hassan saw her father’s pained look. “She grew up to be a very good digger, though. One of the best. I saw that at Megiddo, when I took last season off from Jericho. I didn’t know her very well at first, just enough to say hello whenever we crossed paths. I hadn’t seen her since she was a little girl. For the first time I saw her as the beautiful, talented woman that she was. A good woman. We started dating, and… we fell in love.

“We were going to leave from my house for a romantic week on the Mediterranean. I was going to propose. I had it all planned.” He struggled to go on. “I never should have had her come to the West Bank. I should have gone to her.”

Mordecai touched his shoulder. “Neither one of us is at fault, my son. Some greater power decides these things. Who lives, who dies.”

No one had ever called Hassan “my son” except his father. Coming from Mordecai Rosen in this time and place, he liked the sound of it.

A wind rustled the leaves. The sun made them look like fluttering pieces of silver.

“Some greater power,” Hassan said. “I wonder. Look where we are. Somewhere in here Jesus was betrayed. One of the legends about Judas says he hanged himself from one of these trees.”

Mordecai nodded. “Legend always tells us something or other. Another version says Judas hanged himself at Akeldama in the valley of Hinnom.”

“Jahannam,” Hassan said.

“Gehenna,” Mordecai said.

“Hell by any other name,” Hassan said.

Mordecai made a small forlorn nod. “Scientists have checked these trees, but olive trees don’t have rings, so they are very difficult to date. Although some have been known to live for two thousand years. Or more.”

It was getting quite cold. Hassan heard the whimpering again. A little louder now, coming from his left. He stood and motioned for Mordecai to follow.

As they walked toward the single olive tree at the head of the clearing, Hassan struggled for something positive to say. “This is a fitting place for Norah to rest, Mordecai. She is at one with the ancients, in the holiest of burial grounds. If the Last Judgment does take place here, as we are told, hers will be a favorable one. She was a saint.”

“Thank you, Hassan. It is small consolation when such a beautiful life is cut so short, but we must hope. Mustn’t we? Is there hope?”

“I wish I could answer that question. I want to believe, but how can I? You said some greater power decides these things. But how can anyone believe in a God who lets these killings keep happening? How can we stop them, Mordecai? Surely there must be something we can do to stop the slaughter.”

Mordecai shook his head sadly. “I don’t know. Itzhak Rabin tried, remember? He signed the Peace Agreement. The so-called Oslo Accords. He got assassinated for his trouble.” The memory triggered a flare of anger. “But we can’t give up. Even though, at this moment, I want to. My faith is shaken, too. I want to shake my fist at God and tell Him to show Himself, to prove that He can save us. But I know it is foolishness to wait for a Messiah, for a day that may never come. God or no God, it is up to us. And we cannot give up. The future of both our peoples is being destroyed. Norah’s death cannot have been in vain. We must do something.”

“Yes, we must.” In the dying light they stood before the lone olive tree. The sobbing was quite distinct now, although no one else was around. And no cat. “Do you hear that?”

“Yes.”

The pathetic sound seemed to come from the tree itself. They walked around it, inspecting its massive trunk, looking up at its fluttering canopy of silvery leaves, gauging its sprawling root system.

“Look at this,” Mordecai said. Hassan heard an urgency in his voice. He was pointing at a spot on the trunk of the ancient tree. The sobbing was loudest there. Hassan leaned close to inspect it.

A few inches apart, two thin parallel streams of what looked like water trickled down the bark and disappeared into the earth. The tree itself seemed to be weeping.

“Is it possible?” Hassan said. He heard the awe in his own voice.

“That this is the tree from which Judas hanged himself? And that the ghost of Judas is somehow condemned to weep here for all eternity?”

“Yes.”

“But how could no one else have seen or heard this for two thousand years?”

The sobbing seemed to vibrate within Hassan’s soul. He looked back up the Mount of Olives, and was suddenly overwhelmed at the thought of the millions who had died fighting for this land, even to the point of killing the Son of God who had been sent to save them.

Mordecai waited for an answer with an almost desperate look on his face.

“Perhaps Norah’s death has opened our eyes and ears like none before us,” Hassan said. “Perhaps we have been chosen to see this.”

“Why? Why us?”

“Why not us?”

“But… there must be a simpler explanation for this phenomenon.”

“What other explanation could there be?” Hassan said. “That someone has somehow installed a tape recorder and a couple small hoses inside the tree, and is remote controlling them for our benefit and ours only?”

Mordecai laughed uneasily at the foolishness of the notion. He tried to think, but the raw despair of the sobbing was unbearable. Hassan had to raise his voice to be heard.

“If we truly believe that some greater power controls things, then clearly we are witnessing a miracle. Performed specifically for us.” He put a hand on Mordecai’s shoulder. “I see it as a cry for help.” Hassan thought for a moment. “Have you heard about this Mayan prediction that time will end this year?”

“How could I not? It’s all over the news, the Internet, everywhere.”

“The world will not end, we both know that. But the attention of virtually the entire human race will be focused on that single moment, perhaps more intensely than on any of the countless apocalyptic predictions that have come and gone. What I see in all the speculation is people longing for one cosmic moment, when the minds of all decent human beings will think as one brain with one thought: the time has come for us to stop destroying ourselves. It is time to choose the path of hope over the path of despair. I’m sure you’ve heard the famous quote: ‘The only thing necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.’”

Mordecai nodded.

“The timing will never be better. We must do something, my dear friend.” He looked up the Mount toward Norah’s grave. “Not only so that her death will not be in vain.” He gestured toward the trails running down the tree, then spread his arms to indicate the land all around.

“Somehow we must stop the endless stream of blood and tears. By all that’s holy, thousands of years of suffering are enough.”

CHAPTER 17

Washington, D.C. October 9

After lingering briefly with the mourners, Zeke had hurried to the hospital to pick up Leah. She’d waved away the wheelchair. She was walking fine. A little weak, but fine. Even so, when they reached the front door he picked her up and carried her across the threshold.

“Welcome home.”

“It’s great to be here.”

“Come on. I’ll fix us some lunch.”

“I’m going to take a shower while you do that. I’ve been looking forward to it.”

“You got it.”

He followed her up the stairs, ready to catch her if she fell. He watched nervously as she got into the shower, then pulled off the inch-square bandage over her heart. A pink welt with a few stitches was all that was left of the wound.

“It’s healing well,” Zeke said.

Leah nodded. “The stitches will fall out by themselves. The doctor said eventually you’ll never be able to tell it was there.”

They exchanged a quick glance. Zeke knew they were both thinking the same thing: the scar inside would never go away. He wanted to get in the shower with her, just to hold her, but this wasn’t the time. He gently kissed the pink welt and left to make lunch.

On the way to the kitchen he stopped in his office to check his answering machine. There were nine messages. He listened to each one just long enough to see who it was and if it was urgent.

The third one was from Reese. He let it play all the way through.

“Just wanted to let you know me and my family are here for you and Leah. You two take as much time as you need, don’t worry about the gym. If you need anything whatsoever, call me and I’ll take care of it. I got your back. We love you both.”

Zeke wiped his eyes, fast-forwarded through the rest of the messages and headed into the kitchen.

Leah walked in just as he finished putting the sandwiches on the table. The shower had washed away some of her hospital pallor. Her long dark hair had regained some of its luster, and a hint of color had returned to her cheeks. She wore her familiar blue terrycloth robe with the red roses embroidered over the pocket. Zeke hugged her. “God, you look beautiful.”

“You too.”

They held the embrace, then sat at the small kitchen table. “Nothing fancy,” Zeke said. “Baloney and cheese sandwiches and chips.”

“Perfect. I have been longing for a potato chip.”

“You came to the right place.”

Between bites Zeke said, “Reese left a message, offering us any help we need. Wanted to let us know him and his family love us.”

“They’re the best.” Through tear-blurred eyes she added, “I love them too.”

They finished lunch and went into the living room. Leah laid back on the sofa and used Zeke’s lap as a footrest. He gently massaged her feet.

“What day is this?” she asked.

“Tuesday. October 9. Not quite a week.”

“The week from hell.”

“More than you know.”

“What do you mean?”

Zeke regretted having said it. He didn’t want to get into all that now. “I’ll tell you all about it later.”

“Tell me now.”

“Later,” he said. “It can wait. Everything can wait.”

He rubbed her feet until she fell asleep. He began to doze, waking up periodically to stare at her, always with the same thought.

She was all he had left.

Zeke fixed an elaborate salad for dinner. When they finished eating Leah said, “Tell me what you were going to tell me, Zeke.”

“Come on. I need to show you something first.” They went into Zeke’s office. He pulled up a chair so she could sit beside him at his desk. The scroll translations lay before them on the desktop.

“The night of the shooting, you remember I went to see my old college professor, Dr. Connolly?”

She nodded.

“He was in bad shape. Dying. When I left him that night I called 911 to have someone come get him. Once you were finally stabilized at the hospital, I called them again to see how he was. It turned out he was dead when the ambulance got there.”

“Ah, Zeke. I’m sorry to hear that.”

Zeke made a slight shrug. “It’s sad, it’s always sad, but it was his time. He was pushing ninety, and it seemed like he wanted to go. Anyway, he was a genius on ancient language. These are his translations of two ancient scrolls he gave me. The scrolls themselves are in the safe. I’ve skimmed the translations. I got the gist, but my mind isn’t really up to it now. I don’t want you getting bogged down in them, either. There’ll plenty of time for that later. But you should at least look them over before we have this conversation.”

She became immersed in the translations, finally looking up at Zeke. “I know that experts pick these things apart for years, but just taking them at face value, they’re mind-boggling. A warning from God’s personal scribe. And Lot was the one whose wife turned into a pillar of salt, right?”

“Right. Let me put it all in context.”

He told her everything he and Connolly had discussed.

“So Lot’s scroll could lead to Satan and Hell?”

“Dr. Connolly thought so. I told him I’d look into it. I haven’t yet, but I will, when I’m up to it. For now, let me just tell you what’s happened since I got the scrolls. I hadn’t had them for an hour when that scumbag started shooting in the Bipartisan.”

He rushed past that raw wound to tell her the rest: the vision outside her hospital window, the voice on the phone saying “you are mine,” Michael Price calling to say he would be questioning his family’s killer. He told her about the night in the jungle so she would fully understand how bizarre that was. The Army had sworn him to secrecy, and until now he had told no one, but she needed to know absolutely everything she was getting into. No secrets.

“Dear God,” she said when he finished. “What happened at the restaurant is bad enough, but for you to have gone through something like this twice.” She cast an uneasy glance toward the safe. “You think maybe the scrolls had something to do with what happened? That this whole thing about the Devil might be real?”

“I’m trying not to, but I can’t ignore it. Dr. Connolly believed the scrolls were cursed, and a lot of bad, strange stuff has happened since I got them.”

“So you’re thinking that maybe you’ve been chosen to try to track down Satan. Is that where we’re at?”

“I don’t know. Dr. Connolly tried to make that case, but I didn’t buy it. I’ll have to read the translations more thoroughly, read his notes, do a lot of research. After that it’ll be time for some soul-searching. But all that’s for later. Right now I just want us to be together, to help each other get through this. The rest can wait.”

“That’s what I want, too.”

“We’ll just stay in, let the world spin without us for a while. I stocked up on groceries, so we’re good there.”

“Perfect.”

“There’s just one thing I need to go out for.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m meeting Michael Price tomorrow morning. After he dropped that bomb on me, I felt like I had to. After that it’s just you and me.”

She nodded. “Tonight I’d just like to get a good night’s sleep. But tomorrow night, you know what I’d like to do?”

“What?”

“Watch It’s A Wonderful Life.”

A feeble smile forced its way through his pain. “I can set up the home theater Dad gave me.”

Her grip on his hands tightened. “Pick up some Raisinets while you’re out, to go with the popcorn.”

“I will. And some Kleenex.”

CHAPTER 18

Zeke thought about “voices” the next morning as he stood in the bitter cold staring at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.

Michael Price claimed he’d heard one that night in the jungle. The madman at the Bipartisan said the voice of Satan made him do it. No matter how hard Zeke tried to keep an open mind, he’d always come to the same conclusion: hogwash.

Until now. Father Connolly had specifically warned about voices, and he’d heard one yesterday morning when Price called: “You’re mine now.”

But he’d been half asleep. It could have been part of that bizarre dream. It struck him that he was having a lot of bizarre dreams lately.

Whatever. He needed to clear his mind for this meeting. When he’d gotten back from Nam, one of the very first things he’d done was come here. He’d vowed that if he ever saw Price again, he’d make him come to the Wall and confront these voices. It was a day Zeke never thought would come, and now here it was.

He went to a granite bench and sat. The cold shock to his rear made him wish he’d dressed more warmly. In the wake of the murders he’d lost all track of time, but now he remembered. October. And it’s this cold.

Figuring out the day took a minute of mental gymnastics. Wednesday. The sky looked liked snow again. Jesus.

When he’d gone to his parents’ house to pick out clothes for them to be buried in, he’d taken his dad’s aviator jacket as something to remember him by. He was wearing it now, but it wasn’t getting the job done. He jammed his hands in the pockets, wishing he’d worn gloves.

Two men walked in front of the Wall, looking at the names. One was older, the right age to have been in Vietnam. The other could be his grown son. They wore dark suits under their overcoats, probably on the way to work. The older man pointed to a particular name, and the younger man nodded. In their contemplation Zeke saw a nation coming to terms with the embers of its still-smoldering grief.

He looked at his watch. Almost nine. He’d gotten there early to look around and prepare himself mentally.

A man came walking briskly in his direction, a large Styrofoam cup in each hand. He was well-dressed: expensive-looking black wool overcoat, dark suit, perfectly-tied tie that looked like silk, brightly shined black loafers. Was it him? He was the right size. Had the same no-nonsense athletic walk.

He’d be in his late fifties now, but the smooth, handsome face hadn’t changed much. Zeke noted the time. Nine on the dot. Michael Price sat down beside him and held out one of the cups. “Coffee?”

Zeke hesitated. He didn’t want anything from this man, but he’d been wanting a cup of coffee, had been wondering if he had time to find a street vendor and get back by nine. He took the cup.

Price reached into a coat pocket. “You liked cream and sugar, as I recall.” He laid a napkin on the bench and placed a handful of creams and sugars and a wooden stirrer on top of it.

“Good memory,” Zeke said.

“Yes.”

Zeke busied himself fixing his coffee. “This is bizarre on a cosmic scale.”

“Absolutely.”

“Of all the gin joints in all the world, you had to walk into mine.” Zeke said it utterly without humor and made no attempt to imitate the voice.

Price’s face remained expressionless. “Bogart. Casablanca. Very apt.”

Zeke put the lid back on his coffee and cradled his hands around the cup to warm them. “So. By what sadistic swipe of the Grim Reaper’s scythe do you happen to be the one called in on this case?”

“I’ve come to be considered an expert in the study of Satanic murders. This guy adamantly claims he was doing the Devil’s work. The prison doctors were getting nowhere, so they called me in to see if I can get inside his head.”

“Have you seen him yet?”

“No. I just got in last night. I’m interviewing him tomorrow morning. That’s why I called you so early. I wanted to let you know personally, before you saw it on the news. I didn’t want you to think I’d just waltz into something like that without giving you a heads up.”

They stared at one another. Price was being a standup guy about this, Zeke had to give him that. “So,” he said, “you’re an expert on ‘the Devil made me do it’ murderers. How did that come about? Other than from your first-hand knowledge of having been one.”

For the first time Price broke eye contact, looking in the general direction of his shoes. Unexpectedly, Zeke felt a twinge of remorse for making the remark. The feeling was quickly chased by anger at feeling sympathy for a mass murderer who had gotten off scot-free.

“I deserved that,” Price said. “And a lot more.” He glanced toward the Wall, then back at Zeke. “When we got out, I did a lot of soul-searching. I kept asking myself about the voice in my head that night, urging me to kill that family for lying. I couldn’t be sure I’d heard one. Or if I did, whose it might have been. For a while I told myself it was the voice of Satan, then I told myself it was Randy Stokes, my childhood friend who had enlisted when the Vietnam War was still going on. But I finally had to admit that was nonsense. It could have been me, in my own crazed mind, just yelling to shoot.”

Price looked as uncomfortable telling it as Zeke was hearing it. A few grainy snowflakes swirled past.

“What’s the story on this Randy Stokes? You yelled out his name that night.”

Price looked away again, searching for words to exhume a buried skeleton. As he told the story, his gaze kept drifting inward.

“Randy Stokes was my best friend. His family lived directly behind us. If you hopped our fence you were in their yard. We were born on the same day—July 2nd. It was inevitable that we’d become friends, I guess. We were inseparable. Our parents used to joke that we were more like twins than twins. Whenever we could, we took the same classes, played on the same teams, all of that.

“Anyway, when we graduated from high school in 1972, the Vietnam war was intense. With our birthdays being so close to July 4th, we’d practically been raised to be patriots, so naturally we decided to enlist as soon as we could. Our 18th birthdays fell on a Sunday, so we went down to the recruitment office the next day.”

He looked in the general direction of the Wall again, and Zeke could see that the bad part was coming. Price’s expression hardened, as if to dam up some painful emotion.

“Randy went into the recruiter’s office while I waited in the reception area. By the time he came out I had…changed my mind, would be the nice way to say it. Turned chicken shit was more like it. I had hung my best friend out to dry. The look of betrayal in his eyes was the most painful thing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve looked into the eyes of some of the worst killers on the planet.”

Zeke’s eyes bore into him. “So you were trying to atone for what you’d done by convincing yourself he was one of the guys we were sent to rescue?”

“Yes. Shortly after he enlisted, his parents were notified that he’d been taken prisoner and was being held in the Hanoi Hilton. But then—”

“Price, come on. He enlisted in ’72. We were there in ’93. The Hanoi Hilton would have long been shut down by then.”

“I know. The POWs were released in February of ’73, but Randy wasn’t one of them. The Army could never confirm what happened. Escaped or dead, they said, and he was classified as MIA.”

“Death seems most likely, but even if he escaped, maybe he just didn’t come home. Maybe he wanted to start fresh somewhere else.”

“Randy wasn’t like that. He would have gotten in touch with somebody—me, most likely—but no one ever heard from him again. You’re probably right. Death makes the most sense. But negotiations with the North Vietnamese were touch and go, and if one of the POWs died right when they were getting released, things could have gotten ugly. Maybe they just got rid of the body. But I couldn’t live with myself without knowing. I’d already abandoned him once. I wasn’t going to abandon him again.”

Zeke was shaking his head. “It still doesn’t add up. You had no way of knowing that you’d eventually end up on such a far-fetched mission as Operation Lazarus. What was the thought process there?”

“I couldn’t let it go. I told myself that if I enlisted and made myself an expert on POWs and MIAs, I’d be able to get deeper into the records and maybe come up with something the Army had missed. I knew it was crazy, but I didn’t care. Logic didn’t have a whole lot to do with it. Because part of me knew I was also enlisting to prove to Randy that I wasn’t a coward. Funny how the mind works, isn’t it?”

He waited for a comment, but Zeke merely kept up his probing stare.

“Anyway,” he went on, “I was gung ho from day one. My goal was always to make it to Delta, because I knew that they were the ones to go on these kinds of missions if one ever came up. At the same time I made it my business to become an expert on POWs/MIAs. All that, combined with combat experience—I had been in Desert Storm—made me perfect for your team. The rest is history.”

“Very bad history. So after the Army, what? You got into studying killers?”

“I couldn’t just ignore what had happened, Zeke. I am human. I do have a conscience. I knew what I had done. I had murdered an innocent family. Nothing could change that, but…at least I could try to understand it. Maybe figure out some small way to atone for it. Not just to that family, but—” he looked toward the Wall again—“to those four guys who were left behind.” He looked at Zeke. “Because of me.”

Price was saying all the right things, striking just the right note of contrition. Zeke continued to study his face for signs that he was lying but couldn’t find any.

It didn’t really matter. None of this really mattered. He was too emotionally drained to care anymore about things that couldn’t be changed. All he felt was a gnawing emptiness. He started to take a sip from the coffee but left it sitting on the bench, sorry he’d accepted it in the first place.

Price’s expression had changed to the neutral mask of the professional psychologist. “You asked how I became an expert in this type of thing. I didn’t right away. I walked around like a zombie for a couple years, trying to make sense of it all. I had to make a living, so I used the electronic surveillance training I’d gotten in the Army to start my own business. But I still couldn’t get on the right side of things, Zeke. I was going to clubs a lot in New York, drowning my sorrows in the fast lane. I got to know some club owners, one thing led to another, and I starting doing jobs for some shady characters. Drug dealers eavesdropping on other drug dealers cutting in on their turf. Rich guys cheating on their trophy wives while trying to catch their wives cheating on them. I also did a lot of work for executives who had gotten busted, white collar crime. I became kind of a go-to guy in that circle. They’d hire me to try and catch the prosecutor or the cops who had arrested them doing something illegal, figuring that might get their case thrown out, or at least improve their chances of getting off. Instead of helping the cops catch the crooks, I was helping the crooks catch the cops. It was killing me inside, but I was caught up. I was making fabulous money. Evil pays better than good.”

“That’s a crock. You were trafficking in scum and you knew it. To go down that road after what you had done…how could you even live with yourself?”

“Finally I couldn’t. I shut down the business and decided it was time to get right. To face what I had done in Nam. To face myself. I decided to study cases like mine, see if I could learn anything that might help to keep them from happening. And in the process maybe find out why I did what I did.”

The grainy snow had turned into small flakes. A young couple went by, obviously in the grip of the profound sadness that emanated from the Wall. If they only knew that they’d just passed the two men responsible for one of the worst horrors that ever took place in Vietnam.

“I went back to college,” Price said. “Got a Ph.D. in what was then called Abnormal Psychology. That led to where I am now. Forensic Psychologist.”

“Interesting. I walked around like a zombie, too. Then I went back to college, like you did, looking for answers. Studied philosophy and theology, trying to see if the greatest thinkers, after thousands of years, had come up with any.”

“Did they?”

Zeke’s exhale came out as a fleeting cloud of smoke in the cold air. He gestured toward it as it dissipated.

“No. It was a lot of hot air, like that breath. Endless circular reasoning, debating each other’s premises, incessant back and forth about the types of human behavior, speculation, theories, belief systems—but never answers to the ultimate questions. Why are we here, and why is there evil?”

“No disrespect to the great thinkers, but I think I’ve gotten a lot closer to evil than they did. I spend a lot of my time interviewing death row inmates. Murderers convicted of the most heinous crimes. I’ve come to understand them all too well.”

“Fine, but then what? That’s what I’ve never understood. We study these pieces of human garbage and find out their parents were abusive alcoholics, on drugs, put cigarette butts out on their foreheads, or that girls didn’t like them. So what? We’ve learned enough to know why they do what they do. But knowing why doesn’t stop them. And it doesn’t bring back the dead.”

“Nothing brings back the dead, Zeke. Nobody knows that better than me.”

“So why, then? Who cares why this murderous piece of crap did what he did? All the studies in the world didn’t fix him—or stop any of the other sick bastards who start gunning people down.” He knew the last comment included Price but didn’t care.

“Believe it or not,” Price said, “it can be of some use. It can’t undo the past, but it can help the future. Profilers use this information to understand patterns of behavior that help them track down serial killers. It does save lives.”

“I know three lives it didn’t save. Nine if you count that family in Nam. Twenty-two if you count the other people this idiot killed in the restaurant.”

“I can’t argue that point with you.”

“Don’t.” To hear Price tell it, he’d been living his life to make up for that night. “So. You, of all people, are going to be interviewing the man who killed my family. God is an interesting fellow.”

“So is Satan. I’ve made quite a study of him.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve interviewed dozens of killers, Zeke. The worst of the worst. Invoking Satan as the trigger man is almost routine. You can’t keep hearing that without looking into Satanism, what we know of the Devil, and so forth. After a while it’s hard to discount it all as just ‘voices.’ Sometimes, their stories are hard to dismiss.”

“Are you saying that in some cases it was the Devil who made them do it?”

“I can’t say that with certainty. I have no concrete proof. It’s not really provable. You can’t exactly videotape the Prince of Darkness, goading them on. I can tell you that, with the worst of these killers, when I looked into their eyes, I knew I was looking into the very soul of evil.”

It struck Zeke that the dig he was considering would be the ultimate investigation into Price’s field of expertise. He debated asking his opinion on whether such a dig had merit. Maybe—although he doubted it—further conversation could help close the gaping hole Price had machine-gunned into his life.

Not now. It was cold and he’d had enough. Maybe later. “How long are you going to be in town?”

“However long it takes. Probably a week, at least.”

“Have you got a card in case I need to get in touch? Needless to say, I’ll be extremely interested in knowing how your interrogation turns out.”

Price took off his gloves and reached into a pocket of his overcoat. He opened a small black metal case with his monogram trimmed in gold and pulled out a card. Zeke took it and nodded at the case. “Fancy. Looks like you’re living large.”

“The job pays well.” He poked his heart. “But not here.”

“Good luck with that.” Zeke stood and shoved the card into his wallet. “You married?”

“No. You?”

“No. I couldn’t love anyone until I stopped hating myself.”

Price nodded. “I know the feeling.” He stood and faced Zeke. “And have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Stopped hating yourself.”

“Almost. What about you?”

“I’ve got a ways to go.”

The snow was turning into fat flakes that were covering the ground. Price slipped his gloves back on and looked Zeke in the eye.

“Feel free to call me any time, but as far as this case goes, don’t worry. I have your number and I’ll be keeping you posted every step of the way. Technically, what I find out would be confidential, but the heck with that noise. This is between you and me, and letting you know what this guy has to say is the absolute least I can do.”

Zeke merely stared at him.

“Listen, Zeke. I know you hate me. I don’t blame you. But I didn’t ask for this assignment.”

“You could have turned it down.”

“Yes, I guess I could have.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Not that it matters, but the guy asked for me specifically.”

“He knows you?”

“Of me, I guess. Anybody can go on the Internet these days and find an ‘expert’ on anything. At first I was going to turn it down, but then…I don’t know, I thought it might help in some small way, to—”

“Be forgiven?”

“I know I can never be forgiven.”

“You got that right. Listen, Price, let’s just take this one step at a time. Do your job, that’s fine. But don’t try to sell it as having some higher meaning, some noble purpose. It doesn’t. It does not. It’s like this:

“He’s a vile piece of scum who murdered my parents, my sister and almost the woman I love. I don’t know about Satan and Hell, but if there is a Hell, I hope the slimy motherfucker burns in the nethermost region until the universe collapses back into a single particle. And even then I hope the particle that’s left burns his ass for all eternity. Which is exactly how I felt about you up until about fifteen minutes ago.”

“So how do you feel now?”

“Don’t know. Have to wait and see.”

“Fair enough.”

Zeke picked up the coffee Price had given him and walked away. At the nearest trash can he poured the coffee onto the ground and tossed the Styrofoam cup. He paused a moment to savor the quiet at the edge of the memorial grounds before heading back out into the harsh and jangling world.

Price had gone over to the Wall and appeared to be scanning the names, perhaps wondering if any were the men they’d been tasked with saving. His dark clothing blended in with the black monolith, until his face seemed to hover in midair. The image took on the air of a lost soul, searching for redemption in an unfeeling void. Zeke wondered if anyone could ever find redemption after having done something so appalling.

Snow was falling heavily now. Waiting at a red light, Zeke watched the traffic slow to a bumper-to-bumper crawl and was glad he’d decided to take the subway instead of driving. A few minutes later the elevator for the Smithsonian Metro stop pulled him into its climate-controlled womb, but the chilling image lingered of Price trying to commune with the dead through letters chiseled in a granite wall.

CHAPTER 19

Seated behind thick bullet-proof glass, the duty officer for the D. C. Jail checked the man’s identification against his approved list of visitors. He confirmed that this was the expert who had been called in to examine “Anton,” and pushed a button. The heavy double doors opened with a loud click.

Michael Price went in and walked through a metal detector. A guard awaited on the other side to escort him the rest of the way.

Price walked in silence beside the guard, a large black man with a stern prison face. His name tag said Harkins. Several corridors, electric gates, and an elevator ride later, they came to a final hallway. At the end of it a guard with a rifle stood outside Anton’s cell.

Harkins walked Price to the cell door and spoke to someone through a shoulder microphone. The door slid open and Price walked in. The loud clang of the door closing behind him sounded like the death of hope.

The man who called himself Anton sat in the middle of the single bunk. There was nothing else in the cell except a toilet and sink. A folding chair had been set up to face the prisoner. Price sat on the chair and stared at the mass murderer, who stared back defiantly. Deep lines etched the man’s face, but as Price continued to peer into it, he was struck by how the face would have looked when young. His heart began to pound in his ears.

He knew this man.

So that’s why he requested me.

For a very long moment they stared at one another in the small cell. The guard with the rifle stood watching their every move.

Beside Anton on the bunk was a copy of The Satanic Bible. It looked well-worn, like the man himself. Life had obviously taken a heavy toll, and he had aged badly, but Price had recognized him easily. There was no doubt. It would taint the investigation if their prior relationship became known, so Price decided not to mention it unless it became clear that the prisoner had recognized him.

He pulled out a microcassette recorder. “Do you mind?”

Anton smirked at it. “Your gizmo will give you no answers, but feel free.”

Price clicked it on and sat it on the bunk beside the prisoner. “All right, Anton. Before we get started, how are you? Do you need anything?”

Since his arrest the killer had called himself by only that one name. Price had known its significance instantly. It was a tribute to Anton LaVey, the founder of modern Satanism, author of The Satanic Bible that lay close at hand like a long-treasured talisman. No one knew the prisoner’s real name yet—except, now, Price.

“You know how I am.”

“Well. I can see from that book, and the things you’ve said since you were taken into custody, that you must have a great love of Satan. Why don’t we go back some? Maybe you can tell me when you first turned to him as your savior.”

“My god.”

“God, then.”

“You know.” The killer’s voice had the lifeless tone of someone whose humanity had dried up long ago.

“No, I don’t.” Price showed no reaction, but inwardly the leering insinuations were making him very uneasy. The feeling was growing that the killer had recognized him and was merely toying with him. He pressed on. “Tell me about it.”

“I tried to be a good little Catholic, but it just wasn’t meant to be. I think it started when I was a kid and heard ‘Sympathy For The Devil.’ What a cool idea! We both thought it was. But you didn’t get into it like I did. That was the beginning of the end for us.”

He knows who I am. He’s known the whole time.

Anton’s eyes looked wild. Feral. “All that time I was locked away in the Hanoi Hilton, I prayed for salvation but your God did nothing. You did nothing. Everyone had abandoned me. So I turned to the other god for help. Finally he helped me escape.” The malignant eyes bore into Price. “With one condition.”

Price held his gaze while hoping his face didn’t betray how badly shaken he was. The killer’s slash of a mouth tilted into a smirk.

“Since that day I do what Satan commands. I am his instrument. A tool. He sent me to that restaurant. He’s had his eye on this Ezekiel since childhood, knowing he could become a nuisance. He believed that by killing his family, Ezekiel’s soul would also die. But he seems stronger than we anticipated. That’s where you come in.”

Price tried to ignore the last remark and maintain his neutrality. “You didn’t just kill his family. You killed sixteen people.”

“The rest were just for fun.”

Price clenched his teeth. Anton gauged his reaction before going on.

“The thought doesn’t seem to bother you. Good. Maybe we can count on you.”

Inside Price was squirming. He needed to change the subject. “Why would Satan want Zeke Sloan dead?”

“Because he has something that could be…bothersome.”

What the hell did that mean? Suddenly Price wanted to be gone. He was sick of it all. He should have recused himself the instant he recognized the killer. To be sitting here questioning someone he not only knew, but had been very close to, for doing the same thing to Zeke’s family that he himself had done to another family… And Anton’s “that’s where you come in” comment made it sound like he was being used as part of some bizarre plan.

A heave of nausea rose in his stomach, as if from a whiff of sewage. While he waited for the feeling to pass, he knew he had to see this through. In some twisted way this might be his last chance to help Zeke, to make up for that night in the jungle.

Normally the procedure was to remain neutral, let the subject talk without passing judgment or influencing him in one direction or another. But Anton knew him and was playing games. He couldn’t just feign ignorance and allow himself to be manipulated. He leaned forward, challenging. “What do you mean? What does this man have that could possibly bother Satan?”

“Two ancient scrolls.”

“What?”

“They could lead the misguided fool to my lord.”

Price leaned back and tried not to smile. “You’re telling me that the Prince of Darkness is afraid of Zeke Sloan?”

“Not afraid. This Ezekiel and the attention he might bring would merely be an unwelcome distraction. My lord does not want to be distracted right now. A pivotal moment is coming. This Mayan prediction is not like the others. Instead of the usual doom and gloom, a positive feeling is spreading. People are seeing it as a chance for the human race to turn itself around. If my lord is not allowed to continue his work, there could be a massive outbreak of hope. He can’t have that. With help from millions like me, the world must continue on its path of despair until his victory is complete. God’s race of loathsome creatures will be destroyed, and the proper order will be restored.” He made an upside down sign of the cross. “His kingdom come, his will be done, on earth as it was in heaven.”

An unwholesome, self-satisfied cackle grated through the killer’s lips.

“Bullshit, Anton. Your story doesn’t wash. If Satan wanted this guy dead, why not just kill him outright? Even if Sloan somehow found him, how big of a ‘distraction’ could he be? Any human would be like a mosquito to Satan.”

The killer remained irritatingly calm. “Your God works in mysterious ways. So does mine. Killing the body is not enough. Killing all one’s loved ones kills the souls of those remaining. Much more destructive, much more painful.” He made a dismissive wave. “Besides, he doesn’t like to kill one when he can kill many. Every murder is my lord spitting in God’s eye.”

“A clever argument, but more bullshit. If Satan wanted Zeke dead, it would make much more sense just to kill him. Dead is dead. Distraction eliminated.”

“You don’t get it. The war between God and Lucifer is much bigger than that. There must be total annihilation of the belief that Man is good, or that good can somehow triumph. Maximum pain must be inflicted at every opportunity, until the omnipotence of evil is so undeniable that even the staunchest believers in God and all that Messiah nonsense give up. This war is not over one man, my friend. It is for the souls of the entire human race.”

The bunk creaked as the killer leaned closer. The demented gleam in his eyes, the malignance in his voice, clearly came from something no longer completely human.

“In the darkness he gives me power. If I can concentrate hard enough, open myself to him completely, my spirit can leave this mortal shell to do his bidding.”

“Telepathy.”

“Oh no. Much more than that. My—his—spirit can move through things, infiltrate dreams, usurp the airwaves. Even from here, I have been psychically stalking Mr. Sloan.” The killer’s voice sliced even deeper into Price. “It was I who whispered to you that night in the jungle.”

What? Price felt his control wavering. This man’s last spark of humanity was flickering out before his eyes. Was it the killer still talking, or had Satan completely taken over? Which one had spoken to him that night?

Anton went on before he could ask. “Ezekiel Sloan cannot be allowed to succeed on the quest he is about to undertake. I have tried to scare him off with apparitions and dreams, but I no longer have the strength.”

The killer glanced at the guard, then leaned closer and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper: “Only you can finish what I have started.” His trembling hand brandished the battered copy of The Satanic Bible. “You will need this.”

Michael Price tried to pull away from the demonic force emanating from a man who’d slaughtered sixteen people in the name of Satan. He looked into eyes he’d last seen forty years ago, when they’d stared at him with a searing look of hurt and betrayal. Something else was in those eyes now. Something black and evil.

A blinding flash of guilt at the part he’d played in destroying this man’s soul catapulted Price up from his seat. His only thought was to get away from the closest friend he’d ever had, his childhood soulmate who’d been born on the same day, almost unrecognizable now as Randy Stokes.

CHAPTER 20

Michael Price sat on the same stone bench he and Zeke had sat on yesterday, staring at the Wall and trying to decide what to do. Enveloped in a shroud of bleak wintry darkness, it struck him that the unseasonably cold autumn weather was perfect for what felt like winter in his soul.

In the distance he heard the muffled sound of evening rush hour, people fighting their way home. He envied them.

He’d come into this situation with the best intentions. A bitter smile came to his lips at the irony. The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

Everything had changed since he’d sat here yesterday. He shook his head in disbelief that things could have gone so wrong. It was bad enough that the murderer was Randy Stokes. But after the phone call he’d gotten a few hours ago, the situation was rapidly deteriorating from a snafu—Situation Normal, All Fucked Up—to fubar: Fucked Up Beyond All Repair.

The warden of the prison had called to tell him “Anton” had just died.

Price’s investigation was over. All he had was that one interview. In a daze after the phone call, he’d walked from his hotel to here, trying to sort out his thoughts.

What could he tell Zeke? No way he could tell him the truth: that the man who killed his family was his own sick childhood friend. It was beyond sick. Randy Stokes said it was his “voice” that had incited Price to kill the Vietnamese family. Not to mention the whole crazed “Anton” story, that this was all a showdown between Zeke and Satan. Intellectually, it was absurd. But Price had been in the presence of too much evil to dismiss it. And if there was even the slightest possibility it was true, shouldn’t Zeke be warned?

No. It was too much. Truth had its limits.

As if all that weren’t bad enough, Price was sure he felt the psychic presence of Randy Stokes, pulling him toward the Wall, his dead hands still refusing to release the grip they’d had on him since birth.

They had always been close. Inseparable. His mother always said when one of them itched, the other one scratched. But Randy had always been the dominant one. Price had often wondered if things would have turned out differently if he’d been the older one. What a difference thirteen minutes made.

They’d spent hundreds of hours playing Tarot, and Ouija, and every other game that claimed a link to the other side, often while listening to Cream singing “Born Under A Bad Sign.”

Price gravitated toward the black granite monolith. No one else was around. Yesterday morning he’d stood here, trying to commune with unknown comrades he may have doomed that night in the jungle, hoping he could put it all behind him for good. Now, in the cosmic scheme of things that no amount of study could make Price understand, Randy Stokes, of all people, had ripped another gaping hole into his and Zeke’s lives. Then, as if paying him back for the betrayal at the recruiter’s office, he had lived just long enough to pull Price into the final moments of his life—a vortex of evil, from which Randy tried to pass his demonic torch on to him.

Price heard a noise and cocked his ears. The wind, scurrying and whispering through the trees. Dead leaves scraped and skittered across the sidewalk, sounding like the fingernails of a corpse scratching at the lid of its coffin.

Price shivered and stared at the Wall. He heard more whispering. This time it wasn’t the wind. It was inside his head. A familiar voice. The same voice he’d heard that night in the jungle.

Only you can finish what I have started…

Price backed away in horror, but the voice kept repeating the words, their volume increasing even as he got farther from the Wall. He looked around wildly, to see if somehow Randy was there, but saw not another living soul.

He continued to back away. The voice got louder.

You’re the other half of me. You must finish this.

Price clapped his hands over his ears and stumbled away from the Wall, disoriented in the heavy wintry gloom, wanting only to put distance between himself and the hulking black monolith.

His hands did nothing to keep out the sound. Now the whispering and gibbering seemed to come from the Wall itself. An ominous, sibilant babble, soft and indistinct at first, but steadily gaining strength, like the brushfire anger of a mob, until he could make out individual sounds. They were voices, coming from invisible mouths that swarmed around his head like angry bees, buzzing him, closing in, demanding answers to a thousand questions that eventually became one: “Why? Why, why, why, WHY?”

Inside his head the babble coalesced into a blinding epiphany:

These were the voices of the people he and Randy had killed.

He began to run. Randy’s voice rose above the din, commanding, following him, getting louder with every step.

You must finish this.

Finish this.

Finish this…

CHAPTER 21

Back in his room at the Mayflower, Price sat on the king-sized bed considering how to tell Zeke that Randy Stokes had died. No matter how he worded it, that news would be the final grim twist in a relationship that must have been doomed from the start. Thinking of the pain that he and his best friend had caused Zeke, guilt started creeping into his thoughts. A fist of anger clenched inside him. This is not my fault. None of this is my fault.

He snatched up the phone and punched in Zeke’s number.

“Zeke. It’s Michael Price. I’ve got some news.”

“Go ahead.”

“It’s not good. The killer is dead. He died of a heart attack sometime after I interviewed him.”

There was a long, heavy silence. “That sounds sudden and convenient.”

“I’m no doctor,” Price said, “but I don’t think it was so sudden. The guy looked terrible, like he’d been leading a very unhealthy life.”

“Were you able to find out anything about him? Why he did it?”

Price looked around his luxury suite at the Mayflower. He’d spent the extra money to stay here, hoping it would be a soothing retreat from the awful assignment he’d agreed to. Instead it felt like a gilded cage from which the only way out was to lie. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. Would he never be free?

“I have the recording of the interview. I wasn’t able to find out anything about his personal life. As far as why, he stuck to his story about Satan making him do it.”

He glanced at the battered copy of The Satanic Bible Randy had pressed upon him, the only possession left behind from a life dedicated to evil. Price wished he hadn’t taken it, hadn’t left the door open even this tiniest crack. Even though they hadn’t known each other for years, the psychic link between them was still too strong. He knew that now after hearing Randy’s voice at the Wall.

“Did you believe him?”

“Yes. At least that he believed it was Satan. Whether it actually was, is impossible to know.”

“So that’s the end of it.”

Far from it, Price thought. He’d listened to his recording of the interview several times. According to Randy, Zeke was about to undertake some quest to find the Devil himself. After hearing voices—again—Price was more inclined than ever to think the unthinkable. That there was a Satan, and that he wanted Zeke dead. And that Randy would somehow be involved. If not directly, than indirectly. Through him, if he didn’t slam that door shut.

The next lie came easier.

“With the killer dead, yes. I’ll be catching the first flight tomorrow morning. I can send you a copy of the interview if you’d like. Or I can meet you somewhere and give it to you before I leave.”

“Not now. Not yet. Where do you live?”

“New York.”

“Not a good place to purify your soul. Maybe you should check into a monastery for a while.”

Price bit back a retort. Having to grovel was wearing a little thin. “I’ll think about it. Sorry I couldn’t do more, Zeke.”

“Hold onto the tape. I want to hear it, but not now. I’ve got your card. I’ll get in touch when I’m ready to deal with it.” A soul-weariness came into his voice. “I suppose I’m glad he’s dead. I wanted to see him executed, but the years he probably would have spent on death row might have been worse. It’s time to get on with our lives. I wish I could say something magnanimous, Price, but I can’t. To be perfectly honest, I hope I never see you again.”

If it can be helped, so do I. But, one way or another, whatever started between us years ago must be finished. “I understand. You have my number if you ever need me for anything. Good luck on whatever you do.”

“I’ll call you when I’m ready for a copy of that interview.”

The phone went dead. Price just stared at it in his hand, trying to decide what to do, wavering between wanting to run from what felt like impending doom, or to succumb to a fate that seemed to have been decided in the womb. Or long before.

The psychologist in him saw meaning in the phone he held in his hand. The line had been disconnected, but the psychic connection to Zeke had not. He was startled by the pounding, insistent, beeping signal reminding him to hang up. It sounded like the excited metallic heartbeat of an alien creature, squirming into his brain.

CHAPTER 22

Zeke hung up the wall phone in the kitchen and went to rejoin Leah on the couch. They had just been getting ready to watch Meet John Doe, the second nightly installment in what they were calling Frank Capra’s Celebration of Life/Hank Sloan Memorial Film Festival. A box of Raisinets were on the table at Leah’s end of the couch, a box of Sno-Caps at Zeke’s end. He sat down beside her.

“It’s over,” he said.

“What’s over?”

“That was Michael Price. The killer from the restaurant is dead. Apparently he had a heart attack sometime after Price interviewed him.”

Leah’s hand found his. After a long silence she said, “It’s probably for the best. I know we wanted to hear what he had to say for himself, but in the end that doesn’t really matter, does it? And, with the way the legal system works, for him to be sitting there for years…I think that would have been worse. Don’t you?”

“I guess. I can’t fully absorb it yet, but when I do it’ll probably be a relief.”

“When you said it’s over…you mean this part of it’s over. But the rest…”

“We’ll see. I keep wanting not to think about it, just lose ourselves in old movies, try to heal with the love of my life. But it seems like there’s more than one serpent in our Garden of Eden, and they keep slithering up next to us.”

Leah gently squeezed his hand. “We’ll get through this—together.” She pointed to the DVD player. “With the help of Frank Capra.”

“Thank God for Frank Capra. Let’s watch our movie.”

“I’ll fix the popcorn and be right back.”

A few minutes later they arranged themselves and the pillows into their favorite movie-watching positions, popcorn and candy within easy reach. Leah propped her head at the best angle, her feet on a pillow on Zeke’s lap. He pressed the “play” button on the remote, eager to lose himself in a world where good always triumphed over evil.

BOOK THREE

The Covenant

And the devil said unto him…

If thou therefore wilt worship me,
all shall be thine.

And Jesus answered and said unto him,

Get thee behind me, Satan.

Luke 4:6-8

CHAPTER 23

Washington, D.C. 2 weeks later. October 26

Zeke lay in bed staring at the ceiling. In the soothing afterglow of the movie they’d watched, he and Leah had fallen asleep holding hands. Movies had become their nightly escape from the miasma of grief that hung in the air. Even so, they’d often had to pause at the sad parts to cry. Everything seemed to remind them of the loss of Zeke’s family.

They’d finished Frank Capra’s best-loved films last week and started a new film festival: the Festival of Hope. Tonight they’d watched Pollyanna. And cried.

Zeke had hoped he might finally be able to sleep through the night, but right on schedule the disturbing thoughts had crept into his dreams until they forced him awake. He glanced at the digital clock beside his bed. 1:57. He looked back toward the ceiling, taking inventory.

Three weeks since the murders. Physically Leah was fine, and they couldn’t mourn forever. Only time would lessen the pain. It would never go away, but they needed to get on with their lives.

Dad never let us mope.

He listened to Leah’s regular breathing, then quietly eased out of bed. Whatever had come into his life, he wasn’t going to just lie there letting it torment him in his sleep. It was time to start following up on his promise to Dr. Connolly. Losing himself in research would take his mind off things.

He slipped into his version of pajamas—long-sleeved T-shirt, flannel lounging pants, wool socks, slippers—and headed for his office. On the way he stopped in the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. While that brewed he got Dr. Connolly’s briefcase with his notes and translations from the office safe. It was time for a thorough reading to form his own conclusions. He brought a pitcher of coffee into the office, sat at his desk and began to read.

Above the translations Dr. Connolly had written an introductory note:

Using carbon dating on the parchment and terra cotta jars they came in, along with other existing contextual evidence on the period, I have dated the scrolls to sometime between 1900-2000 B.C., which is well within the time of Lot and Abraham. Therefore this would be the earliest writing yet discovered. The language is perfect Hebrew. Astonishing on the face of it, but not if we accept my interpretations. One scroll is written by Enoch. As a Jew chosen by God to be the inventor of writing, he would have created the perfect prototype. The other is written by Lot, nephew to Abraham—progenitor of the Hebrews. His non-scribal handwriting is understandably crude, but, guided by Enoch as Lot himself says, again the language is fluent Hebrew. Of course the notion strains credibility, but the totality of the evidence, as detailed in my notes, convinces me that the scrolls are genuine.

Although I have gone to great lengths to preserve the archaic style, in places I have taken liberties, using more recent terms and phraseology to make certain references easier to grasp by the modern reader. Footnotes may be consulted for the original usages. In no case has the writer’s meaning been compromised.

Zeke began to read the first of the two translations.

I am Lot, nephew to Abraham. God hath sent his two most trusted angels to lead us safely west from Zoar to this cave. He hath rained his wrath down upon Sodom and Gomorrah for their grievous wickedness. All who lived there are returned to dust. The smoke from their ashes goes up as the smoke of a furnace. Only my family was spared, and the Lord sent his two most trusted angels to lead us safely west from Zoar to this cave.

Archangel Michael stands guard against his old Archenemy, who must live somewhere beneath Sodom and Gomorrah, for when their destruction was complete, I watched that Wicked Priest crawl from the mouth of Sheol to gloat at his victory over God. From thence he and some of his evil host didst follow us, until Michael used his terrible sword to banish them to a nearby cave. They wait and watch, eyes burning like the coals of the smoldering fire below.

Metatron, scribe of God, prince of princes who in heaven sitteth nearest the throne of glory, and whose earthly name is Enoch, knower of the stars and time from the beginning to the end, inventor of writing, doth guide my hand. Through him the Lord hath chosen me to give this warning of the day of reckoning. On that final day his creation, Man, must choose good over evil, lest all the earth will suffer the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah. So saith Enoch, so saith the Lord. And Enoch hath given me his little book of prophecy, to show the abyss that awaits if we choose the path of darkness. I will hide these warnings, lest the Archenemy overtake us. But if I should perish before I bring them to the world, whosoever may find them must sound the trumpet I did not sound, lest ye all perish.

Zeke leaned back in his chair to let Lot’s message sink in. It seemed beyond belief, almost too pat. Yet it had the ring of truth. Dr. Connolly had spent a lifetime studying it and was convinced it was authentic.

The translation of Enoch’s “little book” was considerably longer. Zeke was hooked from the opening sentence.

THE APOCALYPSE OF ENOCH

The Lord God said unto me: Know Him who is speaking to you. I am the Creator of all. There is none beyond me. I have no beginning and no end. I am eternal. If I turn away my face, then all things will be destroyed. I have brought thee, Enoch, to heaven to write the things which have been, and the things which are, and the things which shall be hereafter.

And so I, Enoch-the-Scribe, have recorded the ages of Man in this book, from the beginning to the end.

In the beginning the Creator brought forth the Day Star and called his name Lucifer, bringer of light into the darkness. But jealous of his Father, Lucifer rose up against Him. Thus was evil born. The long war had begun that must inevitably lead to Armageddon.

Into the midst of this overthrow the Creator begat Man. Into each soul He breathed his divine spark to light Man’s journey along the path of righteousness. But the spark of Lucifer was in them also, and this unholy light will lure the weak down the path of wickedness.

And the Creator made a covenant with Man. Seven ages would he be given. And He gave them free will to choose between good and evil, knowing that Lucifer would prey upon their covetousness. Trespasses beyond number would He forgive as Man strayed from the path of righteousness. But a day of reckoning must come. And if Man has been drawn irredeemably to the flame of Lucifer, then he must be destroyed, so that evil and suffering cannot reign upon the earth.

And when the long night of untime became time, the Lord God showed me the seven ages of Man.

The first began with his creation and ended with his banishment from the Garden. And Man was not saved.

The second began with the birth of Noah and ended with the flood. And only one man was saved.

The third began when the Creator promised a land to Abraham. But He looked down and saw the tribes of Man slaughtering in God’s name to possess the holy land of Judaea. And He saw that evil still ruled the hearts of men, as it had in the days of Noah. Still they bowed to false idols, destroying themselves with greed and lies and abominable lecheries and all manner of unclean wickedness. The worst was Sodom and Gomorrah. And so He hath rained brimstone upon them, to show Man that the wages of sin is death. But only Lot and his daughters were saved. And the Creator, knower of all things, seeing that Man was weak, and that the slaughter would not stop, sent me down to give this warning to Lot.

Thus endeth the third age of Man.

Those are the ages which have been. Hereafter are the four ages left to Man, which will lead to the final judgment.

The fourth age will begin when the Creator sends his newly-begotten son Jesus Christ as a teacher of righteousness. But He will be shouted down by the multitudes, and Lucifer will gloat at his crucifixion. Evil will prevail upon the land. And Man will not be saved.

The sorrow of the Lord will be great, but a fifth age will dawn when again He tries to spread his message of righteousness through one called Muhammad. But Man will corrupt the words of this chosen prophet, and will not be saved.

Thence will Man descend into two long ages of war and famine and plague, and he shall lose faith in salvation. An apostate generation will arise, and they shall turn to the Antichrist, and his dominion will spread upon the Earth.

But at the end of the seventh age there will be an awakening, when the righteous will rise from sleep, and the divine spark in every soul will begin to grow into a single flame. Yet lo, the spark of Lucifer shall burn just as brightly in the multitude of sinners he hath gathered since Cain.

And the Creator beholds Man standing at the edge of the abyss, when the day of reckoning is at hand, yearning to follow the light of heaven yet being drawn to the light from the lake of fire. And He weepeth at the sight, for He hath feared since the days of Adam that the temptations of Lucifer will be too powerful for Man to overcome. Only if He cometh as the Messiah can they be saved.

But lo, the Creator said unto me He would not come, unless there be one righteous soul who wouldst sacrifice himself to pave the way for the final confrontation in the bottomless pit. For Man will have sunk so deep into wickedness that he must prove he is worth saving. And so one shall be chosen.

The day of reckoning shall come at the dawn of the third millennium after the coming of Jesus. Thence will the seventh age end and the final age begin. Between these ages shall be a threshold in time, whither the Lord God, Father of all, shall create an opening in the heavens to lead Man from his world of sin to the world of righteousness for which he was created. And as the Heavenly Father did at the birth of his son Jesus, He shall align the stars to announce that the time of the Messiah is at hand.

Ye shall know the day of reckoning is nigh when the days grow shorter and the eye of God stares down from the sun. And on the shortest day the heavenly finger of God shall point the way to the new world of salvation and righteousness. But before Man goeth through that heavenly gate, there must be a day of judgment. And if the chosen one is stronger than Job and will blaze the trail to the fallen Lucifer, the Messiah will come, and the pit shall give up its dead.

And the Creator saith unto me, if Man chooseth wisely at the end of the seventh age, he shall be given a new age of righteousness to fulfill his promise, an age of glory without end. But if he chooseth the path of wickedness, he shall be lost forever.

But ye must watch, for the heavens are ever changing, and no one can know the exact day nor the hour wherein the Messiah cometh. If ye do not watch, then Lucifer, that swallower of souls, will come upon thee as a thief.

Then didst He say unto me, all that I have told you, all that you have seen of heavenly things, all that you have seen on earth, take thence the books which you yourself have written. And Man will read them, and will know me as the Creator of all things, and will understand that there is no other God but me. And let them distribute the books—children to children, generation to generation, nations to nations.

Zeke rubbed his eyes and took a sip of his coffee. It had gotten cold.

Dr. Connolly had said that these scrolls were beyond anyone’s wildest imaginings. If these were the actual words of Lot and Enoch, he was right. Jotting a quick note to get a second translation, Zeke considered the scrolls on the assumption that Dr. Connolly’s conclusions were correct.

Written testimony from Lot and Enoch.

The two mysterious angels from the Sodom and Gomorrah account in Genesis indentified as Metatron and Michael.

The existence of Satan and Hell confirmed.

A prediction about the “day of reckoning.”

Dr. Connolly had said he interpreted it as occurring in 2012. Zeke leafed through the professor’s notes until he found his interpretation of Enoch’s timeline. He had copied the relevant section of the scroll onto a separate sheet, then attached two pages of handwritten analysis. Zeke carefully read the excerpt from Enoch’s scroll that filled the first page.

“The day of reckoning shall come at the dawn of the third millennium after the coming of Jesus. Thence will the seventh age end and the final age begin. Between these ages shall be a threshold in time, whither the Lord God, Father of all, shall create an opening in the heavens to lead Man from his world of sin to the world of righteousness for which he was created. And as the Heavenly Father did at the birth of his son Jesus, He shall align the stars to announce that the time of the Messiah is at hand.

Ye shall know the day of reckoning is nigh when the days grow shorter and the eye of God stares down from the sun. And on the shortest day the heavenly finger of God shall point the way to the new world of salvation and righteousness.”

Zeke flipped the page and began reading Dr. Connolly’s comments. The handwriting was shaky and got progressively worse.

This entire passage confirms what many Enoch scholars have argued, that Enoch was also the first astrologer, since he is clearly indicating that the positions of heavenly bodies can influence human behavior. This idea is further supported by Enoch’s mention of God aligning the stars at the birth of Jesus to announce the coming of the Messiah, which would explain the Star of Bethlehem and, one could argue, actually make God the first astrologer.

Be that as it may, Enoch’s prediction about the day of reckoning is quite clear. “The dawn of the third millennium after the coming of Jesus” would mean sometime in the early 2000’s. “When the days grow shorter” would indicate sometime in the fall or winter. “And the eye of God stares down from the sun.” Many ancient cultures referred to a total solar eclipse as the eye of God. Starting with the year two thousand, there have been two in the fall/winter months. Since no cataclysmic events occurred, we know that the “day of reckoning” has not come.

The next total solar eclipse—the only one in 2012— will be on November 13. If we take this as Enoch’s (God’s) harbinger that “the time is nigh,” then his next statement that “on the shortest day the heavenly finger of God shall point the way to the new world of salvation and righteousness” leads us to a very specific date: the winter solstice of 2012. It seems worth mentioning here that, also on that day, three planets will be aligned in a triangular arrangement we now call a yod, but which ancient astrologers referred to as the finger of God. And while yods in general are not uncommon, this one featuring Jupiter, Saturn, and Pluto is quite rare. It is also intriguing to note that the ancients referred to the winter solstice as the Golden Gate, or Gate of God. While this may be a detour from the realm of science into pseudoscience or mythology, it is an indisputable fact that December 21, 2012 is the final day of the Mayan long count calendar—a day they considered the end of one world and the beginning of another. In other words, this is the point of alpha and omega.

In any case, I have only scratched the surface of the mountain of speculation surrounding the 2012 phenomenon, and I am too weak to continue. There are many experts who could take up this thread.

In the margin he had scrawled Unger? And beneath that, call Zeke.

As a paleographer, in the final analysis I still consider the scrolls to be the primary, incontrovertible evidence that the day of reckoning is upon us.

The handwriting had become extremely shaky.

As to whether December 21 will be the actual day, even Enoch cannot be sure, because he says that “the heavens are ever changing, and no one can know the exact day nor the hour.” NASA agrees with him. Their website mentions that astronomical cycles are not absolutely constant and are not known exactly.

Dr. Connolly’s notes ended there.

December 21. Barely two months away. Two months to put together a dig, find the opening to Hell, figure out how to defeat Satan, then somehow make your way down…

Impossible. Absurd. Unless December 21 wasn’t the day. Or, much more likely, the whole thing was nonsense, no matter how convinced Dr. Connolly was.

Unless…

Unless Zeke was the Chosen One, and Some Greater Power was making things unfold according to some Master Plan. Dr. Connolly had tried to make that case, but Zeke hadn’t been convinced. He still wasn’t. It didn’t make sense.

Lot had apparently been the original chosen one, but after all God’s pains to save him, he had never gotten the message out. Had the Archenemy gotten past Michael—the very archangel in charge of leading God’s army against Satan—and killed him? If so, what did that say about God’s power over evil? Lot said Satan and some of his “host” were watching them. Maybe Michael and Metatron were so outnumbered and preoccupied saving the daughters that they hadn’t been able to save Lot.

Lot specifically told whoever found the scrolls to “sound the trumpet,” but Dr. Connolly never had. Convinced that Satan and his threats were real, he had essentially spent his life in hiding.

For many are called but few are chosen…

As the second one to read the scrolls, where did that leave Zeke?

He turned on his computer to further his research. While it booted up he quickly scanned the professor’s notes, about fifty rumpled sheets that were mostly drafts of the scrolls. Countless comments were squeezed into spaces and margins—a paleographer thinking out loud, debating meanings with himself, notes about things to look up.

The computer finished booting up and Zeke lost himself in other worlds. He scoured the Internet for everything he could find about Enoch and Sodom and Gomorrah. He copied blocks of text into a word processing document that quickly reached a hundred pages. He downloaded dozens of files and pictures that made him thankful he’d gotten the fastest possible fiberoptic connection. He became so absorbed that he was mildly startled when he noticed the first dim light of dawn coming through his window. Time to wrap this up so he and Leah could begin their day.

He wiped his bleary eyes and did a final scan of the information he’d gathered, starting with the section on Enoch. From several apocryphal books attributed to him and his depiction in the Bible, an entire body of lore had evolved.

He was the great-grandson of Adam, great-grandfather of Noah, and the father of Methuselah. Legend had it that he had been taken to heaven by God without dying, turned into the angel Metatron, placed nearest the Throne, made head of the angels and taught the nature of all things. Enoch/Metatron became the inventor of writing and mathematics and the first astronomer/astrologer. He developed a calendar from his study of the movements of the sun and planets. A Book of Enoch had once been part of the Bible but had been banned by the church. The writers of the Dead Sea Scrolls had included some of his writings. Some scholars believed The Book of Enoch had heavily influenced the writer of Revelation.

He scrolled to the section on Sodom and Gomorrah.

People had been searching for the “lost cities of sin” for thousands of years, but they had never been found. The countless hypotheses about their location varied widely, but most placed them somewhere around—or under—the Dead Sea. That bit of information had sent him down another road in his research.

The Dead Sea sat on one of the world’s largest fault lines, the Great Rift Valley, a three-thousand mile scar on the face of the earth that ran from the Mideast down into Africa. The western half of the sea lay in Israel, the eastern half in Jordan. Ten times more saline than the ocean, its salt content was second—barely—to only to Lake Assal in Africa. The salt and a stew of other chemicals made the water about twenty-five percent solid, which made it the densest body of water in the world. This extreme density made it very difficult for anything to sink. The most common picture at the tourist sites was a vacationer floating atop the water while leisurely reading a newspaper.

About two-thirds of the way down its length, an east-west peninsula divided the sea into two basins. The northern one was about thirteen hundred feet deep; the shallow southern one had actually dried up. Water was pumped into it from the northern basin to fill solar evaporation ponds, used by mining companies to extract the salt and chemicals. The water in the ponds ranged from about ten to fifteen feet deep.

The Dead Sea was also the lowest point on earth, its surface about thirteen hundred feet below sea level. It struck Zeke that if there was a Hell, this seemed like the best place for the entrance to be. You were halfway there already.

He needed to wrap this up, but he kept getting caught up in the many passages linking the Dead Sea, Sodom and Gomorrah, the Devil, and Hell.

Myths and legends about the strange body of water had begun to spring up long before the Greeks and Romans, reaching their most fertile period during the Middle Ages. Pilgrims, influenced by Biblical accounts and the theological fervor of the time, saw signs of God’s wrath everywhere—especially in the pillars of salt they took to be Lot’s wife. Zeke noted with interest that these sightings most frequently took place at the southwestern corner of the sea.

In more modern times, scientists discounted as nonsense the idea that any particular column of salt could be Lot’s wife, because even when crystallized, no salt formation would be able to withstand thousands of years of erosion. The natural forces of the region continually erased salt pillars and threw up new ones.

Still, geologists and other researchers frequently found chunks of sulfur in and around the sea. Brimstone…

In the thirteenth century, a monk called the sea the mouth of Hell, and the haze rising from it the smoke from Satan’s fire. Another account called the sea the chimney of Hell. In the fifteenth century, friar and respected scholar Felix Fabri said the sea drained into Hell.

Lot’s name popped up often. Arabs to this day called it the Sea of Lot. Through the ages it had also been called the Sea of Sodom, Sea of Death, The Devil’s Sea, the Sea of Hell.

“This is all very fascinating,” Zeke said out loud, almost giddy now from lack of sleep, “but I need to take it all with a grain of salt.” Laughing way too hard at his corny joke, he finally got serious again, concentrating on the ultimate question for mounting an archaeological expedition: where to dig?

He flipped through Dr. Connolly’s notes, to a section headed Where are Sodom and Gomorrah?

Despite the fact that Lot himself said he was in a cave to the west, the professor scrupulously avoided jumping to conclusions. “It is conceivable,” he wrote, “that in the confusion of escaping first Sodom, then Zoar, and the shock of watching his wife turn into a pillar of salt, Lot could have become disoriented and lost track of where he was. Even so, the Bedouin said he found the scroll in a cave along the southwestern shore of the Dead Sea.” Taken together, the professor concluded, this evidence outweighed all other conjecture about the location of Sodom and Gomorrah, and placed them somewhere toward the western side of the shallow southern basin.

The theory seemed arguable to Zeke, based on everything he’d just read, but then again he’d only considered the problem for a few hours. Dr. Connolly had obsessed about it for decades.

Zeke looked at his own notes on the most recent speculation about their location. Many experts favored a site near the southeast corner, but just as many thought it was under the water of the shallow southern basin. The latest expedition, however, had been triggered by a space shuttle photo showing shadowy anomalies in the deep, northern part of the sea. Two men in a small submarine designed for deep sea exploration had inspected the site. One of the men was the world’s foremost geological expert on the Dead Sea.

The anomalies turned out to be mounds of the salt that constantly settled to form a crust covering the bottom of the sea. What, if anything, the mounds might cover could only be guessed at, because no mechanical arm attached to a submarine could dig through the rock-hard formations to find out. Explosives weren’t an option, since they might destroy whatever the archaeologists hoped to uncover. Just like terrestrial archaeology, marine archaeology ultimately required the slow, painstaking digging of trained human hands, and that wasn’t going to happen down there. Divers simply couldn’t survive at thirteen hundred feet.

Eyes burning, Zeke took a last look at his notes. A verse he’d copied from Genesis caught his eye. It was nearly the same as a passage in Lot’s scroll, except that it was Abraham instead of Lot looking down on the destruction:

And he looked toward Sodom and Gomorrah, and toward all the land of the plain, and beheld, and lo, the smoke of the country went up as the smoke of a furnace.

Zeke turned off the computer and locked the materials back in the safe. He headed for the bedroom, mentally sifting through centuries of observations about Sodom and Gomorrah and the lowest point on earth. As he trudged up the stairs, all his thoughts had boiled down to one:

Where there’s this much smoke, there has to be fire.

CHAPTER 24

When Zeke reached the bedroom Leah was just waking up. She noticed he was dressed. “What’s up?”

“I couldn’t sleep so I went to the office to do some research on the scrolls and what it might take to put together a dig. Come on downstairs, I can tell you about it while I fix us some breakfast.”

Leah showered while Zeke whipped together bacon, eggs, toast, and coffee. Over breakfast he gave her the highlights of his research.

“I never knew the Dead Sea had such a fascinating history,” she said.

“Me neither. But that’s just preliminary background information. I’ve still got to figure out what it all means. I feel like it’s time to make a decision about this, one way or another, so we can get on with our lives. Are you ready for that?”

She nodded. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. It’s time.”

“Okay. I’ll boil the ton of information I’ve gathered down to the essentials, so we can look it over and decide whether it’s time to seriously consider this or forget the whole thing. That does not mean, however, that we have to stop our film festival. I’m way into it. How about you?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’m going to have make a grocery store run. Among other things, we’re down to our last candy and microwave popcorn. You simply cannot have a film festival without these items.”

“Sounds like we’ve got a full-blown situation on our hands.”

“We do indeed.”

“I’ll hold the fort, then, while you make a supply run.”

“You’re the prettiest fort holder I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m a mess.”

“But you’re my mess and I love you.” He kissed her gently. “Listen, since I’m going to be out, I should swing by Mr. Roth’s office for a few minutes.” He saw that the name didn’t ring a bell. “He’s my family’s lawyer. I think I mentioned him before.”

“Oh yeah. I forgot.”

“He’s handled my father’s business affairs forever. Now he’s handling the estate. I told him I’d stop by when I was up to it. I’m won’t get into a long, drawn-out thing, just see if there’s anything pressing I should know about. We can go over the fine details later.”

She nodded. “I’ll be here.”

He held her face in his hands. “Pick us out a love story to watch tonight. Nothing sad, though.”

They kissed lightly, and Zeke left to take the next step in getting them re-connected to the human race.

CHAPTER 25

Zeke drove away from the lawyer’s office overwhelmed by what he’d just learned about his inheritance. It had the capacity to change everything. Now that he and Leah were ready to start planning the rest of their lives, it had to be factored in. He needed a little time alone to sort out his thoughts, and his house was not conducive to that. Too much sorrow still hung in the air.

He called Leah to tell her he’d be a little while longer, then headed up North Capitol Street to the place where he’d done his best thinking over the years.

The largest Catholic church in the western hemisphere, he remembered as he approached the front steps of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception. Sunlight reflecting off the golden dome brightened his spirits.

He’d first started coming here in high school. The Metro bus from Archbishop Carroll went right by, and he’d often stop in, wanting to deepen his understanding of what it meant to be Catholic. After quarterbacking Carroll to a championship his senior year, Zeke had given up football to study theology at Catholic University while considering the priesthood. That dream had died when he’d discovered sex and partying. He’d ended up getting a degree in business with the vague idea of one day taking over his father’s growing chain of video stores. Hank Sloan’s love of movies had rubbed off on his son, but when they’d seriously discussed grooming him to run the business, Zeke had to admit his heart wasn’t in it. He wanted to do something to help society, not work in a store. Finally he’d decided to go into the Army—partly as a way of making a contribution, but also to develop some discipline and focus in his life. It was also a way of honoring the commitment and sacrifice his father had made in Vietnam.

Years later, in the aftermath of the horror in the jungle, he’d re-enrolled at Catholic University and gotten master’s degrees in Theology and Philosophy in a futile search to understand what had happened that night. A search for answers to what he came to call The Great Unanswerables: Why is there evil? Is there a God? Is there a Satan? Since CU was next to the Shrine, he’d often come here after class to reflect on the day’s discussions.

Zeke paused at the front of the massive church, opening himself to any influences that might help him make a decision about the dig. Statues of key religious figures stood in niches all around the entrance, their names carved into the stone beneath them. Zeke stood in front of the statue of Ezechiel for a moment. Knowing it was hokey, he nevertheless hoped for something dramatic to happen, something that would help him make up his mind. A sign.

The bearded stone face of Ezechiel did not suddenly look down at him.

No surprise there, Zeke thought, smiling. I’m named after a football player, not a prophet.

His gaze traveled to one of numerous inscriptions near the arch over the main entrance: THOU SHALT BE HIS WITNESS TO ALL MEN. On the opposite side of the arch was the famous statement Jesus made to Peter: ON THIS ROCK I WILL BUILD MY CHURCH. Farther to the right he read I KNOW THAT THE MESSIAS COMETH.

Inspirational words, but far from enough.

He went through the tall wooden doors and down the nave of the Upper Church. Critics had called the Shrine a tacky imitation of the much older cathedrals of Europe, but to Zeke it was a blessed retreat, a womb of reverent silence that was an antidote to the spiritual poison outside. He had that feeling now as the sounds of traffic disappeared.

A scattered handful of visitors knelt or sat in pews, absorbed in contemplation. One woman knelt off to herself, dressed in tattered jeans, a large tattoo on the back of her neck. Her hands covered her face as she prayed and quietly wept. In the transept near the front railing, a docent lectured a small group of tourists. A few families and couples wandered around, looking at statues and inscriptions. Clusters of votive candles flickered at various points all around. Zeke went into the front pew and knelt.

He closed his eyes and let the silence wash over him, visualizing storm clouds inside his head dissipating as he summoned all his mental energy to consider a dig for Hell.

Despite all the practical hurdles, he knew a dig could always be launched. The only real question was if the dig would lead to Hell and Satan. No matter how much research anyone did, no one could answer that question. No human, anyway. The belief that they even existed boiled down to faith. Faith in a man-made theological construct to explain evil.

Faith. Whatever fragile faith Zeke possessed had been shattered in the restaurant. Still, to mount this dig meant a belief in Satan. Which meant he had to believe in God.

He opened his eyes and looked heavenward as he folded his hands in prayer.

“Dear God, it’s time for us to talk. I’ll give it to you straight. I’ve lost my faith. You know why. You know about the scrolls and what has happened since I got them. Father Connolly tried to convince me that you’ve chosen me to find Hell and defeat Satan. Something about me being the messenger to pave the way.

“Okay, fine. But before I jeopardize my life, and Leah’s, and who knows how many others, I need to believe. I need to know that you are up there, and that my effort would mean something. If Dr. Connolly is right about the scrolls, there is a Satan, and you are up there waiting for someone to blaze the trail so you can defeat him. But—I gotta tell ya—I see no signs of it down here. All I see is hate and killing and evil taking over the world. I’m sure you know where I’m going with all this, so I’ll cut to the chase.

“I need something to make me believe, Lord. You don’t have to show up in my living room, but something. No disrespect, but your boy Lucifer is doing everything but showing up on the six o’clock news, while all you give us is a stain on an office building window.

“I don’t think so. If you want me to step up to the plate, then you have to, too. You need to make your presence known. And when you do, you also need to make it clear exactly what’s supposed to happen. Which—again, please, no disrespect—you have done a colossally bad job of so far.

“First you tell the Jews they’re the chosen people. Then along comes your Son—a Jew—who complicates matters with a little thing called Christianity. But instead of Him coming right out and telling us who He is, and what He’s up to, He talks in parables, and leaves everybody guessing: ‘Is He the Messiah, or just some crazy Jew starting trouble?’

“Then, you come along six centuries later and tell Muhammad he’s the one, that the whole Jesus thing was not the real deal. Now you’re telling me I’m supposed to be the guy?

“Uh-uh. Ain’t gonna get it. Again, no disrespect, but this is the moment of truth. The Crucifixion was a fiasco. It did not deliver us from evil. Evil has been ripping us to shreds ever since. I’m all for doing what I can to stop it, but before I go marching into the enemy camp with The Message, there needs to be a plan. A very specific plan. In plain English. No parables, no cryptograms we spend the next two thousand years slaughtering each other over, trying to figure out what they mean—who’s Chosen, who’s not.

“You need to brief me, Lord. Break it down real simple for us humans. We’re not that smart.”

Zeke looked off to the side and saw Jesus nailed to a small crucifix. He spoke to it. “I know all about ‘you have suffered,’ but you know what? So have I. So have a lot of people. Billions since the Crucifixion. So now you’re finally going to put a stop to it?

“Fine. It’s about time. But if you want me to be your guy, before I put my life on the line, you are going to have to make me believe.

“No disrespect.

“Amen.”

Too many horror movies made Zeke feel silly as he waited for whatever would happen next. In those movies a statue would start bleeding right about now. He went to the white marble railing at the foot of the altar and looked toward the distant back wall, at the largest mosaic of Jesus in the world. Christ in Majesty. If blood was trickling from his wounds, it was too far away to see. Even as Zeke chided himself for making light of the situation, he looked around for anything unusual.

The flickering votive candles did not suddenly go out. No shaft of light or gust of wind came down from the dome far overhead to envelop him. He made a derisive grunt, left the pew, and began walking up the west aisle toward the mosaic of Jesus.

Zeke reached the far wall and looked up at the mosaic from a familiar vantage point, the center of a sunburst pattern on the marble floor directly beneath it. The accusatory face of a disapproving Jesus bore into him from directly overhead, triggering a memory of the mosaic’s nickname: Scary Jesus. The name fit.

No blood trickled from his wounds.

Zeke’s gaze drifted to the inscription beneath the mosaic:

I WILL SEND THE ADVOCATE.

The term referred to Christ, but could there be another…?

No. These inscriptions had always been here, for everyone to see. They hadn’t suddenly taken on new meanings, just because they happened to catch Zeke’s eye. He took a last look into the glowering eyes of Jesus and walked away to continue his search for divine inspiration. Just before he re-entered the west aisle, he looked back at the face of Scary Jesus.

It was looking straight at him. That was odd. When he was standing directly beneath the face, it had been looking straight down at him. Now, twenty yards away and on a forty-five degree angle, it still stared directly at him. He’d looked at this mosaic many times and never noticed that, but he hadn’t really been looking for it. Knowing that paintings often had eyes claiming to follow you everywhere, he went and looked at the face from the same vantage point on the opposite side of the Shrine.

The face looked directly at him.

The eyes weren’t moving, and the head wasn’t swiveling, but there was no mistaking it. Zeke finally shrugged it off as a trick of perspective and went back to the entrance to the west aisle. Again he looked up.

The face glowered directly at him.

He forced himself to head back down the ornate corridor. Thousands must have had experienced this same quirk, but it was still disturbing to think that the intense eyes were following him. He did not look back.

Just ahead, the same lively and enthusiastic docent, probably in his seventies, was telling a couple the significance of one of the statues. Zeke stopped and waited for a break in his dissertation.

“Excuse me. I don’t mean to interrupt, but if you don’t mind I’d like to ask a quick question about that mural of Jesus.”

The docent smiled a knowing smile. “His eyes were following you.”

“I knew it must be an illusion, but I had to ask.”

The docent nodded. “I knew the artist. De Rosen. He made the eyes convex. That’s what creates the illusion. Very powerful, isn’t it?”

“Very. He looks almost mean.”

“He does. He’s been given the nickname Scary Jesus. We certainly don’t call Him that, but I can’t argue with it. I asked De Rosen why he’d made Him so intimidating. He told me, ‘Who would you rather have fighting the battle He has to fight for us? Somebody tough or a wimp?’”

“Makes sense when you put it like that. Thanks.”

Zeke continued to the rear of the church, evaluating what he’d seen, knowing he’d only focused on things that seemed relevant to his situation. Whatever their significance, they weren’t the unmistakable sign he needed to become God’s warrior against Satan. Not even close.

He was right back where he started.

He stood hesitating in the narthex, just inside the tall wooden doors that would take him back outside and into the harsh reality of his life. He almost ached to get back to Leah, to get on with their life together, but he wanted to make sure he’d given this visit every chance. So far there had been no epiphany, but the extreme holiness of the place, and the thought of the millions of believers who had been in here, fueled a glimmer of hope.

But the mission he was contemplating required much more than hope. It had to be driven by an unshakable faith, and at this moment he had none.

If he went through those doors now, with his prayers unanswered and his faith unrestored, this visit would have been a failure. He would have kept his promise to follow up on the scrolls, but, barring some miracle, this would be the end of it.

Determined to go the extra mile, he found himself walking down the stairs that led to his favorite retreat at the Shrine.

CHAPTER 26

Zeke was glad to find only a few people in the Crypt Church. It made it feel like his own private sanctuary. He stood in the nave, remembering all the times he’d come here after his discharge from the Army, looking for healing. For answers.

All these years later and I’m still looking. With everything that had happened since he got the scrolls, he was more lost now than he had been then.

Muted blue light filtered through the small stained glass windows near the ceiling. Dozens of votive candles flickered in stands along the edges of the room. Their light darkened his mood instead of brightening it.

He sought inspiration from the lovingly crafted images of saints and apostles that were everywhere. Though long dead, the power of their teachings still brought billions of people around the world to church each week. Millions had come to this very spot since the Shrine’s opening. Zeke walked down the nave to the railing and looked at the Mary altar just beyond.

Thousands of priests had been ordained at that altar. When he’d re-enrolled at CU after his discharge, Zeke had stood here many times, again considering the priesthood, wondering if that would be a way to atone for the jungle, always waiting for a sign that never came. Standing there now, surrounded by granite and marble and onyx, ceramic tile depictions of scenes from the Bible, he wanted desperately to believe in all this imagery and symbolism, to be shown the way. He went to the first pew and sat, trying to open his heart to whatever belief might find its way there.

Mixed in with various publications in the holder in front of him were several Bibles. He opened one to the place marked with the red satin ribbon: chapter five in the Gospel of John. The entire page to the end of the chapter was printed in red to indicate the words of Jesus. Zeke scanned the red passage until he came to verse thirty. From there he read the rest of the chapter, certain passages leaping out at him:

I can of mine own self do nothing…if I bear witness of myself, my witness is not true…

There is another that beareth witness of me; and I know that the witness which he witnesseth of me is true…

Zeke read on, but kept being drawn back to verse forty-three. He read it over and over:

I am come in my Father’s name, and ye receive me not…if another shall come in his own name, him ye will receive.

This section of the gospel was a famous one, the notion that God needs witness to confirm his existence. Zeke tried to apply the idea to his current situation.

If God went into Hell alone and defeated Satan, without a witness no one would know. But if a human were to go, and lived to tell the tale, there could be no doubt. God needed someone to bear witness. An Advocate.

The chestnut from philosophy came to mind: if a tree falls in the woods and no one hears it, did it make a sound?

Zeke closed the Bible and put it away. The passage was interesting, but not exactly the heavenly ray he was looking for. The marker had probably been left at that passage because it had been the topic of the last sermon. All the Bibles were probably marked at the same spot.

He opened another to the saved page. John again, his first epistle:

Hereby perceive we the love of God, because he laid down his life for us: and we ought to lay down our lives for the brethren.

Zeke got another Bible and read the bookmarked passage, from the second epistle of John:

For many deceivers are entered into the world, who confess not that Jesus Christ is come in the flesh. This is a deceiver and an antichrist.

Zeke wondered what the Sappersteins, dear Jewish friends of his parents, would think of that passage. Still, the coincidence of verses was becoming more intriguing. He was not surprised to find that the next Bible was marked at John’s third and final epistle:

I trust I shall shortly see thee, and we shall speak face to face.

Interesting to be coming upon them in order like this. When he opened the next Bible to the saved page, he couldn’t resist a smile. Of course. Revelation. The Apocalypse. Also written by John, although which John there was no universal agreement:

I Jesus have sent mine angel to testify unto you these things…

Enoch had been sent by God and left his scroll as testimony. Intrigued but unconvinced, Zeke put the Bible away and went back to the railing. He stared up at the crucifix sitting atop the Mary altar.

No blood flowed from his wounds. Nothing had changed. What he had just read was tantalizing, but the books of John were some of the most popular in the Bible. Zeke needed more, and he told God so.

A priest bustled by on his way to the altar.

“Excuse me, Father,” Zeke called.

The priest came over. He was tall, almost even with Zeke’s 6’3”, and wore wire-rimmed glasses. Early thirties, maybe. Good looking, in a studious, Clark Kent kind of way. Zeke was touched that in this rotten world, with the Church and priests under constant attack, young men still joined the priesthood.

“When was the last mass held in here?” Zeke asked.

“Eight-thirty this morning. There’s another one at ten past noon, if you’d like to attend.”

“I may, but I wanted to ask you something. What was the sermon about at that last mass, do you happen to know?”

“Oh yes. I gave the sermon. I’ll be giving it again at the twelve-ten. Since Halloween is next week, I wanted to emphasize the positive Christian aspect of the tradition—that the word is a contraction for All Hallows’ Eve, the day before All Saints’ Day, which is followed by All Souls’ Day. So rather than being a celebration of evil, it is a time for honoring our saints and praying for our faithful departed.”

Faithful departed. The phrase pricked Zeke’s mind. His family had been faithful. How long had they been departed? Today was Friday. They had been killed on a Friday. The 5th. “What is today’s date, Father?”

“The 26th.”

Three weeks. He had not prayed for them. What good would it do? Prayer when they were alive hadn’t saved them. He clamped a lid on his simmering anger. “Educating people about the positive aspects of Halloween is a laudable goal. You’ve got an uphill battle, though, considering how deeply ingrained the scary tradition is.”

“Very true. But I believe it’s a battle worth fighting.”

Zeke’s eyes flicked from the priest’s face to his white collar and black cassock. His uniform. He had joined God’s army in the battle against evil. A battle worth fighting.

He shoved the thought aside. “I wanted to ask you, Father: did you use passages from scripture in your sermon?”

“Yes.”

“Which book?”

“Several, but mainly Peter and Paul, two of our most famous saints.”

Zeke couldn’t resist. “So, since you were featuring Peter and Paul in the house of Mary, you had Peter, Paul, and Mary.”

The priest’s face lit up. “My parents loved their music. Had all their albums. Come to think of it, maybe the answer we all seek is blowin’ in the wind.”

“Smooth,” Zeke said.

“And since my name is Michael, I could say that in my sermon Michael rowed the boat ashore.”

“Nice. I know the Highwaymen had a big hit with that, but I didn’t remember Peter, Paul, and Mary doing it.”

“It wasn’t a hit for them, but I know we had it on one of their albums. Anyway, maybe I could drive the messages in my sermons home better if I had a hammer.”

“You’re on a roll, Father. Do they have open mike night for priests? You could try your hand at standup.”

“We don’t have one, but it’s a good idea. I might bring it up over dinner tonight.”

“But seriously, folks,” Zeke said. “Did you use anything from Revelation in your sermon?”

“Oh no. All that gloom and doom was what I was trying to avoid. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. In the pew where I was praying, all the Bibles are bookmarked at passages from John. I thought maybe you had used him in your sermon.”

“That’s interesting. We don’t provide Bibles. With half a million visitors a year, you can see the problem. People often bring their own, though, and then forget them. Which pew were you in?”

“Right here. The first one.”

The priest went into the pew and gathered the Bibles up. “Unusual that there should be so many. Looks like a whole group walked off and forgot them. I’ll take them to the office. Hopefully whoever left them will come back to claim them.”

“It seems odd that they should all be marked at John when you weren’t referring to him, don’t you think?”

The priest seemed amused. “Sounds like my flock may not have found my sermon completely riveting. Or they may just have found John more fascinating than me. In either case, when they come to claim these I may have to smite them.”

“Ahhh, cut ’em slack, Father. They didn’t know somebody was going to come along and rat ’em out.”

“True. Just getting people into church these days is a victory. What brings you here?”

Zeke searched for a neutral answer. “Just trying to get back in touch with my faith.”

“Have you lost it?”

“Yes.”

“I know this sounds like a cliché, but clichés are often true: we are always here for you.”

“Thank you, Father. If you don’t mind my asking, why did you join the priesthood?”

The priest smiled. “It sounds a little corny and self-serving, but this looked like a world in deep, deep trouble to me. ‘Heading to Hell in a handbasket,’ the old saying goes. Goodness was being trampled by evil. I became a priest to save as many souls as I can. If not us, who?”

“I admire you for doing something.”

“It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it.”

“God bless you.”

“And you.”

They parted and Zeke went back into the pew to consider the Bible passages. There were plenty of simple explanations for those Bibles to be marked as they were. And he had been interpreting the passages as though they had been specifically chosen for him—self-fulfilling prophecy. They certainly weren’t the divine inspiration he needed.

Unless…

He had just been praying for something more definitive than the Bible verses when the priest walked up. Had God sent his representative in answer to Zeke’s prayer? Even if He had, it still wasn’t nearly enough.

Zeke began a last walk around the church, savoring the religious imagery that had brought him comfort so many times in the past. Inset around the walls were mosaics about a foot square of the Stations of the Cross, each depicting a scene from the Crucifixion. Zeke had commemorated them almost weekly when he was at Catholic University, but not since. The essence of Christian belief boiled down to the story told in these fourteen panels: that Christ was crucified and died for our sins.

He moved from the first to the second. Pilate, bending to the will of the mob, sentencing Christ to death. Zeke lingered at each scene, feeling the growing inevitability of the very familiar story. The fourth panel exerted a much stronger power.

Jesus meeting up with his mother Mary. Zeke thought of all the times his own mother had tended to his little aches and pains when he was a kid. She had saved his life by getting him to the hospital that day. Mothers. They were always there.

Not his, though. Not anymore. She would never be there again. She was just settling into eternity at the cemetery.

He felt his heart hardening and moved to the fifth station.

Christ being helped with the cross by Simon of Cyrene.

Zeke stared at Simon’s face, trying to remember what Biblical scholars said had happened to him. Something about being executed…

No good deed went unpunished.

Simon’s face appeared to move. Zeke shifted his perspective, thinking it was an illusion created by the reflection of the ambient light.

Simon’s beard gradually disappeared. His face, in profile, turned slowly until it faced Zeke head-on. As it turned, Simon’s head extended beyond the plane of the mosaic, straining toward Zeke and staring at him.

Zeke’s mouth dropped open. An icy tingle rippled across his skin.

The miniature face, no bigger than the end of a finger, had become his own.

The ceramic neck extended as far as it could, while the rest of Simon’s body remained anchored to the otherwise unchanged mosaic.

Its lips moved.

Against his will Zeke leaned closer, cocking his head to see if he could hear what it was saying.

“Help us… Help us…”

Zeke jerked his head back to look at the face. It was still unmistakably his own face, pleading with himself for help. Help us? Who else besides Simon—or was it Zeke—needed help? There were only three people in the mosaic: Simon on the left, getting ready to take the cross, and another unknown citizen on the right. Jesus still carried the cross, his head hung in exhaustion.

The head of Jesus began to move. It slowly turned to look at Zeke. The face changed. It became the face of the mosaic upstairs. The one whose eyes had followed him. Scary Jesus.

These eyes now burned into him. The head extended from the mosaic until it hung in the air beside the one that had become him. In unison they said, “Help us.”

A small crucifix in an alcove to his left toppled over. Although the noise it made was slight, Zeke jumped as if shot. He stared at the undamaged crucifix on the floor, then back at the mosaic.

The vision was gone. The mosaic was the same as it had been before.

Zeke looked around. The few people nearby were in pews, absorbed in prayer, oblivious to what had just happened. No one else had witnessed this.

It didn’t matter. Zeke knew in his heart—in his soul—that his decision had been made. For better or worse, his prayer had been answered.

He had gotten his sign.

CHAPTER 27

Leah was on the sofa watching a Frasier rerun when Zeke got home. She clicked off the television. “Everything go okay?”

“Let me put these groceries away and I’ll tell you about it.” He returned a few minutes later and sat beside her on the couch.

“The lawyer had some very interesting news, but first I’ve got to tell you what happened after the lawyer’s. I needed some time alone to think, so I went to the Shrine. I’ve told you about how I used to do some of my best thinking there.” She nodded. “I started…not praying exactly, just kind of having an honest discussion with God, hoping I might get some inspiration on how to proceed with this thing. I didn’t really expect anything, but…I got something.”

Zeke searched for a delicate way to put it, knowing what he was about to say would shatter their dream of settling into a happy life together. Finally he decided there was nothing to do but come right out with it.

He told her of the Station of the Cross coming to life.

“Wow,” she said. “It’s like a scene out of a movie.”

“Except this is real.”

“It’s like God telling you straight out you’re the one. Can’t ask for much more than that. So now what?”

“I’ve got to go for it.”

“We’ve got to go for it.”

“Sweetheart—”

“Zeke, you’re talking about trying to go mano a mano with the Prince of Darkness. In the first place, I couldn’t stand to be away from you that long. Even if you came home every weekend, sitting here worrying about you would be far worse for my health than archaeology. It just wouldn’t work. Besides, I’m fine. If it made you feel better, you could give me a cushy desk job. I could handle the administrative side of it. That’s my strength anyway. And if, by some incredible chance, the Head Bad Guy starts coming after us, I want to be there to fight back. I’ve got a score to settle too, you know.”

“Yeah, I guess you do. Tell you what. Let’s talk about it after dinner. I called Reese on the way home and invited him, because I want him to know what’s going on. We’ll figure out a plan.”

“That ought to be one real interesting after-dinner conversation.”

Zeke fought against a sudden emotion.

Leah leaned closer. “What’s the matter?”

“There’s something else. With my sister gone, I’m the only remaining heir. I get everything. The house, the cars, everything. By far the biggest part is the monetary portion. Among other things, my father had just sold his video chain.”

“I know. He told us at the restaurant.”

“He got a big chunk for that, but there’s more. Turns out they’d made some very smart investments over the years. The bottom line is that the cash part of the estate is worth about ten million dollars.”

Leah fell back against the armrest.

“Yeah,” Zeke said. “I kept thinking how hard they worked for that money. All the dreams they had. Now it’s blood money. I could use it to fund the dig. It’s like my parents left me reward money to find their killer.”

Leah wiped her eyes, as if angry at the weakness in the tears that hung there. “Unless it turns out to be just not humanly possible, let’s do this thing.”

“Amen, sister.”

CHAPTER 28

Zeke, Leah and Reese had finished dinner and were having coffee in three comfortable armchairs arranged in a semicircle near the fireplace. Reese was staring at the crackling blaze, a look of contentment on his face, as though the fire warmed not just his body but his soul. Zeke didn’t want to disturb his peaceful moment, but the conversation had to be started.

“Reese, do you believe in Satan?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean literally: Do you believe in Satan?”

“No. We’ve talked about this. Neither do you.”

“That was then. This is now.”

“You saying you do now?”

“Maybe. A lot’s happened.”

“No question. But—Z. Come on now. You know as well as I do that old ‘Devil made me do it’ stuff is bull. Nipsey Russell used to do that comedy routine about it, remember?”

Zeke smiled. Reese was terrible at trivia. “That was Flip Wilson, man.”

Reese’s earnest frown tickled Zeke even more. “You sure?” Zeke gave him the look and Reese gave up. “All right then. I don’t wanna mess with you on any of that trivia stuff.”

“That’s right.”

Reese looked at Leah. “Do you?”

“What?”

“Believe in Satan.”

“I’m leaning that way. But I know stuff you don’t. Zeke has told me the whole story.”

“What story?”

“Let me bring you up to speed,” Zeke said. He began with getting the scrolls from Dr. Connolly and the messages they contained from Lot and Enoch. He recounted all the bizarre incidents since then, and finished with this morning’s vision in the Crypt Church.

“It’s like something out of a horror movie,” Reese said.

“Leah said the same thing. And that’s not all. I got a call from Michael Price. I met with him.”

Reese cast a quick sideways glance at Leah. “The Michael Price?”

“Same one. He’s a forensic psychologist now. Tries to get into the heads of the sickest killers on death row. Trying to atone for what he did, he says.”

Zeke watched Reese’s eyes dart uneasily from him to Leah, then back to him. “I told Leah about the jungle, Reese. She’s part of my life—of this—and she needs to know.”

“Yeah,” Reese said. “You’re right.”

“Here’s the kicker: Michael Price has been called in as the expert to question my family’s murderer.”

“Jesus,” Reese whispered. “Of all the people. What are the odds?”

“Like hitting the lottery,” Zeke said. “The lottery from hell.”

Reese looked at Leah. “What do you think?”

“Zeke’s not the type to be imagining things. Or to be jumping to conclusions.”

“True.” He looked back at Zeke. “Has Price talked to the guy?”

“Once. Later that night he apparently died in his cell of a heart attack.”

“Jesus.” Reese picked up his coffee, then put it back down without drinking. “Did the SOB say anything before he died? About why he did it?”

“Stuck to the same story you heard him tell the police. Satan made him do it. Price seemed to believe him.”

The fire was dying and a slight chill had crept in. Reese picked his cup back up and drank this time. “So what do you want to do?”

“I want to put together an archaeological dig.”

“A dig for what?”

“Sodom and Gomorrah, initially. Lot says the opening to Hell—if Dr. Connolly’s interpretation is right—is near there. That opening is ultimately what we’d be looking for.”

“Sodom and Gomorrah,” Reese said. “Where are they? In Israel?”

“Somewhere around there, but nobody knows for sure. They’ve never been found.”

“So how would you know where to dig?”

“Right now I don’t know. But I have the scrolls, which at least give us someplace to start. I’m going to take it to the best expert I can find and go from there.”

“Okay,” Reese said. “Suppose you do the impossible. Then what?”

“I head on down and pay Lucifer a visit. Bust a cap in his ass.”

“That’s gonna have to be one real big cap, cap’n.”

“I’ll come with whatever Kryptonite we need.”

“Slow down, Z-man. Even if we say that the craziest thing I’ve ever heard is true, you still got, I don’t know, forty or fifty problems. One, you’re not an archaeologist. Two, you’ve got a business to run. Three, you got this here girl to take care of. Four, something like that would take some serious cash. That’s just for starters.”

“We learned the basics about archaeology in Special Forces. Still, I’d hire somebody to run the dig. And you could handle the gym. And…I’ve got the money.”

“The gym is doing good, but I know you’re not that rich.”

Zeke told him about the inheritance.

Reese wiped a large hand across his face. “Your folks, man. Always doing for others.” He looked at Leah and Zeke. “Y’all could use that money and live happily ever after.”

“Uh-uh,” Zeke said. “Ain’t gonna be no happily ever after until I get this out of my system. This is way bigger than the three of us.”

Leah said, “What do you mean?”

“I mean suppose—just suppose—there is some evil entity behind all the senseless slaughter since the dawn of humanity. We’ve got a chance to stop him. To trace evil to its source and cut it off at the head.”

Zeke stood and began to pace, his voice rising as he spoke.

“Think of all the innocent blood that’s been spilled for thousands of years. Enough to form its own ocean. All those dictators and butchers throughout history. Millions of families. Women. Children. Babies. The whole history of the Middle East. Of Africa. Of the United States. Of the world. It’s all written in blood. Whole races wiped out over and over. The Holocaust. Slavery. Sudan. Rwanda. Somalia. AIDS. Venereal disease run amok. Child prostitution. Drugs ripping people apart. Raping and pillaging everywhere you turn. Terrorism. Suicide bombings in the name of religion. Hundreds—thousands—of innocent people slaughtered every day, people just minding their business, trying to make it through this struggle we call Life. On and on it goes. Nothing but sorrow and desperation. Hatred everywhere. Mindless, wanton killing.”

Almost hyperventilating, he stopped to gain control of his breathing. When he spoke again, his exaggerated calm didn’t dull the knife edge of emotion. It sharpened it.

“What happened in that restaurant was nothing new. Just another in a long line. Remember good ol’ Charlie Whitman, up on the roof at the University of Texas? That was forty-some years ago. Then there was McDonald’s. Columbine. Virginia Tech. The movie theater. They’re almost routine now. Almost every day somebody kills their whole family. Or a bunch of co-workers. Or complete strangers. And there’s no end in sight. No answers. No reason.”

He stopped suddenly and glared at them.

“Except that maybe there is a reason. Maybe we have been caught in the crosshairs of a battle between good and evil all this time. Maybe religion has been right in seeing them as two warring forces. And maybe—just maybe—I’ve got a chance to end it. For good.”

“I hear you,” Reese said. “And I want it to be true. I’d love to believe there’s a demon destroying my people so I could kick his ass. But—maybe I’ve seen too many horror movies, but the idea that we can blame all the messed-up crap we do to each other on the Devil…It sounds to me like a copout.”

Zeke wearily folded himself back into his chair, his anger spent. “I know. I’m not crazy, all right? Even after everything that’s happened, I’m not going to sit here and tell you I absolutely believe in Satan. I’m just saying these scrolls make it possible. Maybe not probable, but possible. If we find him—great. But let’s say we just find Sodom and Gomorrah. Dr. Connolly said that would rank with finding Atlantis. Atlantis.”

“What exactly are we talking about?” Leah said. “I mean, how do you go about it?”

“I’d have to find an expert to tell me what needs doing. I did a lot of research on the Internet the other night. Nobody knows exactly where Sodom and Gomorrah are, but the general opinion is somewhere around, or under, the Dead Sea.”

“Which is in Israel, right?” Leah said.

“Half of it’s in Israel, the other half is in Jordan.”

“Great,” Reese said. “That ought to make your life real simple. Talk about being between a rock and a hard place.”

Zeke shrugged. “I’ll start by contacting someone in Israel, since we’re a lot friendlier with them, and go from there. It’s too late tonight. With the time differential it’s early Saturday morning over there. The Sabbath. I’ll start making phone calls first thing Monday morning.”

“First thing would be around midnight our time,” Leah said. “It’s seven hours later over there. The congressman I work for deals with Israel a lot.”

“I’ll set my alarm. The sooner I get that ball rolling the better, so we can get on with our lives. It’ll probably mean flying over there at some point. Something this big can’t be handled over the phone.”

Reese looked at Leah. “If he pulls this off, what are you going to do?”

“Go with him.”

“Oh lordy. And I’m just supposed to sit around, worrying about you two?”

“We’ll be fine,” Zeke said.

“Is you crazy? Sitting there talking about having a smackdown with the Devil—in his house—like it’s just another day at the beach. It’s like when we were in the Army: you need to prepare for the worst-case scenario. Which, in this case, means you actually find his scaly ass. You think he’s going to turn into Marvin Gaye? ‘Makes me wanna holler, throw up both my hands?’ He’s going to make the Terminator look like a punk.”

“Maybe. We’ll see.”

“You’re going to need some serious firepower and a whole lot of backup.”

“Backup?” Zeke shook his head. “Reese, now that’s crazy.”

“No crazier than you two going. And if your boy is out there, he tore a big hole in my life, too.”

Zeke knew instantly what Reese was talking about. Crack addiction had put his sister’s husband in prison and killed his sister. She had died giving birth to his niece. Paige had been born a crack baby. Reese and his mother were raising her. “I understand, buddy, but you cannot be a part of this.”

“So I’m just supposed to sit around waiting while you march into Hell?”

“First of all, ain’t gonna be no marching. Tiptoeing would be a lot more like it. And you’re not going to be sitting around. You’ll be handling the gym. But the most important thing is, you’ll be looking after your family. I’ve lost mine, Reese. If this thing goes south, and something happened…I couldn’t live with that. Your niece lost her mother and father. You’re all she’s got. There are plenty of demons right here, circling around her every time she leaves the house. She doesn’t even have to leave the house. Every time she clicks on the television—aka the Satan Box—a nest of digital vipers is ready to take root in her soul. You need to be guarding her, not me.”

“But—”

“Don’t make me pull rank on you.”

Reese tried to give him the hard stare even as the fight drained from his body. “I hate it when you’re right.”

“Then you must be filled with a lot of hate.”

Reese started to give him the finger but looked at Leah and caught himself. “Aren’t you a lucky woman.”

“Yeah, he’s a real catch.”

“If you two comedians can get serious for a second. Look: we’re getting way ahead of ourselves. First I’ve got to find that expert, and see if this is even possible. If I do find someone I can trust, and he—or she—says go for it, it still would take time to put together. So right now we’re talking about a whole lotta nuthin.”

“That’s fine,” Reese said. “I can roll with that. But look here.” He made a V with his forefinger and middle finger and tapped a fingertip under each eye, then pointed the V at Zeke’s eyes to make sure he had his full attention. He did the same to Leah.

“Zeke, you’re not the only philosopher in this group. I know Leah’s a deep thinker, and I am too, when I want to be. And here’s what I’ve thought about, real long and hard, especially after…what’s happened. There’s only a few things that are really important in life. Family, friends, loved ones. I don’t have much family, and I don’t have any better friends than you two.”

He coughed to clear a quiver from his throat.

“I don’t have that many friends, period. So here’s what’s going to happen. Y’all go on over there, do what you gotta do. That’s fine. I don’t need to be there for the preliminary stuff, I guess that makes sense. But if any trouble starts—I’m talking serious trouble—somebody better call me. Zeke, if you’re too macho, or proud, or whatever, then Leah, it’s on you. All I know is, somebody better call my a…butt. I’ve lost too many people in my life. I’m not losing you two. Not on my watch.”

“But Reese,” Leah said. “What could you do from over here, with an ocean between us?”

“I don’t know. Something. Pray, if nothing else.”

“Praying would be good,” Zeke said.

“If you did come face to face with the Devil himself,” Reese said, “how would you defeat him? Have you thought about that?”

“I have,” Zeke said. “A lot. My first thought was trying to procure the heaviest artillery I could get, but if he’s the superhuman entity we’ve been led to believe, conventional weapons might not work. Probably wouldn’t work. I’m thinking holy relics might be better. Something having a connection to God. Or Jesus.”

“Sort of like holding up a crucifix against a vampire,” Reese said.

“Sort of,” Zeke said.

“Where would you get these relics?” Leah asked.

“Father Connolly gave me a lead I can pursue in Jerusalem if it comes to that. If that falls through, we’ll go to plan B.”

“Which is what?” Reese said.

“Don’t know. Have to cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“I think you’re giving up on the heavy artillery too fast. If your boy is like a ghost or something, that bullets go right through, then okay. But if he’s got an actual body, like every other animal, seems to me it can be killed. There’s a shotgun out there now, the AA-12. People are calling it the deadliest firearm in the world. Have you heard of it?”

“No,” Zeke said.

“This bad boy has a 32-round drum magazine with almost no recoil. It takes different kinds of cartridges, but the one I like is the FRAG-12. Fragmentation. They’re more like miniature missiles than bullets. There are different kinds: grenades, antipersonnel, armor-piercing. If they’ll go through a tank, they should be able to get through Big Boy’s scaly hide. This thing could shred Godzilla.”

“We have no idea what Satan would actually be like,” Zeke said, “but I’m thinking Godzilla to the hundredth power.” He considered Reese’s proposal. “You can get one of these?”

“Maybe. You need a special license to buy one, but considering how we left the Army, I wouldn’t want to take a chance on filling out paperwork that would get that mess stirred up again. But there might be a way around it. I’m buddies with some of the Marines who come in the gym. They might know somebody who knows somebody. I could ask around.”

“Do that. Might not hurt to take one with me. That would be my plan B.”

“Or I could get two and come with you. That way we could maintain constant fire; time it so that one of us is still firing whenever the other one has to reload.”

“Reese. Read my lips: N-O. No.” He took Leah’s hand. “Listen. Enough of this for tonight. Let’s wait until I find out exactly what’s possible. For now it’s time for a much-needed happy hour.”

Zeke built the fire back up while Leah opened a bottle of wine. They sat and talked of good times, shared sad laughter at funny stories of Zeke’s family, until the fire died out and the chill crept back in.

CHAPTER 29

East Jerusalem. October 30

The cab swung off Sultan Suleiman onto the access road for the Rockefeller Museum. Sitting in the back seat, Zeke glanced out the window.

On the other side of Sultan Suleiman, within rock-throwing distance, the war-torn wall of the Old City faced the museum. Somewhere behind that wall, over sixty years ago, the Bedouin had knocked on Father Connolly’s door and begun the chain of events that had led to this moment. Sixty years, and an incalculable toll, for Lot’s warning to travel a few miles. Zeke wondered how many miles were left to go. Or if the journey could even be measured in miles.

An octagonal tower jutted up from a white stone building that was all angles and squares. The Rockefeller was considered one of the best archaeological museums in the world, but Zeke had much more pressing business than sightseeing. When he’d called first thing yesterday morning to set up this meeting, his contact had been so intrigued that Zeke had gotten a flight to Tel Aviv that afternoon. With the seven-hour time difference it was now a little past eleven Tuesday morning. He’d slept on the business-class recliner and come straight from the airport.

The cab drove slowly past a tour bus unloading passengers and continued to the service entrance in back. Zeke paid the driver and got out, carrying his overnight bag and the metal briefcase with the scrolls that had caused him an hour delay through customs. It was warmer here than when he’d left D.C., so he stuffed his jacket into the overnight bag.

A uniformed guard checked his list of approved visitors, inspected the bag and the metal case, then directed him down several hallways to the Antiquities Authority. In Antiquities, Zeke told the small bespectacled man who greeted him of his appointment. The man led him down a few more narrow corridors to the nethermost recesses of the building. He gestured to a door, bid Zeke shalom, and left. In Hebrew and English the lettering said:

MORDECAI ROSEN

Director

Maritime Archaeology Unit

Zeke knocked. A man’s voice yelled something in Hebrew. Zeke assumed it was “Come in” and stuck his head inside the door.

“Ah.” The large man behind the desk waved him in and switched to English. Standing, he said, “I’m sorry, I thought you were one of my colleagues. You must be Mr. Zeke Sloan.”

“Yes.”

“The way customs is these days, I didn’t expect you for a while.” His Israeli accent was strong, with th sounds coming out somewhere between a z and an s, but his command of English seemed very good. “I am Mordecai Rosen.”

They shook and Zeke sat in an institutional gray office chair that didn’t go with the large old scuffed wooden desk. A few photos haphazardly arranged atop it were the only personal touches mixed in with the scattered paperwork. One picture showed a much younger Rosen on a beach in diving gear, holding up some kind of artifact. In another he was somewhat older, apparently explaining proper digging technique to a beautiful young girl of about twelve. Behind his desk a small glass case held what were undoubtedly archaeological finds of some personal significance.

“Coffee?”

Zeke was past the coffee stage but said, “That’d be great, thank you.” To further break the ice he added, “Your English is very good.”

“Growing up in Israel, it was part of the curriculum. Then I did some graduate work at Texas A&M, which has a world-class marine archaeology department. That’s when you really learn, using it in conversation every day. You learn the slang, the colloquialisms, which it helps to know. Plus I spent a lot of my spare time in the student lounge playing Scrabble in English.”

“My fiancée and I love Scrabble. Maybe we can play sometime.”

“I’d like that. But I must warn you: an archaeologist is a very patient man. I would try to wait you out and drive you crazy with three-letter words.”

“My fiancée does that all the time. She usually wins while I’m getting greedy and impatient, trying to get my Q onto a triple letter square.”

“Greed and impatience. A deadly combination.”

“Don’t I know it.”

While Rosen turned his attention to the coffee, Zeke looked around. The office was smaller than his at the gym. Not quite cramped, but close. Apparently the Maritime Archaeology Unit didn’t have money to spend on a fancy office for its director. He quickly appraised Mordecai Rosen.

Mid-to-late sixties but sturdy, maybe six two, two-ten. Unkempt black hair speckled with gray, as was his sparse beard. Black slacks and shoes, plain dark gray shirt, untucked, no tie. He looked rumpled and weary. More than weary—sad.

Zeke was anxious to plunge right in, but before leaving D.C. he’d called the congressman Leah worked for. Since he made frequent junkets to Israel, Zeke wanted his advice on the best way to conduct business there. The Israeli bureaucracy could “make you tear your hair out,” the congressman had said, so it was crucial to take a little time to get to know the person who could cut through the red tape, not treat them like a faceless bureaucrat. Noting Rosen’s frazzled appearance, Zeke gave him an opening to unburden himself. “So how are things going for the Director of Maritime Archaeology?”

“For the Director, things are fine. For Mordecai Rosen, not so good.”

“How so?”

Rosen left the coffeemaker to finish brewing and sat behind his desk. He seemed to be struggling with some inner turmoil. “Not to burden you with my problems, but since you asked. My daughter was killed earlier this month.” He pointed to the little girl in the picture. “That’s her. Daddy’s little digger.” He stared at the photo for a long moment as he fought to keep his emotions in check. “October fifth. A suicide bomber.”

The same day as his parents. “Oh. I’m very sorry.”

Rosen nodded, and Zeke debated mentioning his own tragedy. Shared sorrow might help open this door, but more than that, he felt a genuine connection of the heart.

“We have something in common then,” he said. “My whole family was killed that same day.”

A deeper shade of sadness darkened Rosen’s face. “I’m so sorry. What happened?”

For half an hour over coffee they related their personal tragedies. When they finished, Rosen sat staring out the window, shaking his head. The small movement conveyed an enormous hopelessness. His eyes slowly found Zeke’s.

“Different kinds of madness with the same result,” he said. “After we buried Norah, her boyfriend and I were talking. He was going to ask her to marry him that weekend. We walked away from her grave outraged, of course, vowing to do something to make the killings stop. That is all I have thought about since. But what can anyone do? Prime ministers and presidents and armies and police cannot make it stop. What can we do to stop the evil, Mr. Sloan?”

On the phone yesterday, Zeke had presented his proposition as a dig for Sodom and Gomorrah. He wanted to keep the search for Hell a secret, for fear he’d be dismissed as a religious fanatic, or that word would leak to the media. But now, after this unexpected connection to Mordecai Rosen’s soul, Zeke felt he could confide in him, and that what he had to say might be exactly what the man needed to hear.

“Please—call me Zeke. And I’m very glad you asked that question. It’s the reason I’m here.”

“But on the phone you said you wanted to check on the feasibility of a dig for Sodom and Gomorrah.”

“I do, but it’s more than that. Mr. Rosen, can I tell you something off the record, in the strictest confidence?”

“Of course. And call me Mordecai.”

“The dig I’m proposing is for Sodom and Gomorrah, yes. But that is only the beginning. What I hope to find near there is an opening into Hell.” Uncertainty flickered across Mordecai’s face. “Yes,” Zeke said. “The actual, literal Hell.”

Mordecai started to say something but Zeke held up a hand. “I know. Believe me, I know. But if I find it, I want to go down there to confront and defeat Satan. That is what I propose to do to stop the evil.”

Mordecai folded his arms across his large chest. Morning sun came through the window behind him and slanted across the floor. “You’re searching for Hell and Satan.”

“That’s correct.”

“Then why did you tell me Sodom and Gomorrah?”

“Let me show you something that will explain better than I can.”

Zeke opened the padded case. He removed the lid from the terra cotta jar, carefully sliding the rolled-up scrolls onto the desk and positioning Dr. Connolly’s translations and notes alongside them. Mordecai reached for one of the scrolls, then instinctively pulled back his hand.

“I wouldn’t,” Zeke said. “If the information I have is correct, these are somewhere around three to four thousand years old.” Mordecai’s gaze kept being drawn to the translations while Zeke explained. “The translations were done by Dr. James Connolly, a world-class paleographer. I trust his translations completely. He had been studying these since 1947, when a Bedouin brought them to him. You should look this material over before we continue our conversation. It’s the primary evidence I have that Hell and Satan exist. I can go look around the museum while you do that. How much time do you need?”

Eyes that had been dulled by sadness now gleamed. “Give me an hour.”

Zeke looked at his watch. “See you around one-thirty.”

When he returned an hour later, Mordecai had Connolly’s notes in one hand and a page from the scroll translations in the other. Zeke slid back into his chair. “What do you think?”

Mordecai laid the pages on the desk. “Astonishing, if these translations are accurate.”

“I’d bet on it.”

“Proof that there is a God. And a Satan. And a Hell. Answers to questions humanity has been asking since we first began to think.”

“I know,” Zeke said. “They change everything.”

“The biggest challenge is the deadline Enoch gives us for the”—he made quotation marks with his fingers—“‘day of reckoning’.” December 21. Not quite two months. I can rush things through the bureaucracy, but the archaeology itself…Digging is slow, painstaking work. And you can never be sure what you will find—if anything.”

“I know, Mordecai. Believe me, I know.”

“In the best case we might start the actual dig in a few weeks, a month. That leaves a little over a month to find what we’re looking for. Hell, no less. I never like to use the word impossible, but—”

“Me neither. And if the normal rules of archaeology applied, what we’re trying to do would be absurd. But they don’t apply, Mordecai. If we accept what these scrolls tell us, we have to throw common sense and everything life has taught us out the window. Enoch says we will get help from the Messiah. If we decide to do this, we have to believe in divine intervention. We have to believe we have been chosen to do this. If it is meant to be, we will succeed. If not, so be it. Still, before we go marching off to Gehenna, a second opinion is probably a good idea. Dr. Connolly had been a priest, so some Catholic bias may have crept into his interpretation. I can leave them with you for your experts to study.”

“A very good idea. Several opinions are wise when dealing with the complexity of ancient language. Especially with something so improbable as scrolls from Lot and Enoch. These would turn the world of archaeology upside down. And please rest assured that we would take excellent care of them. Our people have spent years dealing with the tiniest fragments of the Dead Sea Scrolls, among other things. For them these would be the Holy Grail.” He drained the rest of his coffee. “So the idea is to find Sodom and Gomorrah first, then search for an opening near there that would lead you to Hell.”

“Correct.”

Mordecai plucked at his earlobe while formulating a response. “I can safely say this is the most unusual proposal to come across my desk in the twelve years I’ve been here.”

“Nothing else comes close, I would imagine.”

“Not remotely. A dig for Sodom and Gomorrah alone would be unprecedented. Finding those two cities has been a Holy Grail of sorts for archaeologists, and people wanting to prove the Bible, for thousands of years. Theories of their location are literally all over the map, but all place them in or around the Dead Sea. Still, no one has been sure enough—and had the resources—to mount a dig specifically to find them.”

“In his notes Dr. Connolly gives his reasons for believing that they are under the shallow southern basin of the Dead Sea.”

“I have not had time to evaluate everything,” Mordecai said. “But even if our people agree with your Dr. Connolly’s conclusions, I think you would have to agree that, to go from that to a search for Hell…and Satan himself…”

“I know. I don’t blame you for being skeptical. I was myself. But this is the only concrete proof I have. I have other proof, but only to myself. Things I have seen. You would only have my word for those.”

“Such as?”

Zeke hesitated but quickly realized he had to tell this man everything if he was going to earn his trust. He related the strange incidents since he’d gotten the scroll—in particular, Jesus Himself asking for help when the Station of the Cross came to life at the Shrine. Mordecai’s response surprised him.

“I too have seen a vision, of sorts.”

“Really? What did you see?”

He told of the weeping olive tree in the Garden of Gethsemane. “From a scientific standpoint, it doesn’t hold up. I wonder if Hassan and I weren’t just caught up in the emotion of the moment.”

“Science doesn’t have all the answers, Mordecai. We both know that. The entire existence of the universe is based on a theory. The Big Bang, which seems to be getting revised every day. Science certainly can’t explain what I saw in the Shrine—but I know I saw it. In the case of your Judas tree, there is an ancient legend that says a person’s soul lives on in a tree that grows over their grave.”

“Hassan and I have talked about that. Mythology often links trees and souls. Wood nymphs from the Greek are the best known. Dryads. Still, it’s a long way from there to a belief in Satan.”

“Can’t argue that,” Zeke said.

Mordecai nodded toward the translations. “Interesting that your friend should place Sodom and Gomorrah in the southern basin.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I have been studying photos from the latest shuttle expedition. Several years ago, shuttle photos showing shadowy underwater anomalies in the northern part of the sea helped to launch the last serious search for Sodom and Gomorrah.”

“I read about it on the Internet the other night. A small submarine went down to the bottom, but they found nothing.”

“Yes. But the photos I’ve been studying are much clearer. The new digital cameras they use are a quantum leap. NASA brags that they can take clear pictures of second base on a baseball diamond. I don’t know about that, but these latest pictures are phenomenal. And I’m seeing something at the southern end of the sea. Part of that, I’m sure, is because the water is so much shallower there.”

“I did some research on the Dead Sea,” Zeke said. “I wondered about the rock-hard salt crust that forms over the bottom. If Sodom and Gomorrah are down there, it seems like that would make archaeology difficult.”

“Very much so. Marine archaeology is ten—some say twenty—times harder than terrestrial. In the Dead Sea, with all the salt and chemicals, the density of the water—multiply that times ten. No dig has ever been attempted there.”

“I haven’t done any diving in a long time, but I was certified in the Army. With the Dead Sea being so hard to sink in, seems to me you’d need to wear an awful lot of lead stay down. I read one story of a diver drowning because he had on so much weight he couldn’t get back up. Is an underwater dig even possible?”

“It would be difficult, but not impossible. There is a small company that takes people on what they call ‘extreme dives’ in the Dead Sea. Before that, they did commercial work in that water for many years. They know more about diving there than anyone. I know the owner. He and I could work something out. Probably I would hire the marine archaeologists, and he or one of his people could train them.”

“Sounds like a good plan.”

“That would be the easy part. Before you could even dig you’d have to break up that salt crust. It’s like concrete. The mining company uses dredges, with huge industrial augurs that constantly grind it up and pump it away. We would have to lease one of those.

“Once the crust was removed, our divers could start looking. If we found clear evidence of Sodom and Gomorrah, we could consider building a cofferdam, but you can’t go to all that trouble and expense until you’re sure you’re digging in the right place. You are familiar with cofferdams?”

“Yes. We built a small one as a training exercise in the Army. Essentially you drop sheets of some sturdy material into the sea bottom to create a walled structure, then you drain the water from inside so you can work on dry land.”

“Exactly. But again, building one of the size we’d need, in the Dead Sea, could easily cost a million or more and take months. Unless you were sure you were digging in the right place, it would make no sense. And with our deadline…”

Zeke nodded. “What did you see in the shuttle photos?”

“Shadows under the water of the southern basin. Near the Israeli-Jordanian border, which runs down the middle. Fortunately, the shadows are on our side. Boats have sunk in the sea going back to antiquity, so that could explain some of them. But some have straighter edges, which tends to indicate something more like a building, perhaps. But not necessarily. They could just be chemical deposits. Or ancient trees from when that was dry land. Or nothing. Even with your friend’s interpretation, there is no way to know until you start digging.”

“You have to start somewhere. Assuming your paleographers agree with Dr. Connolly, when you put everything together, that seems like a good place.”

“Agreed.”

“What about getting permission from the mining company to dig on their property?”

“That would not be a problem. The land belongs to Israel, they just lease it. And archaeology always comes first in Israel, although we work closely with the Department of Tourism, coming up with ways to make sites attractive for tourists to bring money into the economy.”

“That should be an easy sell. If we find Sodom and Gomorrah, Israel will have a tourist attraction as big as the pyramids. Bigger, considering the lure of evil.”

Mordecai nodded. “Sadly, I must agree. Evil is big business. People always want to visit the places where the worst things happened. In any case, we would only be working in a small area of the mining operation, and they could work around us. Aside from permissions, there would still be all the other problems associated with any dig. Logistics would be a better word, since you are a military man. Equipment, personnel, lodging. It would get very expensive very quickly. The expense would be the hardest part for me to sell.”

Zeke launched into the sales pitch he’d been rehearsing.

“Quite understandable. Everything always boils down to money, so let’s talk about my proposal in financial terms. I would pay the entire expense of the dig, up to five million dollars. I don’t know all the costs associated with such a project, but I’ve got to believe that if we spend five million and still haven’t found Sodom and Gomorrah, it’s time to give it up.”

“I agree. It shouldn’t cost nearly that much for us to reach a conclusion.”

“In any case,” Zeke said, “we will create jobs and be putting money into an area that desperately needs it. I know tourism is a huge part of the economy, and the southern basin of the Dead Sea is one of the main tourist destinations. The hotels there are suffering badly because of terrorism. Not just there. Tourism throughout the country is suffering. But imagine if we find Sodom and Gomorrah. It would be arguably the greatest find of all time. Like finding Atlantis. And of course Israel would have ownership of all the artifacts discovered, which would be priceless. And the whole thing would not have cost you a shekel.”

Mordecai leaned back, clasped his hands across his stomach, and smiled. “You are a very persuasive man. Perhaps you should make the sales pitch.”

“I’ll leave that in your capable hands. If your people say yes, we need to get started as soon as possible. Would you be able to help me put the dig together?”

“Yes. That is my job. In this case, it would be my pleasure.”

“Sounds like you would have plenty to keep you busy.”

“It would be a good busy. A much better busy than the paper-shuffling I’ve been doing.”

“I’d want to keep this whole thing as quiet as possible. Especially the Hell part. If that got out, the media and religious fanatics would descend on us like a plague of locusts.”

“Oh, I had no intention of mentioning the Hell part. You’ve convinced me, but my colleagues would never believe it. I wouldn’t blame them. As far as keeping a dig for Sodom and Gomorrah quiet…we won’t advertise it, but these things get out, Zeke. Too many people would have to know about it. There would be no way to keep it secret. We’d draw some attention, but probably not too much. People aren’t very interested in the start of a dig—only when it’s done and you’ve actually found something.”

“Fine,” Zeke said. “Listen, Mordecai, I’m no archaeologist. Once the dig was underway we’d need someone on-site to oversee the operation. Could you do that, with your responsibilities here?”

“Yes. My assistant is very capable. I’d have to check in periodically, but yes. I could be your field director. I would like that very much.”

“Excellent.”

Mordecai opened his mouth as if to say something else, but hesitated.

“What?” Zeke said.

“I have several top professionals in mind for key positions, most of them Israelis. Jews. But there is someone else I’d want to hire. The man I spoke of earlier. Hassan. The one who was going to marry my daughter. I gave him his first marine archaeology job when he got out of college. He’s very good. Rusty, because he’s been working on land for many years, but we can get him up to speed quickly. But the reason I want him is much more personal than professional. It’s the vow he and I made to do something to stop the senseless slaughter. This dig is it. He needs it like I do, deep down in his soul.”

“Then give him the job. What’s the problem?”

Again, Mordecai hesitated. “There are a couple problems. He is Palestinian. An Arab among all those Jews…They are all professionals, but…the potential for friction would be very high. Very bad for a dig.”

Impatience rippled through Zeke and he leaned forward. “Mordecai, listen. I’ve had it with Arabs and Jews hating each other for all eternity. So has the rest of the world. It’s a crock of shit. You understand that expression? Crock of shit?”

He stifled a grin. “I’ve used it many times when I’m with my American friends.”

“The whole reason for this dig is to eliminate evil—hate—from the world. To bring people together in peace and harmony. That starts on my dig. Here’s an idea: If we find Sodom and Gomorrah, maybe Israel and the Palestinians could actually work together to develop its economic potential for the benefit of both parties. God knows they’ve been talking about it for decades. I like to think that all God’s children will come together in the end, to live happily ever after in Heaven with the Almighty, but down here, nothing promotes togetherness like the almighty dollar.”

“You do have a way with words. I’m not sure I want to play Scrabble with you.”

“Stick to those annoying 3-letter words and I’ll self-destruct.”

“Your idea of a joint project has merit. Israel and the PLO agreed to work together for their mutual economic benefit almost twenty years ago, in the Oslo Accords. You remember those?”

Zeke remembered them very well. He’d read them with great interest when he’d found out that the Accords had gone into effect on the exact same day in 1993 as the horror in the jungle. “Yes. Many lofty promises were made that were never kept.”

“Maybe it’s time.”

“It is time. Can you dust off those agreements and get people talking to each other?”

“I will make it part of my proposal.”

“Good. Now—as far as having your Palestinian friend on our dig, if we can’t bring two people together, how can we bring together seven billion? The people on my dig are going to leave their prejudice at the door. If they have a problem with that, I’ll handle it. I’d love to get their butts all in the same room and talk—or knock—some sense into them.”

“Some of these men might not be easy to knock. They were in Special Forces. Tough as nails.”

“I was in Special Forces also. If they’re the nail, I’m the hammer. Don’t worry about it. It’s probably not even going to be an issue. If it is, I’ll handle it. Trust me. You said there were a couple problems. What’s the other one?”

“Hassan would need to know the ultimate reason for the dig.”

“You mean Hell.”

Rosen nodded.

Zeke’s eyes bore into him. “You trust him?”

“Completely.”

“Is he a good man?”

“I would have been proud to have him for a son.”

“Then tell him. I’m happy to leave all the details in your hands. You’re the expert. I only have one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“Whenever a decision has to be made about how to proceed, I have the final word.”

“Understood.”

Zeke stood to go. “We both have things to do. Keep me posted and I’ll do the same. Here’s my card with my cell phone number.”

“If our team of paleographers agrees with your friend’s interpretation of the scrolls, I will begin the wheels turning. In any case your proposal is my top priority. We will have the combined knowledge of some of the best paleographers in the world working on this, and I’ll be pushing things along as fast as possible. I’ll keep you posted every step of the way.” He came around the desk and took Zeke’s hand and held it. “Whatever happens, thank you for bringing hope into this old man’s life.”

Zeke smiled. “In the first place, Mordecai, you’re not that old. And in the second place, if we pull this off, we will bring hope to the entire world.”

CHAPTER 30

Washington, D.C. November 1

Zeke and Leah lay basking in the afterglow of their first lovemaking since she had gotten home when the call from Mordecai Rosen came.

“Your Dr. Connolly’s reputation carries a lot of weight among paleographers. Our people agree almost entirely with his interpretation of the scrolls. Of course they will continue to study them and debate—that can go on forever—but they’ve seen enough to convince them a dig is warranted. They aren’t ready to declare that Lot was referring to Hell and Satan, but for our purposes, that doesn’t matter. They have not heard and seen what you and I have, and the decision to mount a dig is ultimately mine. Combining what Lot says with the photographic evidence of an anomaly, it’s time to move some mud in that southern basin.”

“I had a feeling,” Zeke said. “What happens next?”

“I will begin hacking my way through the bureaucracy, putting together a team, working out all the usual details: lodging, transportation, equipment and so forth.”

“I’ll need to take care of some things here, but I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“I will have plenty to keep me busy.”

“You mentioned lodging. Where will we stay?”

“There are kibbutzes, hostels. I will have to see how many people we have and what makes the most sense. There is a small failed hotel with a sign that says For Lease. Perhaps a deal could be made. It looks rundown, but the location would be perfect if it is livable.”

“You’ll need some money. I can send you a check, or wire transfer it to an account, if that’s easier.”

“A check will be better. Then I can set up an account just for the dig.”

Zeke copied down the address and said he would FedEx the check today. “Here we go, Mordecai. On either the greatest quest of all time or the most foolish.”

“We are not fools, Zeke.”

“True. All right then. Let’s go save the world.”

Mordecai laughed. “A modest goal, but a good one.”

Zeke hung up and turned to Leah. “I guess you can tell what that was all about.”

“We’re going on a trip.”

“One hell of a trip,” he said. “Pun intended.”

“Things could start getting crazy from here on out,” Leah said.

“Most definitely.”

She placed her hand on his thigh. “Then we better make the most of our time together.”

“Yeah. We better.”

CHAPTER 31

Jericho. The West Bank. November 1

Tarik set his cup of espresso down and thrust his face toward his son. Hassan sat in a worn armchair on the other side of the coffee table, watching as a haunted look came into the old man’s eyes. Even though he lived alone, Hassan’s father looked around before speaking, as if fearful someone in his small apartment might overhear.

“Do not do this.”

Hassan looked at him in surprise. On the way here, he had wondered what his father’s reaction would be when he told him he was going on an underwater dig for Sodom and Gomorrah. Perhaps he’d feel hurt and abandoned, or worry that Hassan wouldn’t be able to check up on him as often, or be concerned that switching from terrestrial to marine archaeology at this point in his career might be too difficult.

Whatever reaction he’d expected, it wasn’t this. Hassan could understand if he’d told his father they were searching for Hell, but he hadn’t. Mordecai had emphasized that the Hell part of the dig needed to remain confidential.

The look in his father’s eyes wasn’t concern about loneliness, or failing health, or Hassan’s career. It came from someplace else entirely. It seemed to have been triggered by Hassan’s mention that the key factor in putting the dig together was two ancient scrolls.

“Father, why not?”

“Because those scrolls are cursed.”

“What?” In as neutral a voice as he could manage, Hassan said, “How could you know that?”

“You said the person who translated them used to be a priest, and that he got them from a Bedouin in 1947.”

Hassan nodded.

“That Bedouin was me. I am the one who discovered them. I am the one who sold them to that priest.”

Hassan drew his head back. “You never told me that.”

“I am not proud of it. I was hoping to take that story to my grave.”

Thoughts of fate and destiny came into Hassan’s mind as he considered the incredible journey the scrolls had taken. Perhaps his father’s superstition wasn’t so far-fetched. “Why do you say they are cursed?”

“Because I felt it from the moment I found the jar with them in it. That jar had evil in it.”

And now it is leading us to dig for Hell, Hassan thought. Considering the shocking news that his father had discovered the scrolls, Hassan couldn’t not tell him about the search for Hell—possible confirmation that his father’s worst fears might be coming true. He trusted his father completely. Confiding in him would not risk breaching the confidentiality he had promised Mordecai.

In one quick outpouring Hassan told the sequence of events that had led to a dig for Hell: Norah’s murder, the vow he and Mordecai had made, the weeping olive tree in Gethsemane. “Then out of nowhere these scrolls showing the way to Hell walk through Mordecai’s door. Scrolls that you discovered. It’s perfect, don’t you see? It almost has a divine order to it. I can finish what you started.”

“No. Don’t you see? There is an order, but it is not divine. This is Iblis. Shaitan. The Devil himself, finally getting his revenge on me. Through you. You cannot walk into the middle of this.”

Hassan spoke very gently, not wanting to upset him but still needing to say what he felt. “Father,” he said, “I cannot not do this. You walked away from it in 1947. I’m sure you had good reasons, reasons that made sense at the time. But whatever evil there was in that jar—if there is an Iblis or Shaitan controlling things—walking away will never stop him. He must be confronted. And defeated. And that is what I am going to do.”

His father’s look of fearful concern melted into one of sadness. “I admire your courage, Hassan. I always have. But it is not right, that you should pay for my sins.”

Hassan tried to assuage his father’s feelings of guilt. “You make it sound like you are the Evil One, but I know better. You have lived the life of a good man. You are a good man. You taught me right from wrong. You’ve made mistakes, we all do. With the scrolls, you decided you needed money, for whatever reason. Who can say what anyone would do in that situation?”

“Money.” Tarik spat out the word. “That is no excuse. I betrayed my tribe. My family. I stole from them. I was a thief in the night. I tried to make it right later, at the Oasis, and with you. But still I let money make me do the wrong thing. I had not learned my lesson. And now it has cost us dearly.”

Us? “What do you mean?”

Tarik leaned back and closed his eyes. When he opened them a long moment later, they were brimming with tears. “The last years at the Oasis were a struggle financially.”

“I know.”

“The money coming into the cash register was not enough, so…I looked for other ways to keep the doors open. I became a middleman in the black market for antiquities.”

The words hit Hassan like a dagger in the heart. He could not conceal his reaction.

“I know, son,” Tarik said. “I was helping exactly the thieves who would destroy your work. Just to keep my stupid restaurant open. You said I taught you right from wrong. Yes, I did. I tried to, anyway. And one of the things I always told you was that, sooner or later, those who did wrong always paid for it. Yet knowing that, I did what I did, until the punishment inevitably came. A punishment that could only come from Shaitan, because it wasn’t enough just to hurt me. It had to hurt those I love, too. You. And Norah.”

Hassan clenched and unclenched his fist. A moment went by before he could speak. “You’re talking about the link between antiquities theft and terrorism.”

Tarik nodded.

“But you cannot know that the things you bought led directly to the death of Norah.”

“I cannot be sure, no. But…some of the things I bought came from digs in Jericho. And, the dealer I sold them to…He hated the Israelis, especially the barrier around the West Bank.”

Father and son avoided eye contact while Hassan considered this.

He looked around the small living room. It had been turned into a shrine for the dead past. On a small dining table, covered with a stained, faded tablecloth his mother had embroidered, stood several pictures of his mother and father when they were young. The photographs were meticulously arranged to face his father when he sat on the couch. The espresso machine from the Oasis, too big for the kitchen, sat on another small portable rolling table in the far corner. Decades of ghostly memories doubtless haunted him from its lovingly polished surface.

Finally Hassan spoke. “Whatever has happened, the chain of events has led to this. If our name has been shamed by the Devil, it is time to redeem it. And the soul of Norah.”

“I am truly sorry, Hassan. If I had done the right thing it would never have come to this. Now you are going to fight a battle I should have fought.”

“If you had done things differently, maybe I would never have been born. All things happen for a reason. You told me that many times. And whatever the reason, the battle has come down to this group of people. And I have been enlisted into their army.”

“May I live long enough to see you emerge victorious.” Tarik took his son’s hand. “You are sure?”

Hassan responded without hesitation.

“I must do this.”

BOOK FOUR

The Quest

Ask, and it shall be given you;
seek, and ye shall find;
knock, and it shall be opened
unto you.

Matthew 7:7

CHAPTER 32

30,000 feet above the Holy Land. November 25

The jet screamed toward Israel.

Zeke stared through the window at the clouds below, imagining another beneath them, a darkening cloud of evil spreading over the Holy Land. It had been gathering for millennia.

Civilizations were being destroyed by hatreds no one could trace to their origin and no one knew how to stop. In the town where Christians believed Jesus was born to redeem mankind, children were raised to kill in the name of God. Terror had devastated tourism, the engine that drove the economy. Much more importantly, it had all but destroyed hope that there would ever be peace in the region. Ill winds that had blown for thousands of years were fast becoming a hurricane. Zeke imagined himself flying into its eye, on a mission to find out if this ancient urge to kill in the name of God—or Satan—could be traced to a single source. If he was successful, he might trigger the ultimate showdown between good and evil. Armageddon. Whether it would occur on December 21—Creation Day, according to the Mayans—or at all, no one could know. Whatever happened, all Zeke knew was that, if Some Greater Power dictated human events, it had decided now was the time.

Leah had fallen asleep in the seat beside him, her hands folded on her lap. The aisle seat beside her was empty, as were half the seats on the El Al flight. Terrorism had reduced the steady flow of Jerusalem pilgrimages to a trickle. The chance to commune with one’s God could not overcome the fear of being slaughtered by some demented interpreter of his Word.

Evil is winning, Zeke thought. A few days ago he and Leah had celebrated Thanksgiving with Reese and his family, but despite everyone’s gallant effort to give thanks for their blessings, a dull ache in Zeke’s chest had been a constant reminder that it was the first Thanksgiving without his family. He kept picturing their graves at the cemetery and trying to think of what he had left to be thankful for.

Leah.

He pulled his Bible from the seat pouch in front of him. He’d been re-reading the Gospels in an attempt to strengthen his faith against whatever trials might await. He opened to the page he’d bookmarked and found Matthew 16:18:

“…thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church…”

Those words were the foundation upon which Christianity had been built. Peter was the first Pope—the Vicar of Christ, his representative on earth. All Popes since were a continuation of that divine legacy. But it was the next line that Zeke fixated on:

“…and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.”

Dear God, he hoped it was so.

Wanting to silence the incessant drumbeat of doom and doubt in his head, he put the Bible away, plugged his headphones into the armrest jack, and scanned the programming guide for something to lift his spirits. Soothing Environmental Sounds caught his eye and he tuned to that channel.

An exquisitely realistic recording of the seashore came on. When he looked out the window, he almost expected to see waves, lapping against an endless expanse of beach.

Instead he saw a rippling blanket of clouds spread out below, floating by with a majestic life of its own. Forever composing phrases for books he imagined he would one day write—profound tomes on discovering the cosmic beauty in our everyday lives—Zeke saw the clouds as a heavenly quilt, made by God to warm his soul. The setting sun created patches in the celestial fabric in glorious shades of red and orange and pink. Perfectly complementing this lush natural canvas was the sound of ocean waves, gently breaking against the shore. The occasional cry of a wheeling seagull conveyed the feeling of some primordial, uninhabited paradise. Thoughts of hurtling toward some sinister fate began to fade, as though the waves were gently erasing bleak messages from the sand.

He closed his eyes, but the scene below remained vivid behind his eyelids. Enhanced by the soundtrack, it unfolded like a beautifully photographed movie. Gradually the scene dissolved into another equally beautiful one from his own life.

Maui. He and Leah, walking along a secluded beach, holding hands, talking about how wonderful their life together was going to be. The setting sun studded the undulating ocean with rubies and diamonds, giving it the appearance of an idling magic carpet, waiting to transport them to their dreams.

Slicing through the vision like the fin of a shark came the thought of how close he’d come to losing her. Jolted from his reverie, his eyes popped open.

He watched Leah sleeping peacefully until his anxiety subsided, then looked out the window again.

Something didn’t look right.

He turned the volume down on his headset and wiped his eyes to clear his vision.

The soothing clouds had compressed themselves—with impossible speed, it seemed—into a single massive thundercloud in an otherwise clear sky. Even more startling was the way the cloud churned, almost seethed. He’d seen many clouds out of airplane windows, but never had they changed so rapidly. It was like watching a weather video on fast-forward.

Clouds could not do what this cloud was doing. Aside from the impossibly fast transformation, it remained at a fixed point below, as though going the exact same speed as a jet traveling five hundred miles an hour. That couldn’t be. It should have receded into the distance by now.

He watched spellbound as two areas of disturbance within the cloud began assuming a circular aspect. The area inside each circle began to spin, slowly at first but quickly gaining speed. The rest of the cloud gradually flowed into them, as though being sucked down two drains. Struggling for an explanation, Zeke wondered if he could be looking at the formation of twin tornadoes.

Not far beneath the two spinning indentations another began to form. Roughly elliptical and running sideways, its ends reached the outer edges of each swirling ring above it. Serrations began to appear inside the top and bottom edges of this new formation. Staring deep into it, Zeke had the bizarre sensation of looking into a bottomless throat. For an alarming instant he felt himself being drawn toward it, as though it might pull him through the window and into its depths. He recoiled and forced his gaze back to the entrance of the hole.

The new perspective only deepened his alarm.

The serrations had become huge, jagged spikes. He pulled his focus back further, to look at the cloud in its entirety.

No. Not spikes.

Teeth. In a hungry beast’s mouth. Repeatedly snapping shut as if eager to devour prey.

The nimbus had transformed into an enormous face from the pit of Hell. Palpable bloodlust emanated from that greedily snapping mouth. Worse than bloodlust. Soul lust.

He looked back to the eyes. They were pulling him in, too. He felt himself weakening.

Suddenly the mouth flew open and the cloud-thing rocketed toward the plane, a nightmare creature springing from its lair. The maw kept getting bigger until it blotted out the sky. When it reached the end of the wing it opened even wider, as if to swallow the entire plane.

Zeke looked deep into the black throat poised to consume them. Impossibly, he saw the point miles below where the funnel sank into the Atlantic Ocean. A gap surrounding the base of the swirling maelstrom kept the storm-tossed waves from reaching it. The inside walls of the column began to pulsate, as if a hungry gullet were readying itself for digestion. Flickering light from some unseen source created eerily scampering patches of illumination.

He looked from the vision to Leah, wanting to throw his body over her, protect her somehow, but knowing it would do no good if the power outside his window was real. If that gaping maw clamped down, the mission would be over before it started. He would have failed in his vow to protect Leah. And violated whatever sacred trust had been placed in him.

He looked back out the window. The gigantic mouth hung open at the end of the wing. Weeks of smoldering anger at madmen and phantoms he couldn’t confront exploded into full-blown rage. Oblivious to the headphones still on his head, Zeke thrust his face an inch from the window.

“Here I am, you son of a bitch. If you want me come and get me.”

In his ear he heard a sinister purr. “Oh, I will.”

The thing tried to intimidate him with its demonic stare.

Zeke glared back, vaguely aware of Leah pulling on his arm and saying something. Torn, he peered further into the roiling funnel, looking for the source of the light within. Beyond the bottom of the spout, miles away, he thought he saw flames.

Leah’s words began to penetrate. Passengers were spilling into the aisle in alarm. The force outside drew him toward it until he felt sure he would be sucked into the snapping mouth.

He shot a look at Leah. “Do you see that?”

She looked out, then back at him, obviously confused. Zeke leaned close to the window.

The cloud-thing was gone.

“Is there a problem?”

Leah turned to two flight attendants who were keeping the passengers at bay. “Bad dream,” she said. “We’re fine.” She spoke reassuringly until the attendants began herding passengers back to their seats, Leah hovering near them solicitously.

Still staring in disbelief out the window, Zeke was startled by sound in his headphones. He’d forgotten that he still had them on. He turned to yank them from the armrest.

They’d already come unplugged. The end of the cord mocked him.

In his ear a guttural, gloating chuckle, somewhere between a growl and a purr, sent an icy ripple fluttering down his back.

“How do you like my little parlor trick? By the way, don’t you worry about your lovely sister, errand boy. I am taking good care of her. She is waiting for you. We are all waiting for you. You and I have gotten to be such good friends, I will be disappointed if you do not find me. I don’t think you will, but if you do, my door is always open.” There was a pause and the sound of rustling. “Wait. Valerie wants to say hello.”

The soul-withering cackle again came through the headphones. On and on it went, until it seemed it would go on forever unless Zeke did something. His hands balled into tight fists as he shot a whispered hiss of impotent rage through the window at the reddening sky:

“Stop it. Stop it God damn you! I’LL MAKE YOU STOP!!!”

Abruptly the laughing stopped. A second of nothingness followed. Then he felt something.

A moist probing in his ear.

The moaning and mewling sounds of someone becoming sexually aroused.

No. It couldn’t be.

“No. Oh God no. NO!”

He ripped the headphones off and threw them onto the seat, staring in horror. Leah appeared in the aisle and followed his gaze.

A tongue about the length and thickness of a little finger slid from one of the foam rubber ear pads. Not the black forked tongue of a demon, but the pink, moist, healthy tongue of a desirable female. For several seconds it made the licking motions of fellatio, then withdrew. A molten trail of foam rubber and saliva oozed onto the seat, burning a hole where it touched.

Zeke looked at Leah. “Did you see that?” He heard madness quivering in his voice.

“I saw it.”

The beginnings of a growl or a scream rumbled in his throat, his body taut against the possibility that he might start raving, or that the horror might suddenly reappear.

CHAPTER 33

Tel Aviv, Israel

Mordecai Rosen picked Zeke and Leah up at Ben Gurion airport in a van he’d leased for the dig. They waited until he’d made his way through the airport traffic and onto the main road before telling him of the incident on the plane. Mordecai said nothing, only nodding occasionally while keeping his eyes on the constant jockeying along Highway 1. Zeke, still shaken, finally finished the story.

Mordecai remained silent until he had maneuvered his way onto 90—the Dead Sea highway. When he had settled into a comfortable cruising speed high above the western edge of the sea, Leah leaned forward from her seat behind Zeke. “Isn’t this part of the West Bank?”

“Yes and no,” Mordecai said. “This is such a vital lifeline for Dead Sea tourists and industry that Israel has managed to keep it out of Palestinian control.”

Oblivious to his surroundings, Zeke sat grappling with what had happened on the plane. Those things were impossible, but they had happened, and he couldn’t ignore them. Evil existed. And it was waiting.

No. Not waiting. Stalking them.

He ran his hands up over his face and scalp to clear away the fog of troubling thoughts, then looked at Mordecai. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“What do you think of our sky demon?”

“It’s not easy for someone who spends his life looking for concrete proof to believe in demons.” He gave them both a quick sidelong glance. “But you are rational people, and all three of us have seen things science cannot explain.”

“What have you seen?” Leah asked.

He told of his encounter with the Judas tree in the Garden of Gethsemane.

“Something is out there,” she said.

Mordecai passed a truck that said Dead Sea Works, then said, “Baal.”

“What?” Zeke said.

“Your sky demon. The cloud. Baal.”

“As in Baal, the ancient pagan god?”

“Yes. A false idol to some, a demon to others. Among other things, Baal was believed to control the weather.”

“Interesting,” Zeke said.

“Isn’t it,” Mordecai agreed. “Baal was worshipped in many ancient cultures, probably including Sodomites. Certainly including Ammonites, Lot’s descendants.”

They were passing Qumran at a very brisk pace. Mordecai motioned to the gnarled brown hills off to the right. “Where the Dead Sea Scrolls were discovered.”

Zeke said, “That discovery is really what started the chain of events that led us to here.”

“Fate,” Leah said.

“Or Providence,” Zeke said.

Mordecai glanced at them both. “Or something.”

Zeke’s ears popped again, reminding him of Mordecai’s observation that in going from Jerusalem to the Dead Sea, they would descend four thousand feet. Far below the steep cliffs that fell away to their left, he glimpsed a splotch of color that stood out like a blue eye on an albino. Made even more striking by the barren brown mountains surrounding it, the Dead Sea appeared calm and smooth in the late afternoon sun.

Along the far shore, some ten miles away—although they seemed much closer—the deeply furrowed Mountains of Moab rose up from Jordan, forming a spectacular backdrop for the sea. Zeke was reminded of Lake Mead near Las Vegas, its turquoise in sharp contrast to the stark brown Nevada landscape. And the deeply etched and desolate terrain of Death Valley, the way mountains descended to a depression in the earth had that seemed impossibly far below. But this was much more dramatic.

“Whoa,” Leah said. “What’s wrong with this picture?” Trees and waterfalls had suddenly appeared in the desert landscape.

“Ein Gedi,” Mordecai explained. “An oasis that’s become a major tourist attraction. There are places to eat if you’re hungry.”

Zeke knew they were both famished after the long, grueling flight, but he was in no mood to stop. “How much longer before we get where we’re going?”

“Ten, fifteen minutes.”

Zeke shook his head. “Let’s come back when we can enjoy it. Right now I’d rather just get there. Do we need to stop for groceries?”

Mordecai looked at Leah in the mirror. She widened her eyes to convey how hungry she was. “No,” he said. “We have a fully stocked kitchen. I think you’ll be pleased.”

CHAPTER 34

The Dead Sea. Dig Headquarters.

“It’s not the best-looking building,” Mordecai explained as he helped carry their bags into the lobby, “but compared to the usual accommodations on a dig, it’s the Taj Mahal.”

He had leased the failed hotel. It was easy to see why it had failed. Drab and unattractive, made of painted cinderblock and shaped like a cereal box, it looked like a lonely, forgotten outpost. That didn’t matter. Its location at the midpoint of the western edge of the shallow southern basin of the Dead Sea made it perfect.

They followed Mordecai through the lobby and up the stairs. “There is an elevator, but, unfortunately, it needs a part. The elevator man ordered it, but he didn’t give me a good feeling about its chances of actually getting here any time soon. For now we’ll have to schlep everything up the stairs.”

“No problem,” Zeke said. “We’ll need all the exercise we can get.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Mordecai said as they kept walking past the first-floor landing, “because I put you on the second floor. More privacy, I thought. No one above you for the foreseeable future. Further away from any late-night activity going on downstairs.”

“That’s fine, Mordecai,” Zeke said. “Good decision.”

They went though the door from the stairs and stopped at the first room on the left. “Here you are,” Mordecai said. “Room 201. The side with a view of the water, of course. Hassan and I are in 202, across from you. Our commute to the control room downstairs is a minute. Maybe two.”

“Gotta love that,” Zeke said.

They went in and set the luggage down. Leah swung one of the bags up onto the bed. “I’ll start unpacking while you guys bring in the rest of our stuff.”

“After that I can give you the rest of the tour,” Mordecai said.

“I hope the tour ends in the kitchen,” Leah said. “Those airline peanuts wore off hours ago.”

“The tour shall be brief and end in the kitchen,” Mordecai said. “After we eat, let’s call it a day. I know you’re tired after that long flight, and our team will be, too. They’ve been working long days on the boats, getting everything ready. Better for everyone to meet in the morning, when we’re fresh. We can go over the plan for the dig then.”

They finished bringing in the luggage and headed downstairs, Mordecai explaining the layout as they went. “A renovating crew was in here working double, sometimes triple, shifts to make the place livable. It took them a week to get the entrance road and grounds cleared of debris and trimmed.”

There were fifty rooms, ten on each of the five floors above the lobby. Floors one and two would be handling the immediate lodging needs of the dig. The others could be made ready on short notice as necessary. All twenty rooms on the first two floors had been cleaned and furnished with new twin beds, allowing two people to share a room. Zeke and Leah thanked him for getting them a king-sized bed.

“It was a no-brainer,” Mordecai said. “Other than the bed, the rooms are all essentially the same. Once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.”

In the lobby Mordecai merely waved at the modest front counter and utilitarian commercial furnishings left over from the building’s days as a motel. “This place was obviously built as a low-cost alternative to the expensive hotels up the road.”

They went through a door and down a long corridor behind the lobby. Like the corridors above, it ran the length of the hotel and ended at the two staircases at either end. Mordecai showed them the five rooms on one side of the corridor. The first two were being used to store equipment and supplies; the next two would initially be used as classrooms for teaching the specialized skills needed for underwater archaeology at the Dead Sea. The last was an exercise room. There were two sets of free weights and two exercise machines.

“I got as much as I could of the stuff on the list you gave me,” Mordecai said.

Zeke nodded appreciatively. “You done good, Mordecai. If nothing else we’ll be in great shape.”

“You both look like you’re already in great shape.”

“I own a fitness gym in D.C., and we both work out a lot, but…with everything that’s been going on, exercise has kind of fallen by the wayside.”

“All this shiny new equipment has me psyched to get back into it,” Leah said.

The space on the opposite side of the corridor had not been subdivided into smaller rooms, leaving one very large room instead.

“The hotel probably used it for staff meetings,” Mordecai explained. “And probably an employee lounge. For us, this will be our field lab, our headquarters. This is where we’ll analyze finds, have our meetings, coordinate everything. We’ve been calling it the War Room.”

“Very apt,” Zeke said, “considering our ultimate mission.”

Computers and printers were set up on several small tables around the room. Three plain gray office desks were arranged in a cluster so administrative personnel could work closely together while having their individual space. Along the right wall, several rectangular folding tables had been pushed together to create one long one. Small implements and tools were neatly arranged along its surface. A similar table ran down the center of the room. Several workstations had been set up around it for various types of analysis, judging from the magnifying glasses and other utensils. A large safe for securing valuable finds sat in the far corner.

“I know we’re hungry,” Mordecai said, “so you can get a closer look at everything in the morning. This way to the kitchen.”

They went through a swinging door in the wall to their left. The kitchen looked like restaurant kitchens all over the world. Large pots, ladles, spoons, cutting and chopping implements hung from an overhead carousel attached to a long wooden table. There were two large ovens, two deep fryers, a large walk-in freezer and a three-door stainless steel refrigerator. Everything had obviously been disinfected and scoured to a gleaming shine. They made sandwiches and followed Mordecai through another swinging door on the opposite side of the kitchen.

Zeke had told Mordecai to spare no expense in making the lounge a good place to unwind after the grueling days that undoubtedly lay ahead. He’d emphasized having a high-quality audiovisual system that could double as a home theater, envisioning possible movie nights. About twenty-five yards away, the far end of the lounge looked like the showroom of an electronics store.

They sat at the largest of about two dozen black vinyl-covered tables set up for dining. “From here the system looks good,” Zeke said.

“So the salesman says. At those prices, it better be.”

They unceremoniously dug into their sandwiches. A few minutes later Zeke finished the potato chip he was munching on and said, “You mentioned that the crew has been working on the boats. We have boats? Plural?”

“Yes. Two. We’re leasing them from two brothers. They’ve been taking people on Dead Sea tours for years, but business was slow, so they were glad to have the steady income. The fee includes having them as captains to handle the sailing. I’m trying to be as careful as I can with the money, Zeke, but with the salaries necessary to get good people, and our other overhead…it could get up to somewhere around a million a year.”

Zeke waved it away. “No problem. Hopefully it won’t take us anywhere near a year to find something, but whatever it takes, it takes. We can re-evaluate the situation as we go, based on whatever we’re finding. So. You were talking about the boats.”

“Right. They’ll shuttle us back and forth to the site, about 2.5 miles each way. During the day they’ll be moored at the site, managing the dig.”

Zeke held up his soda. “You’re awesome, Mordecai. To put all this together in less than a month.”

“With enough money, the rest is just details. But, yes, I do have my moments.”

“When we talked on the phone, you said everything was in readiness. Everything?”

“Yes. We start digging tomorrow.”

“You said there were several anomalies to investigate. Have we got enough people?”

“We have a team of twenty. That should be plenty to get us started. I have a dozen more on standby, ready to go if—when—we find something major. We can go over the specifics in the morning. For now, we have much more pressing business.” He motioned toward the audiovisual equipment. “I’m sure you want to see this digital cocoon.”

They finished eating and made their way to the entertainment center. A dozen vinyl-covered swivel chairs had been placed in front of the television on what had apparently been a small dance floor. Via satellite the 72” HDTV received the entire 500-channel universe. Mordecai gestured at the five speakers arrayed around the room. “Surround sound. And the television is high-definition. The DVD player plays Blu-ray discs, whatever they are. I guess they let you see every blemish and hear every pin drop. The chairs can easily be moved to turn this into a discotheque, in case some booty needs shaking.”

Leah almost spit out some of her soda. “Oh my God. Booty-shaking. You are one hip archaeologist.”

Mordecai smiled. “Some of my classmates at Texas A&M did their best to teach me how to be cool. I think I was moderately hip at one time, but now, alas…I think my booty is all shook out.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Zeke was admiring several components stacked inside a glass cabinet. “Nice stuff, Mordecai. Good job. We may never want to leave the lounge.”

Mordecai smiled. “I’ve created a monster.”

“The way this man loves movies,” Leah said, “you have, Herr Frankenstein. I guess that makes me the burgomeister. I’ll be in charge of keeping you boys from getting too cozy with your ale at the inn.”

“You’re much prettier than the average burgomeister,” Mordecai said.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a while.”

“What?” Zeke said, rejoining them. “That you’re better looking than Lionel Atwill?”

Leah gave him a playful punch on the arm. “Okay, showoff. Besides, don’t you mean Lionel Belmore? He played the burgomeister in Frankenstein.”

He rubbed his arm as if she had inflicted major damage. “I was thinking of Lionel Atwill in The Vampire Bat. As many horror movies as he was in, he must have played the burgomeister in something.”

“So are you saying I’m not the prettiest burgomeister you’ve ever seen?”

“Oh no. By far.” They held each other’s gaze, trying not to laugh. “I know what side my popcorn is buttered on.”

“And don’t you forget it.” She turned to Mordecai. “Are we done with the tour? I’m pretty beat.”

“We’re done. Anything else can wait.”

“What time are we meeting in the morning?” she asked.

“Once we are officially underway we will be starting as early as possible. But for our first day, seven. Is that okay for you?”

“Seven will be fine. See you then.”

She took Zeke by the hand and gently led him away.

CHAPTER 35

While the rest of the team was at the boats getting everything ready for departure to the site, the nine people who would be supervising various aspects of the dig sat around the large table in the center of the War Room.

“Seven o’clock,” Mordecai said. “Now that Zeke and Leah have arrived, the Sodom and Gomorrah dig is officially under way.”

He waited for the cheer to die down and continued. “As you can see, English will be the official language of the dig, since it is the one we all have in common. You’ve had a chance to meet each other over breakfast, and there will be plenty of time later to get to know each other. For now I’ll just formally introduce myself, then we can discuss our strategy for the dig.

“I am Mordecai Rosen. I’ve been doing marine archaeology for over 40 years. In 2000, I went to the doctor for my first annual physical. He told me I had a heart murmur and should stop diving. I was foolish enough to listen to him, so since then I have been grounded as the head of marine archaeology at the Antiquities Authority. Zeke came into my office with his proposal, needed someone with experience to be the director, and hired me. The first thing I did was get another physical. The heart murmur is gone, and I have been cleared to dive again—which I will. I will be leading the team on the largest anomaly. But before I go on, let me make something very clear.

“I am the director, yes, but—although Zeke doesn’t have an official title—he is the one ultimately in charge. He is our sponsor, and this dig is entirely his, from beginning to end. He’s happy to leave the details of the dig in the hands of the professionals, but when in doubt, he has the final word. Zeke, did you want to say something?”

“I do. Mordecai has probably already addressed this, but I want to say it now, while we’re all together, so everyone understands. We have Jews, Christians, and a Muslim on our team. That mix has caused a lot of trouble in the world, but it’s not going to cause any trouble on this dig. I know you’re all professionals, and good people, or Mordecai wouldn’t have hired you. But we are still human.

“I have only one rule on this dig: Thou shalt get along. We are a team, and we will help each other. Our religion, our nationality—all that gets left outside. In here, the team—the dig—is all that matters. On this dig, we are not Christians and Jews and Muslims. We are good human beings, trying to bring a little light into the world.

“Don’t get me wrong. We’ll have some fun along the way, I’ll make sure of that. But there will be no arguing, no politics.

“Period. I won’t have it. If anyone has a problem with that, they can leave now. No hard feelings. Better to leave now, amicably, than have it flare up later. Because if it does, it’ll be ugly, and you will still be gone.”

He looked around the table, pointedly making eye contact with each person. No one said anything. “Good. Sorry to be unpleasant, but that’s one thing I wanted to be perfectly clear on from day one.”

“All right,” Mordecai said. “So. We are the ones responsible for making this whole thing run smoothly. Let’s go over procedures for a moment.

“We have twenty divers to start with. When Zeke and Hassan are up to speed, we will have two more. We’ll be digging in shallow water—ten to fifteen feet—so we won’t need to use any special air mixture to extend our bottom time. Still, three to four hours is probably the maximum—and even that may be stretching it. We’ll find our limits once we start doing it. We’ll divide into teams. One team will dig while the other rests, does equipment maintenance and so forth, then they will trade places. The teams will keep alternating so we can dig as long as possible.”

“What about that salt crust on the bottom?” Zeke said.

“It’s been ground up and moved away. After that we did a survey with a subbottom profiler, in the area where we saw the anomalies in the shuttle photos. This new survey gives us a much clearer picture of what’s underneath the bottom.”

“Subbottom profiler?” Leah said. “How does that work?”

“You tow the profiler with your boat and shoot a sonar beam at the bottom. Different types of material reflect the sound waves back differently, like concrete, gas, an old sunken boat. The image shows up on your monitor.”

“Kind of like X-raying the bottom,” she said.

“In effect, yes. A GPS unit gives us very precise coordinates of the anomaly. A map of the site.”

“You said the survey showed several anomalies,” Zeke said. “One in particular you were excited about.”

“Yes. It’s by far the largest. Two six-man teams will be assigned to it initially.”

“Any idea what it is?”

“This is a humbling business,” Mordecai said. “Painful experience teaches us never to get too excited based on the survey. Still…” He paused, obviously trying to contain his excitement. “…the overall size and shape of this particular anomaly makes us think…it could be a building.”

CHAPTER 36

The Dead Sea

An hour later the two identical tour boats they’d chartered came to the anomalies where the dig would begin. Marker buoys from earlier dives showed them exactly where to anchor.

As the first boat glided into position, Zeke stood on the upper deck at the bow, taking it all in. He knew little about boats, but these had seen better days. They looked clumsy and top-heavy. Their double decks reminded him of a sightseeing cruise his family had taken on a Florida vacation when he was little. Years of sailing on the Dead Sea had badly weathered their wooden hulls; the white paint of the decks was all but gone.

Mordecai came up and touched him on the elbow. “Come on. Let me show you the map of the site.” They went downstairs to the main deck.

The rows of seats for tourists had been removed, and the space converted into a large control room that ran nearly the length of the boat. Several large windows along each side, normally open to give the tourists a breeze and a better view, were closed to minimize the salt air and spray that would inevitably get on the equipment.

Several monitors were arrayed around a long table in the center of the room. The two men went to the largest, a 32” widescreen flat panel. Mordecai clicked the mouse and an image filled the screen. Against a white background, he pointed to four thin black lines that formed a very even rectangle.

“I inserted those to show the boundaries of the dig. Anomalies show up in green.” He pointed to a smaller green rectangle, about the size of a business card, inside the boundaries. “This is the one I told you about. It’s almost right underneath us. These could be the walls of a building.”

“‘Could be?’ What else could they be?”

“Hard to say, but I’ve learned never to assume. The mining company uses solar ponds to collect the salt and chemicals for extraction. These could be what’s left of old bulkheads they replaced decades ago. They could be something we can’t even guess at. Something that fell off a ship in antiquity, maybe. There used to be a lot of trade. Only digging will tell us.”

“How large is it?”

“About 40 yards by 50 yards. That makes it similar in size to ancient temples or palaces. But the mining company says some of their original solar ponds were about that size. Again, only digging will give us the answer.”

“If these are the walls of a building, wouldn’t you see signs of a floor in the middle?”

“Not necessarily. It could have eroded away. Or it might be too far down for sonar to reach.”

“I see a few other green spots that don’t seem to have any definite shape. Are we planning on excavating those also?”

“Yes. As you can see, there are three other anomalies, considerably smaller. All in an area about a hundred yards to the northeast. We will work our way through those one at a time, starting with the closest. The teams on the other boat are starting on the first one while we work on this.”

A man in an abbreviated version of a wetsuit came in. Zeke had met him only long enough to shake hands in the War Room. He’d already forgotten his name, but had been impressed by his imposing presence. He obviously worked out and had swarthy good looks: strong square face, thick curly black hair. The shadow of his dark beard was already visible.

“We’re almost ready, Mordecai.”

“Very good. Zeke, have you met Joe Dayagi?”

“Yes, I met Joe in the War Room. Just for a second, though.” They nodded at each other in acknowledgment.

“Joe is a particularly good man to have on our team. He’s an ex-Israeli Naval commando, with expertise in a lot of areas: electronics, navigation systems, munitions. Didn’t you help design some weapons, Joe?”

“Not design them exactly, just modified a couple things for certain types of combat.”

“Joe will be showing up in different places on the dig, depending on where we need him.” Dayagi nodded and left.

Mordecai put a hand on Zeke’s shoulder. “All right. You’re in charge of monitoring things in here. Time for me to pull my dive team together.”

“I’ll be back there in a few minutes to see you off. I want to witness the official plunge that will begin the search for Sodom and Gomorrah.”

Mordecai started to leave but stopped and turned back around. “By the way. Remember when you first came into my office, we talked about dusting off the Oslo Accords, seeing if we could use them to make this a joint Israeli-Palestinian project? Maybe actually start to bring about the economic cooperation that was agreed upon?”

“I remember.”

“They’re going to keep collecting dust. I got nowhere with that idea.”

“I’m not surprised. It’s been almost twenty years. If they were going to be acted upon, it would have been done by now.” Zeke shrugged. “It was worth a shot.”

Mordecai nodded and left to join the other divers at the stern. Zeke went up the stairs to the bow to fully savor the moment.

The first thing he noticed was the ever-present briny smell. Tinged with sulfur. Brimstone.

The Bible said God had rained fire and brimstone down on Sodom and Gomorrah. Could they still be smoldering after thousands of years? He thought of the long-smoldering remains of the World Trade Center. One of many hells around the world…a network of demons…

The water was slightly choppy in the morning breeze. The Devil’s Sea, the ancient Greeks had called it. Looking around, Zeke could easily see why. Behind them, the steep, craggy hills of the Judaean Wilderness formed the western shoreline, their gnarled faces glowering down in seeming disapproval of all who came there. To the east, along the Jordanian shore, higher, more forbidding cliffs loomed. Deeply shadowed furrows resembled a monstrous brow, forever clenched in angry witness of intruders into its domain.

Zeke remembered the lush, beautiful mountains of Maui, cloud halos often encircling their peaks. He and Leah had agreed that only the most hardened atheist could look at something so transportingly beautiful and not feel the presence of a God.

Here, the feeling was one of death and despair. This was a sea in which virtually nothing lived and a land on which almost nothing grew. Dogged persistence and technology had made certain areas habitable, but even so, none but the hardy Bedouin had ever truly called this area home. From the moment Zeke had first laid eyes on this region, one word kept coming to him to describe it: Godforsaken.

It was time to bring God back to reclaim this unhallowed ground.

The water was changing from a bleak, leaden gray to a vibrant blue, as if light from the rising sun were breathing life into it. The choppy water was becoming calm. An eerie layer of evaporation haze began dispersing into wraiths of smoke. They struck Zeke as wary souls, wondering at the sudden intrusion of this alien life form into their lifeless realm.

“Whatever secrets you have,” he said to the strange body of water, “we are going to uncover.”

The divers had finished dressing out when he reached the stern. After experimenting with several different types of wetsuits, they’d settled on the thinnest, lightest short john they could get. Worn by triathletes, short johns were sleeveless and only covered the legs above the knees, allowing for maximum flexibility while adding the least warmth in water that, even in winter, would already be approaching ninety degrees. They wore full-face masks to protect them from swallowing any of the potentially fatal chemical stew that was the Dead Sea. The masks also allowed them to have microphones for voice communication.

Zeke shook each man’s hand and wished him well, then watched the series of small splashes that heralded the underwater phase of their quest. He watched until they all disappeared into the Devil’s Sea.

“Now there’s a leap of faith,” he said quietly, and the slightest hint of a smile brightened his somber mood. When the last ripples faded, he went into the control room to begin his monitoring duties.

The limited visibility at the bottom was improved somewhat by the diver handling the airlift, who floated around sucking away the sediment stirred up by digging. Another diver was recording the dig with a video camera wirelessly connected to a receiver in the control room. A visibility enhancement unit was plugged into the receiver, which in turn was connected to the computer. The end result was that objects barely visible through the camera’s viewfinder were reasonably clear and distinct on the large screen monitor in the control room.

Zeke sat watching the live footage. He estimated visibility below at about ten feet. Plenty to get the job done. The divers began executing their duties with well-rehearsed precision.

Swimming to the rectangular anomaly, the six-man team started at the marker buoy they’d left earlier at the nearest corner. They quickly settled into a smooth routine as they focused on their various tasks. Four diggers fanned away silt with gloved hands. The diver with the airlift sucked the stirred-up sediment through the six-inch opening, ready to instantly modify his approach when they reached the anomaly. The videographer floated around documenting the dig.

With the salt crust removed, the loose bottom yielded easily and they quickly came to the anomaly. Finding no artifacts to slow their digging, in three hours they had cleared a section ten feet long and ten deep—more than enough to determine what it was. Several courses of large stones carefully laid in a precise pattern made the conclusion unmistakable. Mordecai had held off on making any pronouncements about what they were uncovering, not wanting to jinx anything. Now he stated the obvious into his microphone.

“It’s a wall,” he said with an almost exaggerated calm. “Stone. Very well quarried from somewhere. Expertly laid by masons, obviously. This has to be a man-made building.”

“Copy,” Zeke said.

Looking at the dedicated hands working to uncover a wall that other long-dead hands had built, perhaps thousands of years ago to honor their god or king, he finally understood why people became archaeologists.

CHAPTER 37

About a hundred yards northeast of the wall, the four-man team headed by Jack Shelby was excavating the first of the other three smaller anomalies. Shelby had worked for many seasons at the buried city of Caesarea in the Mediterranean. An expert on the Middle Bronze Era of Sodom and Gomorrah, his specialty was epigraphy—inscriptions.

His team had run a cord around the perimeter of the anomaly, marking off a square about 30 feet on each side. One person manned the camcorder and another the airlift, leaving Shelby and an Israeli grad student named Lev to do the digging. Working their way in tandem back and forth—“mowing the lawn”—in two hours they’d excavated the square to a depth of about two feet. So far they had not found anything.

Shelby looked at the dive computer on his wrist. “We can go for at least another hour,” he said into the voice-activated microphone positioned near his mouth. “Everybody okay?” He got a quick affirmative, and the digging continued. A few minutes later he said, “Hold it. I’ve got something.”

It was a fragment, apparently of pottery. One of the commonest finds, it could mean anything. The location was logged, the potsherd bagged, and the work continued.

“What’s this?”

Lev was pointing at something clumped over with mud. An encrusted protuberance jutted out from a buried circular mass about two feet in diameter. The videographer was keeping a record of the in situ locations of the finds, so before the anomaly was moved he punched its location into the larger dive computer affixed to his waist. When that was done, Shelby gently coaxed the shape from the muck. Mud that may have encased it for millennia washed away easily, revealing a heavily corroded metal object with a handle—almost certainly a pot or other implement used for cooking.

“We may be uncovering somebody’s kitchen,” he said.

Something a little farther away glinted in the light from the camcorder. He handed the pot to Lev. “Hold this for a second.” A few gentle kicks of his fins took him down to the spot.

There were several shiny objects. He called the videographer down to log the location, then plucked one of the finds from the ooze. The videographer came in for a close-up as Shelby very delicately brushed the mud away with a fingertip.

A coin.

Coins were invaluable not only because they could help date a period, but their depictions and inscriptions could provide information about the society in which they were used. The one he held had what looked like a man’s likeness on one side, with words underneath. He couldn’t decipher them at this point, but most likely they identified the man whose face was on the coin.

On the obverse side was a scene too worn to identify. Squinting, he guessed it might depict an animal with some human features, although he was not at all sure.

His archaeologist’s imagination started to soar, but the tether of reason yanked it rudely back to earth.

This could be the piece of evidence that killed the dig. Although the find was still valuable, and they still seemed to be uncovering an ancient civilization, the coin made it very unlikely that this could be Sodom and Gomorrah.

The earliest known use of coins was around 600 B.C. Sodom and Gomorrah would have existed at least a thousand years before that. Even allowing for the dates being off by plus or minus a couple hundred years, he couldn’t make the stretch to a thousand. Unless…

New discoveries were made every day that pushed back the timeline of the old ones. Could he be holding something that changed—not just changed, shattered—everything known about the use of money? Stranger things had happened.

Thorough analysis back at the War Room should give the answer. Quelling his irritation at having to wait that long, he continued turning the coin over but could glean nothing further. “Everyone come here for a minute,” he said.

Seconds later they were gathered around. Shelby waited as they took turns inspecting the coin, savoring one of the relative handful of moments of discovery in an archaeologist’s life. The coin came back to him and he placed it into a small waist pouch. “I saw some other spots glinting in the light. Let’s use the rest of our time to do some sieving in this area, see if there are more of these.”

He and Lev swam to the equipment bag they’d anchored to the bottom and took out two items that looked like pie tins with screen bottoms. Returning to the location of the first coin, they went to work. Like miners panning for gold, they used the sieves to scoop the mud, then shake it out until only solid objects remained.

Immediately Shelby found another coin. Then another. Then another. Lev began finding them as well. By the time the alarm on Shelby’s dive computer went off, they had found twelve.

As the team finned gently toward the surface, Jack Shelby wondered if the dozen coins at his waist might begin to unlock the secrets of a cursed people.

CHAPTER 38

Dig Headquarters

Electricity crackled through the dinnertime conversations in the lounge that evening. No one had ever been on—or even heard of—a dig whose first day was so successful. They had made great progress in uncovering The Wall, as they had dubbed it, and found potsherds and a pot from the Bronze Era.

The strongest buzz, however, was about the coins. Everyone hoped analysis would somehow confirm that they were digging in the right place, despite the fact that coin usage was unknown in the time of Sodom and Gomorrah.

As dinner wound down, Mordecai banged a spoon on his glass to get everyone’s attention.

“Thanks to today’s success, we have the best problem an archaeologist can have: a lot more digging to do. We’ll have to begin starting earlier, to make full use of the daylight. We’ll need to be at the boats by six, so we can be in the water by seven. Does this pose a problem for anyone?” No one said anything. “Good. Then I will see you all here early tomorrow morning. Leave yourself enough time to get to the boats by six.”

After dinner Zeke went to the War Room. About a dozen people were studying charts, staring at computer monitors, having animated discussions. Mordecai had a phone glued to his ear, enlisting more people for the dig. At the long table in the center of the room, Leah and Jack Shelby sat beside one another, studying the coins through magnifying glasses.

Zeke went over and stood beside Leah. A large reference book was open in front of her. Beside that was a Bible. “Figured anything out yet?”

“Yes!” she said, holding up the coin she’d been scrutinizing. “Jack just deciphered the inscription that identifies the face on this coin as Bera.”

“Bera? Doesn’t ring a bell. Should it?”

She nodded toward the open Bible. “According to Genesis, Bera was the king of Sodom.”

Zeke remained silent for a long moment. “Excuse me,” he finally said. “This takes a minute to sink in.”

“Quite understandable,” Shelby said. “We had the same reaction.” He gestured at the small circles of rough-hewn metal carefully laid out on the table. “The significance of these coins is enormous. We have here the first direct proof of the existence of Sodom. Not a second-hand reference, but an artifact directly from the city itself. But they’re significant in other ways as well. For one thing, on our first day we may have pushed back the earliest known use of coins by at least a thousand, maybe fifteen hundred years. In archaeology a quantum leap like that is virtually unheard-of.”

Zeke tried to look impressed, but there was only one find he was genuinely interested in. “Does this confirm that where we’re digging is Sodom?”

“Almost certainly,” Shelby said.

“‘Almost’?”

“There is the possibility—remote, but possible—that Sodom could still be somewhere else, that some traveler from there might have brought their coins to this location.”

Zeke frowned. “What are the odds? I mean, how valuable could the currency of Sodom have been anywhere else but Sodom?”

Even as he asked the question he knew it was impossible to know the answer, but the patience necessary to establish a historical fact beyond any doubt was not his strong suit.

“The possibility is slight,” Shelby said, “but it is possible. We don’t know enough yet. Certainly Sodom was no world power like Rome, whose currency would have been good everywhere, like ours is today. But it is conceivable that a currency exchange could have existed, say, among the so-called five cities of the plain. Of which Sodom and Gomorrah were two.”

“So, at this point, we might still be dealing with any of those five cities?”

“Or even someplace else that we’ve never heard of. But don’t worry. At the rate we’re excavating, with any luck we’re bound to have collaborative proof soon.”

Zeke nodded, slowly allowing common sense to overcome his impatience.

“And I still haven’t mentioned what’s on the other side of this,” Shelby said. “It fits in perfectly with the legend of Sodom.”

Zeke squinted at the worn, crudely-fashioned coin while the epigrapher explained.

“It’s a picture of one of the legendary ancient Semitic gods. The inscription gives us his name.”

“Which is?”

“Baal.”

Zeke and Leah exchanged a quick uneasy glance, remembering Mordecai’s earlier mention of the pagan deity and its supposed ability to control the weather.

“There were countless ancient streams of Baalism,” Shelby said. “Each had different rituals associated with it. In some cases, Baal was worshipped as the embodiment of sensuality and lust.”

Leah indicated the open reference book. “It says here that homage was sometimes paid to Baal by copulation with animals, among other things.”

“Which by no means settles the case,” Shelby said, “but Sodom’s reputation for wickedness might not be just a myth.” Very pointedly he added, “In the Bible, temples erected to worship such false idols incurred God’s wrath.”

“So,” Zeke said. “What’s the bottom line?”

“We are definitely uncovering an ancient city from the time of Sodom and Gomorrah. The only question is, which one?”

Zeke made a small salute. “Great work. I feel really good having you both on my team. Looks like we’re off to a great start.”

“I’ll go out on a limb and say the best ever,” Shelby said. “I don’t want to jinx us, but if things keep going the way they are, we may know something fairly soon.”

“A dig for Sodom and Gomorrah getting jinxed?” Zeke said. “What are the odds?”

CHAPTER 39

With the new earlier start time, the evening broke up not long after dinner. Zeke asked Leah, Mordecai, and Hassan to meet him in the lounge. They got beers and gathered around a table in the seating area of the home theater. As they settled in, Zeke fingered a small crucifix he’d started wearing around his neck. It had been blessed by a Bishop and given to him the day he became an altar boy. When everyone was seated he began.

“I’ve come to think of us as the Hell Squad, since we’re the only ones who know what we’re ultimately searching for. And since what I’m considering is directly related to that part of the dig, I wanted this discussion to be for us only. It would have a major affect on the dig, and I wanted your input before I make a decision.”

He took a quick sip from his beer.

“I’ve been giving a lot of thought to why we’re doing this. Wondering if our reasons are good enough. The four of us are here because of personal tragedies. Because madmen killed our loved ones. Don’t get me wrong. I believe our ultimate goal is a noble one, to cut off evil at its head and make the world a better place. But I also know that, human nature being what it is, we are also driven by a much less noble reason.

“Revenge. We want to make the one ultimately responsible pay. And I’m perfectly fine with that, if our actions only affected us four.

“But they don’t. They could have repercussions for everyone on earth. When I think of that, I inevitably start to think about forgiveness. Because as much as I crave revenge, I know that it only perpetuates the evil. Someone does you wrong, you retaliate, they get even, you get even…it never ends. Look at Israel and Palestine.

“Somewhere, sometime, forgiveness has to enter into it. Because even if we do find and defeat Satan—and, let’s face it, that’s a long shot at best—even with Satan gone, millions of people are still going to have to forgive horrible wrongs. Wrongs that in some cases go back hundreds, thousands of years. Otherwise we’ll just sink into the quicksand of hate that’s been pulling us down since the human race started.

“So that’s what we’re here to discuss. Can we forgive? Should we? In my case, the man who killed my family died in prison, so forgiving him seems moot. Not that I could anyway.

“But there is another man. One I have spent years despising. I have to speak carefully here, there’s an issue of confidentiality, of national security. He and I were once very close. We were involved in…a military plan that backfired, because…he went temporarily insane and gunned down an innocent family. I never saw him after that until recently. He seemed to have turned his life around. He’s become a forensic psychologist. An expert on death row murderers claiming Satan made them do it. Which he himself had claimed after he murdered that family.”

Zeke took another sip of beer and looked at the faces around the table.

“I’m considering asking him to join the dig. On a practical level, his expertise on Satan might be helpful. Might is the key word there. I’m not at all convinced of it. I’m not convinced there even is such a thing. An expert on Satanic behavior, okay, but on Satan himself? No one’s ever met him face to face, so how can they know? So maybe I’m rationalizing, or maybe he can be helpful. I’m not sure.

“What I do know is that forgiveness has to start somewhere. Perhaps it could start with me. Certainly having him here would put my forgiveness theory to the supreme test. If I failed that test—a distinct possibility—his presence could just bring out hatred in me that would poison the dig. It’s a huge risk, a tough decision I didn’t want to make without getting your opinions first. So let’s hear ’em.”

He leaned back and waited. Hassan finally spoke.

“Your point is well taken, Zeke. In principle I agree with you. In reality, I know I could not forgive the man who killed Norah, even though he is blown to bits and there is no one left to forgive. Even so, I wonder how much people ever truly forgive. In here.” He tapped his chest. “Or here.” He tapped his head.

“I agree,” Zeke said. “It’s much easier said than done. Still, if we say that change for the better is impossible, than we might as well quit now.”

“In our case,” Mordecai said, “forgiving the man who killed Norah is, what was the word you used?”

“Moot?”

“Moot, yes. As Hassan says, he blew himself up. That really only leaves the man you are talking about to test your theory. And I agree that forgiveness is much easier to talk about than to give. If you invite this man, think about this. None of us know him but you. He will be just another person to us. But to you he will be a mass murderer, a daily reminder of one of the two worst days of your life. It is a tough decision, the toughest. One I’m afraid only you can make. A decision that could—would, probably—affect the rest of the dig, yes, but I guess it depends on how much this forgiveness thing matters, how much you are convinced that you have to blaze that trail for humanity.”

There was a clicking noise and all turned in the direction of the television.

A picture began to emerge from the blackness.

Everyone got up and gravitated toward the screen, becoming transfixed as the image became clearer. Zeke wanted to believe it was a scene from a horror movie, or a death metal music video, but the image was too real, too immediate.

Too frightening.

And the TV had clicked itself on.

Looming into view was a grotesque face. The head lolled about as if trying to center them in its stare, like quarry in the crosshairs of a rifle scope. The leering face was long and narrowed to a pointy chin. Its cheeks were deeply furrowed and covered with wartlike growths. A sneer of inhuman contempt revealed long, needlelike teeth, obviously designed for devouring prey. A tongue moved around lazily behind the teeth, possibly on the verge of sliding out. All the while a low growl rumbled, the menacing sound of an animal getting ready to pounce.

Worse than all this were the black openings that served as the thing’s eyes. A hypnotic force emanated from them, as though pulling you into shadowy caves where underworld creatures lurked.

The eyes were locked onto Zeke. From the middle of each a fiery glow of red burned into him. He instinctively leaned away from their magnetic pull.

Suddenly the monstrosity spoke. It was the same inhuman voice from the plane, a throaty, oozing purr that sent tendrils of ice wriggling down Zeke’s back.

“Very noble speech, Ezekiel. Forgiveness. Despite what your Good Book says about loving your enemies, I’ve never believed in it myself. I prefer to devour my enemies. Devour them all, and you will have no more. As I will all of you. God’s little Hell Squad. And sweet little miracle girl Leah. Every now and then one dodges a bullet.”

A cascade of demonic chuckles came through the speakers in surround sound. The vile comment about Leah hit Zeke like the jolt of a taser. He moved to smash the screen but stopped when he realized it would solve nothing.

The face addressed them all now.

“You are not going to let little old me intimidate you. Good. You will never find me, but if you do, it will be my greatest pleasure to have all those delicious new souls to consume. And by all means, invite Mr. Price. A perfect test case. We will both tempt him and see whose power is stronger. He has succumbed repeatedly, I’m sure he will again.” The searing gaze bore deeper into Zeke. “Do not overestimate the power of your God, ‘savior’. Here is a sample of what you will be up against.”

The monstrous tongue burst through the screen without shattering it. Forked, black and glistening, it elongated across the floor. Snakelike, it flicked and slithered among the tables and chairs as if looking for someone to grab. Everyone backed away, as much from the putrescent smell as from its approach.

Suddenly it shot several feet farther and coiled itself around Leah’s ankles. It yanked and she fell hard. The tongue began pulling her toward the television screen. Zeke grabbed her hands and pulled her back. Stretched taut, she let out a cry of pain. Fearful of doing permanent damage, Zeke eased forward to create some slack.

He was losing the tug of war. The screen was now less than ten feet away.

“Somebody get something to stop this thing!” he yelled.

The others scattered to look for a weapon.

Leah continued to moan as her feet got closer to the screen, now only five feet away.

Four. Two.

The tongue stopped its retreat but still held onto Leah. The soles of her feet were inches from the screen.

Hassan came streaking back from the bar holding a small knife with a serrated edge.

“Use it!” Zeke yelled.

The tongue began pulling again. Zeke pulled in the opposite direction with all his might. Leah screamed in pain. The gap between her feet and the television screen continued to shrink. Three inches. Two. Zeke knew he was hurting her, but he didn’t dare release his grip, not knowing if this thing could actually pull her into the screen.

Like a crazed butcher Hassan brought the knife down again and again, hacking with all his strength at the point where the horror poked through the screen, pulling the knife toward him with each stroke to maximize the sawing effect of the serrations.

An unearthly roar filled the room. Foul black liquid spattered from the wound, burning and sizzling like acid. A few drops hit Zeke’s forearm. He groaned as they ate into his flesh. The pain forced him to let go of Leah.

Some of the drops hit Hassan and he dropped the knife, now only a jagged, misshapen strip of metal. The demonic roar suddenly changed to bellowing laughter, driving them to the brink of madness. As though staring at a scene out of Hell itself, Zeke watched the tongue wrench itself free where it had been slit and flop to the floor.

“A little something to remember me by.” The blazing eyes fixed on Zeke. “You cannot defeat me, savior.”

Zeke grabbed the crucifix he wore around his neck and thrust it at the demonic face. “I will not be fighting you alone. He will be with me.”

The severed tongue burst from the screen and yanked the crucifix from Zeke’s hand, breaking the chain that held it around his neck. The fleshy stump hurled it across the room, then snapped back and disappeared into the screen. The gloating voice spoke:

“There is your Christ. Beaten again, just like I beat him at Golgotha. Remember his dying words, savior? ‘Eli, Eli, Lama sabachthani? Lord, why hast thou forsaken me?’ Come see me, Chosen One, and you will get to say them. And that will be the end of the Second Coming. Déjà vu, mon ami. Perhaps the third time will be the charm. When I am coming. To reign over all.”

Demonic cackling faded and the television clicked off. Leah scrabbled backwards to get away from the screen.

The tongue on the floor ignited like a fuse and started burning a black, serpentine path into the room. Bubbling and sizzling, it emitted a stench like all rotting things combined. Zeke covered his nose and bent to check on Leah. With fresh horror he saw that the fast-approaching fiery tongue was still wrapped around her ankles. In a few seconds the fire would begin coiling around her flesh.

Quelling his nausea, he grabbed the tongue and yanked. It clung stubbornly, then came free just before the burning trail made it that far. He cast the repugnant tentacle aside and watched its fire die out.

He gathered Leah into his arms. Her face was ghostly white.

“Are you okay?”

She made a feeble nod.

Mordecai came over, holding a molten lump that had been Zeke’s crucifix.

The voice from the other side of the black television screen sounded hollow, as if coming from a bottomless void.

“Your Christ will not save you, savior. You will die forsaken. Just like He was on the cross.”

CHAPTER 40

Zeke pulled Leah to her feet and steadied her. Still not sure it was over, his gaze darted from the others, to the television, to the burned remnant on the floor, then back to Leah. All eyes were taking the same nervous inventory. Zeke asked if everyone was okay.

“Define okay,” Hassan said.

“As okay as we can be, I’m sure,” Mordecai said. “Considering we just had a visitation from the Devil himself, threatening to destroy us all.”

Hassan spoke with a fatalistic calm. “I didn’t really believe before. I believe now.”

“They must have heard this upstairs,” Zeke said. “I’ll have to tell them the truth. I didn’t before because I didn’t want to sound like some crazy cult leader, talking about something I couldn’t really prove. I can’t worry about that now.” His eyes burned when he looked at Leah. “Lives are at stake. People have to know the risks if they stay.”

“I don’t think you need to tell them,” Mordecai said. “In fact I don’t think you should. Not yet.”

“What? Why not?”

“This sounded to me like a one-time warning, like he would be content now to wait and see if we can find him. We may have found Sodom and Gomorrah, but it’s a long way from there to finding the entrance to Hell. When we find that, then tell the others. Give them the option to leave then. Telling them now would worry them unnecessarily, about something that might not happen for a long time. If ever.”

“I agree,” Hassan said. “It is too soon to tell of this. If we scare everyone away, this dig will not get done. It needs many people. I say let’s wait. We may have seen the last of this. If he—it—appears again, we—you—can decide then what to do, based on the situation.”

“So you want to stay,” Zeke said.

Hassan stared, unblinking. “This is what we signed up for. I do not run at the first sign of trouble.”

“This is big trouble, Hassan.”

“In a search for Satan, did we expect little trouble?”

“Point well taken.”

“I have been spending every spare minute in the water, Zeke, training to help you confront this…thing. When you need me, I will be there.”

Zeke’s warm flush of admiration was cut short by the sound of footsteps. Joe Dayagi was coming toward them.

“A bunch of us heard a loud noise. It sounded like a monster movie turned all the way up, but I told the others I would check just to be sure. Is everything all right?”

Mordecai made a sheepish face. “Everything is fine. I was fooling with the television and the volume button got stuck. Tell everyone to get some sleep. We’ve got an early day tomorrow.”

“What’s that smell?”

Mordecai nodded toward the burn mark on the floor. “I was trying to run an old wire from the television to see if I could add a speaker, but I shorted something out. Now that I think of it, one of your specialties is wireless communications. I should have left it to you.”

Dayagi stared at him for a moment, then looked at Hassan, whose face showed nothing. He looked back at Mordecai and pretended to buy the lame story. “I’ll check out the speaker after work tomorrow. I’ll tell the others everything here is okay.”

Zeke waited until he had gone, then said, “So. We’re keeping this between us for now.”

Nods all around.

“Then let’s clean this up and get some sleep.”

Upstairs in their room, Leah sat in a chair rubbing her ankles. They showed no signs of damage. Zeke was more concerned about the resolve hardening on her face. He sat and put his arm around her shoulder.

“I want you to go home. I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to you.”

She shook her head. “And I couldn’t live with myself if I just left you here to deal with this alone. You’re in just as much danger as I was. We all are. Who knows how this thing could come after us? If it can do that, and what it did on the plane, it can do whatever it wants. I wouldn’t be any safer at home. Zeke, it’s all or nothing for us now. Don’t you know I would walk into Hell for you?”

A swell of emotion coursed from his heart through his throat to his eyes. He took both her hands. “God, I love you.”

“Backatcha.”

He released her hands. “It’s time for me to contact that ex-colleague of Dr. Connolly’s. The one who supposedly has a world-class collection of sacred relics. After what just happened, it’s time to see what he’s got, and if it has any power to ward off evil.”

“How would we know?”

“We wouldn’t for sure, I guess. But if we didn’t get any more visitations, or hear any more voices, I’d take that. Obviously that still wouldn’t prove a connection, but it would help me sleep better. What else can you do against demons coming at you from clouds and the television?”

“Pray.”

“In effect that’s what you’re doing with the relics. Praying to God through them to protect you.” Zeke shrugged. “I’ll call him and see what he has to say.”

“It couldn’t hurt. I’m going to take a shower while you do that.”

Zeke dialed the number Dr. Connolly had given him for Anthony Unger, not sure what to expect. Dr. Connolly had said the man had become a zealot, always preparing for Judgment Day. He had been getting especially worked up about the year 2012. Something about retreating to a hidden lair and sounding like a modern John the Baptist…

“Hello.”

Zeke introduced himself, mentioning his relationship to Dr. Connolly. Unger immediately warmed up.

“I was saddened to learn of his death,” he said.

“Me too,” Zeke said. “Mr. Unger, I have a rather unusual reason for calling.”

He gave a brief account of how he had gotten the scrolls, and Dr. Connolly’s interpretation of their contents. Knowing of Unger’s seemingly fanatical interest in eschatology, he ended with Enoch’s prediction that the day of reckoning was at hand.

There was a long silence. “Exactly as the Maya predicted,” Unger finally said. “On the winter solstice.”

“On or about,” Zeke said.

“What you’re telling me would normally be beyond belief. Almost laughable. Except that Jim Connolly was a genius in the field of paleography. When he talks, we must listen.”

“I agree.”

“Mr. Sloan, you have called the right man. What are you proposing?”

Zeke wasn’t sure how far he wanted to open this door. He wasn’t ready to tell a stranger about his dig for Hell, and if Unger was living in a “hidden lair” he obviously had secrets of his own. He chose his words carefully. “I promised Dr. Connolly when I took the scrolls that I would look into what he was telling me—the possibility that Satan exists—and if so, how to defeat him. Dr. Connolly mentioned that you have a world-class collection of relics, so I thought it might be beneficial for us to meet. In my search for the ultimate evil, I’m hoping to find things—talismans, if you will—to protect me against it.”

“An interesting proposition,” Unger said. “You are right about my collection. They are much more than talismans. I have the greatest collection of first-class relics in the world. Which means relics directly connected to Jesus or the saints. In my case, Jesus. I say that not to boast, simply to let you know that you have indeed called the right man.”

“I believe you. I’d like to discuss the possibility of borrowing some of what you have.”

“The items I have are priceless, Mr. Sloan.”

“You wouldn’t have to give them to me. A loan would do. When I am through with them I would give them back.”

“The collection is simply too valuable, too irreplaceable for me to let it out of my possession.”

Silence dragged on as Zeke tried to think of an alternative arrangement. If his theory about the power of relics was true, Unger definitely sounded like the man to see. And he didn’t blame him for not wanting to let whatever he had out of his sight. “I understand your concern. I was hoping we could meet, maybe work something out—”

“Maybe we can. I agree. We should meet.”

“How does tomorrow morning sound?”

“December 21 is less than a month away. The sooner the better.”

“Tomorrow morning, then. Early. I’ll need directions.”

Several seconds of silence went by. “I must ask you to agree to one condition,” Unger said.

“What’s that?”

“I cannot reveal where I live. It is rather…unorthodox. We can meet nearby, but you must agree to be blindfolded before I take you to my home. Nothing personal against you. The few visitors I have must agree to this.”

Paranoid scenarios tried to form, but Zeke dismissed them. Unger couldn’t possibly have some sinister plan for dealing with an unexpected call from a stranger. On the incredibly remote chance that he did, Zeke wasn’t worried. He could defend himself. “No problem,” he said.

“Good.”

Zeke copied the directions and hung up just as Leah sat down beside him in her robe.

“I’m meeting him at six in the morning,” he said. “He’s a couple hours away, so I’ll have to leave real early. Just tell everyone I’ll see them in the evening sometime.”

“So he sounds like the real deal?”

“We’ll see.”

Her fresh, clean smell, the way she looked in her robe, almost made him forget the horror of what had just happened in the lounge. Almost. “You didn’t get a chance to say anything about my idea of inviting Michael Price,” he said. “What do you think?”

“Call him. You’re right about forgiveness. It seem to me like this is the time to look everything right in the face. Empty out all the closets. And you’ve got a major support group if he starts to get on your nerves. If it gets too bad, you can just send him packing.”

Zeke glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. Almost ten. “It’s seven hours earlier in the States. I’ll call him now, before I change my mind.”

Sitting in his nineteenth-floor lower Manhattan apartment, gazing out at the grey slash of the Hudson River, Michael Price answered on the second ring. He recognized the voice instantly. It was the call he’d both hoped for and dreaded. “I thought I’d be hearing from you.”

“What made you think that?”

“The last time we talked you said you might want a copy of my interview with the man who killed your family. But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?”

“Yes.”

“It’s been almost twenty years since the jungle, Zeke, but I know how your mind works. As you do mine. Twice now we’ve been drawn into the very heart of evil. Evil done supposedly at the behest of Satan. I don’t know about that, but this much I do know: The bullets in Nam and that restaurant didn’t just kill two families. They left shrapnel in your soul and mine. Gaping wounds that will fester until we die, unless we can come up with some reason that makes sense. We need answers, even though we both know there may not be any. That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I have a proposition. It may get us as close to an answer—to closure—as we’re ever going to get.”

“Let’s hear it.”

Zeke swore him to secrecy, then told him of the dig for Hell and the role he could play. “A chance to put everything you’ve learned about Satan to the test. And maybe—just maybe—a chance to close some of those gaping wounds you mentioned.”

Maybe, Price thought. Maybe one last chance to redeem himself. If he wasn’t already too far gone. Certainly he needed to get out of this apartment to have any chance at all. Without being aware of it, he’d let his home become a repository of bad karma.

On one of the bookshelves was the Ouija board and Tarot deck he and Randy Stokes had used in their hokey teenaged attempts to contact “the other side.” Next to them was Randy’s battered Satanic Bible. He never should have accepted it, much less brought it into the apartment. An entire collection of dark literature lined the shelf.

The Necronomicon. Biographies of key figures in Satanism like Aleister Crowley. Books with titles like Lucifer’s Will Be Done and The Second Coming of the Antichrist.

Other things were strewn among the shelves.

A rabbit’s foot he and Randy had cut from a rabbit while it was still alive; an autographed Black Sabbath poster from their first apartment after high school; a bust of Vlad the Impaler. Maybe these things didn’t have any direct power, but having them constantly around had to have some influence.

And he’d been regressing again since his meeting with Zeke at the Wall. Going to sleazy clubs, bringing home sleazy women, playing kinky games. Now Zeke was offering the chance he’d known was coming, the chance to finally find out what side he was on. Were the atrocities locked in the dungeon of his soul the products of temporary insanity, or had he been doomed from birth to be an instrument of Satan?

“Price?”

“Sorry. I got distracted for a minute. But I heard what you said. And your timing is perfect. This is exactly what I need right now. Sounds like you need it too. I can clear my schedule and be there in a day or two.”

Zeke gave him directions to their headquarters. “Just come whenever you’re ready, no need to call ahead. We’ll be here.” He hesitated, then added, “I hope this works out for the best, Price. Whatever that is.”

“It will. Whatever that is. I’ll make sure of it.”

CHAPTER 41

Kidron Valley

The sun had barely risen above the Mount of Olives when Anthony Unger finished his climb from the valley to meet Zeke Sloan. They’d agreed to meet in front of the closest landmark to his sanctuary, the Church of All Nations. This early in the morning no one would be around.

Across the road that ran in front of the church, Unger saw a man standing by the stone wall that marked the edge of the Kidron Valley. There was no one else in sight. Unger waited in the shadows for a lone car to go by, some early bird on the way to work, then went to greet him. “Good morning.”

“Anthony Unger?”

“Yes. And you are Zeke Sloan?”

“I am.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you. Any friend of Jim Connolly’s is a friend of mine.”

They shook hands, and Unger gave him a moment to adjust to his appearance. In his brown cowl held fast by a knotted cord, he knew that he resembled a Franciscan. “I am not a monk,” he said, “although I certainly live like one. I’ve left the trappings of modern society behind, Mr. Sloan, to become who I am. Who I was meant to be.”

“Nothing wrong with that. Most of us go through life never figuring out who we were meant to be.”

“Too true.”

“So. Ezekiel. A prophet come unto the land of prophets.”

“Hardly.”

“Do you mind if I call you Ezekiel? For our purposes it seems more fitting.”

“No, that’s fine.”

“You said you studied under Dr. Connolly.”

“Yes. I studied Theology and Philosophy, among other things. I took all his courses. We became friends.”

“He was an excellent teacher.”

“And a good man.”

“Indeed. We had many lively discussions. My field was eschatology. Are you familiar with it?”

“Somewhat. It’s a study of the end times. The Messiah, the Second Coming, Judgment Day, and so forth.”

“For an eschatologist like me, this is the perfect place to be. All three Abrahamic religions believe that this is where the final judgment will take place. The epicenter of the Apocalypse.” He gestured at the grave-studded hill that rose behind the Church of All Nations. “That is the Mount of Olives. Home to the oldest and holiest Jewish cemetery in the world. Some of the people buried there walked during the Old Testament. Now they wait for the sound of the shofar—the ram’s horn announcing their Messiah’s arrival, calling them forth to join Him.”

Traffic was starting to pick up as Jerusalem began to go about its business. Church personnel would be showing up soon. “Come,” Unger said, “we must move along. It will take time for you to fully appreciate what I have to show you.”

He led them to the same footpath he had used to come up from the valley, which was also strewn with graves. “Many Muslims are buried here, awaiting their Messiah. And of course many of Christianity’s holiest sites are near here. Places associated with the First Coming of their Messiah: the Garden of Gethsemane, the Judas Cave, the Rock of the Agony. The graves of Mary and Joseph. Kidron Valley translates into Valley of the Dark One. This particular section is the Valley of Jehoshophat—a name that means God will judge. So you see I am in the center of things. Studying the past to prepare for the future. For the First—or Second—Coming, depending on what you believe. Are you a believer, Mr. Sloan?”

“I’m trying to be. It all boils down to faith.”

“True. I think what I have to show you will strengthen yours.” He reached into a pocket of his cowl and pulled out the blindfold. It looked like a black slumber mask. “Now we must trust one another. The first real test of your faith, perhaps.”

Zeke nodded and Unger handed him the blindfold. Zeke pulled the elastic strap over his head and smoothed the mask into place. “Okay,” he said.

“Hold on to the end of my cincture. My cord. My sanctuary is not far from here. The walk down the slope is the most difficult part. We will go slowly and carefully. I will talk you along.”

They moved carefully down the hill to the bottom of the valley. Ten minutes later they reached the hidden entrance.

“Wait here, please,” Unger said. “We have arrived, but the entrance is a little tricky. I will have us inside in a moment.”

They were among hundreds of graves on a gentle slope near the bottom of the valley. Unger quickly moved to a stone enclosure that had once been the entrance to a tomb. He’d chosen this tomb because it utterly lacked anything that would pique an archaeologist’s curiosity. It was small, dirt brown and boxlike: two nondescript side walls and a flat roof embedded into the earth. The arched entranceway had been sealed for millennia, probably by family members worried about grave robbers.

After assuring himself no one was around, he pressed a button on the small remote attached to his keychain. At the foot of the entranceway, a four-foot square trap door, camouflaged with dirt and rocks, slid quietly into a recess. He went down several wooden steps to a concrete-reinforced tunnel that angled under the ancient stone floor of the tomb. The tunnel ended at the entrance to his sanctuary. His doorway was recessed beneath a simple stone arch. Wanting to re-create the feeling of ancient times whenever possible, he’d bought a weathered oak door with black iron bands purported to have come from a first-century monastery. He stuck his key into the modern lock he’d installed and opened the door. Inside the windowless vestibule carved into the stone, he lit a torch in a wall sconce, and a circle of light flickered to life. The chamber was completely enclosed except for an opening to the left, through which a pathway curved quickly out of sight around a corner. He retraced his steps and brought Ezekiel inside.

Unger closed the door behind them and removed the blindfold. Standing in the rough-hewn antechamber of his sanctuary, he waited while his guest adjusted to his surroundings.

Zeke scanned the stone ceiling and walls. The only opening was some kind of pathway to the left. “Are we underground?”

“Yes. I know you can easily approximate my location, but as long as you don’t know precisely where I am, that is enough for now. Trust must go two ways.” He pulled a torch from a wall bracket and lit it. “I live almost entirely without electricity. Follow me, please. It is time for you to Behold the Man.”

“Ecce Homo.”

“You know Latin?”

“Some. Church Latin, especially. I was an altar boy when the Mass was still said in Latin.”

“An altar boy and a student of Theology. You have obviously been on a long spiritual journey. As have I. For some reason our journeys have intersected. I say ‘for some reason,’ but that is merely the academic in me trying to remain neutral. It does not express my true feelings. And since we are building trust, I should say what I truly feel.

“I believe Divine Providence has brought us together. Perhaps when you see what I have to show you—when you fully experience it—you will agree.”

CHAPTER 42

Zeke followed him down a snaking path that took them through a tunnel and deeper into the bowels of this strange abode. The walkway was modern and resembled a sidewalk. Zeke wondered how the material for building it had been gotten in here and who had done the work.

A few minutes later they struck into another tunnel to the left. This one had no walkway, and they had to walk more carefully over the dirt floor. A short distance later an opening to the right led them into a much larger underground space. As they walked on, Zeke began to notice occasional niches in the walls, stone boxes inside them. “What are those?”

“Ossuaries. Bone boxes.”

Zeke stopped. “Where are we?”

“Under the Mount of Olives. Someplace I knew I would never be bothered. It took five years of ingenious engineering and a team of Bedouin working under cover of darkness, but I have carved out a place for the living in a city of the dead. A fitting metaphor for the coming Resurrection, don’t you think?”

Zeke didn’t know what to think. “I suppose,” he said.

“Don’t worry. There is nothing sinister going on. Other than the dead, we are alone.”

Hardly reassured, Zeke began to follow again. The tunnel straightened and ran more steeply downhill. About fifty yards later they descended a spiral of ancient stone steps until they came to a much more primitive chamber. Walls and ceiling still showed the jagged edges of hammering and chiseling done thousands of years ago. The torchlight glistened off patches of moisture on the stone walls. The smell of mold was heavy. Stepping carefully along a craggy ridge that now served as a walkway, at last they came to a faded wooden door.

“My sanctuary,” Unger said. They went in and Unger closed the door behind them.

His sanctuary was a large natural cavern. In the middle of the stone wall to the right was a large steel door, like the entrance to a bank vault. Unger explained as he went around the room lighting torches in wall sconces. “We sealed the walls and ceiling to create a dry, naturally climate-controlled living space.”

Unger finished lighting the torches and went to the vault entrance. He spun the combination, opened the door, and motioned for Zeke to follow him in.

“Wait a moment while I give us some light.” He turned on a generator that made very little noise. “My one concession to modern living.” Soft track lighting from above came on, illuminating another large cavern. Unger waited while Zeke took it all in. “I have many other items, but this is where I keep the holiest of holies.”

The light shone down on a kind of altar, with numerous objects arranged atop it. To the left of the altar, the shadowy outlines of a few larger items were visible in a separate space off the main chamber. They went to that area first.

Two large chests rested in the craggy alcove, along with a gold-colored container that reminded Zeke of depictions he’d seen in movies of Aladdin’s lamp. By comparison the chests were plain: faded, unadorned metal, not designed to impress but merely to transport whatever was inside.

An extension cord ran from the generator to a pole lamp behind the artifacts. Unger clicked it on and the lamp’s conical shade created a powerful spotlight that brought the items into stark relief.

Unger picked up the container. “This is made of gold. It held the myrrh that the Magi brought to the newborn Christ.”

Zeke wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, but it seemed inconceivable. “How can you be sure that it would have held the myrrh from the Wise Men?”

“Myrrh is a resinous tree sap that had several uses in antiquity, among them embalming and anointing. In the Old Testament, God refers to it as an ingredient in the ‘holy anointing oil.’ It would have made a most appropriate gift for someone the Magi believed to be the Messiah. Messiah means anointed one. So does Christ.”

“I want to believe, but still I must ask: how does your evidence prove that this is the myrrh?”

“Residue remained inside the container. I have had it tested and traced its origins as best as anyone could. Taken together, the evidence has convinced me. The trees that produce myrrh grow primarily in three regions: India, Africa, and Arabia. The testing proves that this myrrh is from Arabia, which coincides with the prominent theory that the Three Wise Men came from Persia, or possibly Babylon. Of course, virtually all of these first-class relics disappear at some point. Usually they resurface in several different locations, each claiming authenticity. In the case of the Gifts of the Magi, the strongest claim is made by the monks of Mount Athos in Greece, who have them on display. But in the early 1300s, Catalan mercenaries pillaged the monastery. Catalonia is an independent region in Spain, but over the years many Catalans have emigrated to Spanish-speaking countries. As an antiquities dealer, I have developed underground contacts all over the world. Several years ago my source in Argentina, which has a large community of Catalans, told me of a man who claimed that the original myrrh of the Magi had been handed down to him from an ancestor involved in the pillaging of the monastery.

“I went to Argentina and became convinced the man was telling the truth. Still, I couldn’t just take his word for it. I re-traced the records he had, establishing provenance all the way back to the Catalan mercenary who stole this from the monastery. I then went to Catalonia and made copies of the original records to eliminate the possibility of forgery, which is common in this business. I have the documentation and I am convinced.”

“All right.” Zeke nodded toward the two chests. “What else do we have?”

Unger opened the first chest. It was filled with small, rather crudely hand-made bottles, each filled with a muddy, dark brown liquid. “Holy water collected from the Jordan by John the Baptist at the baptism of Jesus. John knew he was baptizing the Messiah, and that water used for His baptism was most holy. So he saved it.”

“Seems like that would be a really tough one to prove.”

“Indeed. Knowledge of the existence of these chests did not come to me in a conventional way. It came to me in visions.”

He held up a hand.

“I know how that sounds. I have been on this mission for over ten years, Ezekiel. Living alone down here, with the spirit of John the Baptist inside me. Besides myself, you are the only person ever to see this collection. I have done everything possible to establish the provenance of these items, but there are so many conflicting claims, and the trail is so lost, that no one can ever be sure. We’re talking about a trail that leads back to Jesus Christ and the Crucifixion, which scholars have been tracing for two thousand years without coming to any universally accepted conclusions. I have the documentation, but you don’t prove these relics, Ezekiel. You feel them. You experience them. Which, when I finish showing you my collection, I invite you to do.”

“How do you mean?”

“Explaining that requires a little background. I am very well aware that my story strains credibility, so please bear with me.”

“Certainly,” Zeke said.

“I came to believe I was chosen by the Lord to carry on the work of John the Baptist. Specifically his role as the Forerunner. The one to blaze the trial for the Messiah. You are familiar with it?”

Zeke realized that, in effect, he himself had taken on that role. “Yes,” he said.

“I knew I needed to purify my soul for such a mission. To me that meant adopting the lifestyle of a monk, rejecting all worldly things. I had to work alone, since I knew no one would accept me as a prophet, a divine messenger. Which meant I could not pursue formal training in a seminary. I had to teach myself what it meant to be a monk. I immersed myself in all the studies and rituals, coming closer to God all the while, but never quite reaching the oneness I felt I needed for so sacred a mission.

“Then the trail of the myrrh took me took me to Mount Athos in Greece. I spoke with the monks there and learned more about their history. In particular I discovered hesychasm, a belief that, by rejecting the senses, and achieving a total inner quiet, one could experience God. In the 14th century, when the monks of Mount Athos were at the height of their influence, they had become the foremost practitioners of hesychasm. It was based on the Lord’s admonition in Matthew:

‘When thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou has shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly.’

“This is my closet, Ezekiel. I have developed my own form of hesychasm, a simple mental discipline for cleansing my mind and spirit. It has allowed me to see the Lord. To experience Him. When I finish showing you my collection, if you are willing, I can give you the barest instruction for achieving hesychasm, then leave you alone to see if God will come to show you the way.”

“Anything that can bring me closer to God, I’m all for it,” Zeke said.

“Very well. Let us proceed. For the rest of my collection I will give only the short version of their provenance, or we will be here all night, and that is not our purpose. I have the documentation, which you would be welcome to peruse at your leisure.”

“Fair enough.”

Unger opened the second chest.

It was filled with dozens of silver crucifixes, their bright reflections almost blinding as they radiated throughout the room. Zeke blinked several times to adjust to the glare, then leaned forward to inspect them.

“These belonged to Saint Peter,” Unger said. “I got them in Antioch. Antioch is in Turkey, which became a major source of silver in antiquity. Peter and Paul had gone there after the death of Christ, and begun to spread his Word. There is a cave church there known as the Grotto of St. Peter, which tradition says is where he began his ministry. My source said looters found these in a secret chamber beneath the church and sold them on the underground market.

“We do not know who made them, but I had one tested and the metallurgist assured me that they are made of the only one hundred percent pure silver ever found. Silver has a long tradition of being used to ward off evil. As does the Holy Crucifix, of course.”

Zeke started to pick one up but Unger stopped him and pulled something from a small cardboard box beside the chests. “Please. Put these on first.”

They both donned latex gloves. Zeke gently picked a crucifix from the pile, then closed the chest to stop the glare from hurting his eyes. When his vision had readjusted, he studied the artifact. Inspecting it from all angles, he became transfixed. It almost seem to glow from within.

The upright was about six inches, the crossbar five. Each was about an inch wide and half an inch thick. The edges were perfectly straight. There was not the slightest deviation from square or parallel or equal length from the center. His eyes kept being drawn back to the silver Body of Christ, crucified in perfect miniature. A minute inspection of the details revealed an astounding level of craftsmanship.

There were distinct lines in the palms of Christ’s hands. Perfectly-shaped nail heads jutted through them, silver drops of blood trickling from his wounds. The twists and grain of the ropes that cut into his wrists were exactly like those of real rope. Each tiny thorn on the crown of thorns was distinct and looked like it could prick your finger. Zeke couldn’t look at Christ’s eyelids for more than a second or two. They seemed as though they had just closed, and might reopen again at any second.

The detailed representation of his body was equally stunning: the definition of the musculature, the outline of the ribs. Even the toenails were rendered precisely and evenly, as though just manicured. Zeke remembered something about Mary Magdalene tending Christ’s feet before the crucifixion. After two thousand years, there was not the slightest blemish anywhere. The crucifix was perfect.

“Silver tarnishes fairly easily,” Zeke said. “And yet there’s not a speck on this, supposedly after two thousand years. How can that be?”

“One of two possibilities. Either they are not two thousand years old and I have been duped, or their divine power has protected them.”

Light appeared to be pulsing through the crucifix from within. Zeke walked into the darkness, thinking the lamp might be causing some flickering reflection.

Enveloped in shadow, the bursts of light were even more visible. They were coursing through the Body of Christ, like miniature lightning. Zeke walked back to Unger. “I’m leaning toward the latter of those two possibilities,” he said.

“You are able to see the light. That bodes well for your ability to experience hesychasm.”

Continuing to look at the crucifix, the rhythmic eruptions of light struck Zeke as the pulsating of a soul. Finally it became too disturbing and he had to tear his gaze away. He placed the crucifix back in the chest, picking up another, then another. He glanced at the entire pile. They were all the exact same. Pulsating. Perfect. He started to close the chest and noticed something neatly written on a plaque inside the lid, in a language he didn’t recognize. “Have you figured out what that says?”

“Yes. It is Aramaic. The language of Jesus. It says: ‘These shall be used in all churches as a testament to the sacrifice Christ Jesus made as the Son of Man.’”

Skeptical whispers in Zeke’s head were drowned out by the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears. The sound of hope. “If these items are genuine,” he said quietly, “they represent the origins of Christianity, literally from its birth.”

“Your job, Ezekiel, is to remove the if from your thinking. If God has chosen you, you must. I have.”

He was right. Zeke thought of his mother and father and sister, and his desperate need to believe that there was a God who would look after their souls. Suddenly he wanted the positive feeling welling up inside him reinforced. “Let’s see the rest.”

“There is one more thing to see over here before we go to the altar.”

Unger swiveled the light so it shone on an area to the left of the alcove. A large net, roughly ten yards in diameter, was stretched out on the craggy floor.

“The fishing net left behind by Peter at the Sea of Galilee, when Jesus told he and Andrew to follow Him, and He would make them fishers of men. I got it from the same source in Antioch, who said it had been discovered in the same hidden chamber as the crucifixes. It has been analyzed and tested and verified as definitely being a cast net that would have been used in Peter’s time. Molecular analysis has found traces of sea water that is identical in its chemical makeup to that of the Sea of Galilee. Beyond that…”

“I know. Faith.”

Unger gave a slight nod and gestured for Zeke to follow. A moment later they were at the altar. Several items were laid out across the top. Nearest were two bejeweled cases, each about the size of a paperback book.

“I have more than one source in Rome,” Unger said, “as you might expect. These came from the Vatican. Their collection of relics is enormous, of course. I was told that a disgruntled clergyman, one of the curators, stole these to compensate himself for being underappreciated.”

He picked up the first one, undid a gold clasp, and handed the case to Zeke. “Look, please, but do not touch the contents.”

Something lay on a sumptuous blue velvet lining. About an inch square, with somewhat ragged edges, Zeke guessed it might be a fragment of cloth, or perhaps of parchment.

“From the Shroud of Turin,” Unger said.

Zeke stared at it for a long moment, then merely nodded and handed the case back. Unger opened the second and gave it to him.

Another fragment of something, maybe an inch wide and a few inches long, lay on the same royal blue velvet that lined the other case. Zeke waited for the explanation.

“A piece of the Cross on which Christ died.”

Zeke was not surprised. He had glanced down the line of artifacts and could see where this was going. He nodded again and followed as they slowly made their way along the altar. Unger made minimal comments at the relics that were self-explanatory.

“The Crown of Thorns. The darkness at the tips of the thorns would have to be blood.”

They moved to the next item.

“Nails from the Crucifixion. Again, the staining would be from blood.”

Next were two stained pieces of cloth. One was fairly large, about four feet wide and six long. The other was much smaller, about three feet square.

“The larger one is Jesus’s burial shroud. Some think the Shroud of Turin was used for that purpose, but tests on the Shroud and my own research have convinced me that this is the one. Which means my piece of the Turin Shroud cannot be from His burial, but I could not pass up the opportunity to have them both.”

He nodded at the smaller cloth.

“The Sudarium. Used to wrap Jesus’s head in the tomb.” Near one edge a line of several dark ragged spots dotted the fabric. “Obviously those stains would have come from the wounds caused by the Crown of Thorns. I have held this and the Crown close together and the stains line up exactly with the tips of the thorns. I know that by itself that proves nothing, so I have gone much further. I contacted one of the foremost experts on evolutionary genetics in the world. This is the field that studies ancient DNA, how it mutated from one race to another, seeking to find the origins and evolution of the human race. One of their projects is to gather samples going back thousands of years from people buried in the Holy Land, to see if they can establish a genealogy for the twelve tribes of Israel.

“I happily paid this man’s expenses to come and see if he could get DNA from my Jesus relics. He came and took samples back to his lab. Of course we have none of Jesus’s DNA for comparison, but at least he could compare the samples to each other, to see if they all came from the same source.

“They did. The blood, microscopic bits of skin—all the DNA was indisputably from the same person. All the samples dated to the time of Christ. The tests also determined that the genetic structure belongs to a particular lineage they had been piecing together. Considered in the context of the totality of their research, they concluded that this person belongs to the tribe of Judah. The tribe from which we get the term Jew, and from which Jesus is descended.”

Zeke took a moment to process what he was hearing. “Based on all that,” he said, “it seems that the odds against these things being from Jesus would be astronomical.”

“Yes. But there’s one more thing. All the samples contain only mitochondrial DNA, which comes only from the mother. There are no Y chromosomes from the father. This lab has studied thousands of samples, going back tens of thousands of years, and this is the only time they’ve seen DNA with no markers from the father.”

“The Immaculate Conception,” Zeke said.

“I have no other explanation. Neither do the scientists.”

They had come to the end of the altar. Ahead lay an opening in the craggy stone wall where the light barely reached. Zeke followed Unger through the opening and into a shadowy cave. Unger pulled matches and a small taper from his pocket. He lit the taper and used it to light several large candles on tall ecclesiastical candlesticks. They created the feel of a chapel.

The cave was about fifteen yards deep and fifteen wide. Halfway between the entrance and the rear wall, a ridge jutting up from the stone floor had been carved into a crude bench. Affixed to the far wall was one of the silver crucifixes Zeke had just seen. Beneath the crucifix a rectangular mirror stood upright, tall and wide enough to see one’s entire reflection. The four small legs on which it stood were part of the ornately carved bronze frame. A thin line or crack zigzagged down the middle of the mirror.

Unger sat on the bench and patted the space beside him. Zeke sat and Unger spread his arms to indicate the entire chamber inside the vault door.

“I consider all of this my Sanctum Sanctorum. I feel Jesus everywhere in here, but most especially in this room. This is my Most Holy Place. Somewhere above us is the Garden of Gethsemane, where the Agony began that led to Jesus’s death. This room is the anti-Gethsemane, if you will. I call it the Grotto of Resurrection, because it is in here that Jesus speaks to me of his return.”

A riot of questions erupted in Zeke’s brain. He quelled them and said, “Why the mirror?”

“That mirror is why I believe. It didn’t come from one of my usual suppliers. I found it myself. It had waited two thousand years to show me the way.” Unger paused for a reverent moment. “Come. Look.”

They went to the mirror. Unger lit the two ecclesiastical candles that stood on either side of it. Crouching, he pointed to something etched into the bronze along the bottom of the frame. Zeke went down beside him. A flowery decorative pattern formed a border around a single word in beautiful italic script: Pilatus.

“As in Pontius Pilate?” Zeke said.

“Yes. Pilate stayed in the Praetorium when he was in Jerusalem, not far from here. We don’t know where exactly, but somewhere in or around or under the Temple. The underground all around here is riddled with tunnels and tombs and caves. I found the mirror in a tunnel that would have been a drainage channel in Pilate’s time, running from the Temple. The passage was constructed from stone slabs, and the sides have stains clearly indicating the presence of water over a long period of time. It is dried up now, completely caved in except for the section I found. The mirror was lying on the ground just above the aqueduct, almost completely covered by rubble. At first I thought it might have gotten there because of some flood in antiquity, but that didn’t make sense. Flooding would have washed other things down there, but I spent a month doing archaeology all around that spot and never found a single other artifact. Nothing to indicate a settlement. This would have come from elsewhere. Since it obviously was something to be used in someone’s home, and since I found absolutely no other artifacts in that area, I concluded it must have been thrown out and gotten washed away.”

They went back and sat on the bench.

“In the time of Christ,” Unger continued, “mirrors were not yet made from glass. They were made from polished metal—in this case, silver. It is truly miraculous that this could have survived, but the same divine power that protected those crucifixes has preserved this. Even so, it took my antiques restorer months to remove two thousand years of tarnish and patina without damaging it.”

“Except for that crack.”

“That is not a crack, because this is not glass. It is a scratch that was already there.”

“It seems incredible that archaeologists never found this,” Zeke said.

“I thought so too, at first. Archaeologists have been exploring around Jerusalem for centuries, and I have only been exploring the underground for ten years or so. But archaeologists are perennially short-handed. They will never find everything. I finally came to believe that I was the one meant to find it. Because of what it has shown me.”

“Which is what?”

“There are many superstitions associated with mirrors, of course, but the things I have seen are not superstition. They are real. The Romans are the ones who believed that breaking a mirror would lead to seven years of bad luck. They may also have adopted the Greek belief that the gods could show you the future in a mirror. If the mirror got broken, it meant the future was bleak and the gods did not want you to see. Another superstition is that mirrors can ‘catch’—if not all, then at least some—of a person’s soul. After what I have experienced with this mirror, I believe that is true.

“I believe it was in the room when Jesus was brought to Pilate. It would have caught their images immediately after the betrayal in Gethsemane. In that supercharged atmosphere, with the profoundest decision in the history of the world about to be made, the spiritual energy would have been extremely strong. Souls were on the line. Not just the souls of those in the room, but the souls of millions—billions—to come.

“I believe this mirror caught the soul of Jesus. I cannot prove it, but I believe his image in the mirror haunted Pilate afterward. Perhaps the scratch materialized during one of those visions, a divider between the images of Pilate and Jesus in the mirror. Considering all those superstitions of the time, it is easy to imagine Pilate or one of his minions throwing the mirror into the ditch. I know how far-fetched this sounds, but I am utterly convinced. Because of what I have seen in this mirror.”

“What have you seen?”

“I won’t tell you that. Not yet. If I tell you my visions, they may influence you to imagine things that aren’t there. But if you have truly been chosen, I believe you will see many things that are.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Zeke said.

“Have you ever meditated, Ezekiel?”

“Not meditated, per se. But I’m a reflective person by nature, and I have an excellent ability to focus on a task. That skill was honed to razor sharpness in the military. And in my philosophy studies, I trained my mind to think very deeply.”

“That should help, but those skills fully engage your mind on a particular objective. The goal here is to completely quiet your mind, to completely remove yourself, your ego, until you are left with nothing but your spiritual essence, which is centered in your heart. If you can achieve that, you will be open to receive Him and whatever message He has for you.”

“I can do that.”

“Very well. I am going leave you alone to reach some degree of hesychasm, hopefully enough to see for yourself. There are many steps involved in becoming a true hesychast, but we do not have that kind of time. I can give you only one. Hopefully that, along with the powers of concentration you already possess, will be enough. Wait here. I need to get something from the other side of the room.”

He returned a moment later with a silver St. Peter’s crucifix in each hand.

“All right. Please sit in the center of the bench. That will align you perfectly with the mirror and the crucifix on the wall behind it. Take these, one in each hand. Rest them on each thigh so they are upright and Jesus is reflected in the mirror. That way the Jesus behind the mirror is looking at you, and the two you hold are simultaneously probing into the soul of the mirror while their reflections are probing your soul as well. The three crucifixes create what I call the Jesus Triangle. It increases the Jesus energy exponentially. The crucifixes in your hand are like battery terminals, drawing that energy into you. This divine energy also makes the reflections much brighter and easier to see than images would normally be in a mirror made from polished metal.”

His eyes bore into Zeke with an unwavering stare.

“This is the moment of truth, Ezekiel. I know it requires an enormous leap of faith. Are you ready to make it?”

“As ready as I will ever be.”

“We can ask no more.”

Zeke held the crucifixes as he had been told and waited.

“All right,” Unger said. “Stare directly into your own eyes in the mirror. This connects you to your own soul. Now we enter the realm of hesychasm, to help establish that connection and creating the opening into your being for…whatever you are supposed to receive.

“As you stare at yourself in the mirror, strive to quiet your mind, to remove all thought. To remove your self, as much as you can. At the same time, your chin will gradually lower, seemingly on its own, until it touches your chest. This creates another connection, between your heart and mind. If all goes well, the purified energy from your soul flows upward until it wipes your mind clean for…reprogramming. Ideally, as your spiritual energy becomes stronger, it should pull your chin downward, to this natural position, without you even realizing it. At that point you are fully connected to whatever forces are in the mirror.”

“Then what?”

“You watch. And wait.”

Zeke nodded.

For the first time, Unger smiled. “Very well. I will leave you alone. When you are done, knock on the door and we can take it from there.”

He nodded again and Unger walked away.

When the sound of the door being closed finally died out, Zeke sat quietly on the stone bench, crucifixes in hand, staring into his own eyes in the mirror. In the flickering candlelight, he listened to the whispers of doubt subsiding in his mind.

CHAPTER 43

The Dead Sea

Mordecai’s trained gaze was scanning the bottom of the sea. Having gotten The Wall excavation off to a smooth start, he’d left someone else in charge there and joined Jack Shelby’s team at the site where the coins had been found. They’d been digging for over an hour and found nothing new. The sibilant, almost hypnotic breathing of the divers was the only sound in the preternatural silence.

A ridged outline in the mud, a few feet deeper than where the coins had been discovered, caught Mordecai’s attention. He called for the others to follow, and gently finned over to the anomaly.

One quick look told him it was something buried, not just a salt formation or the shifting of the bottom caused by waves. Shelby and Lev, the Israeli grad student who had turned out to be an excellent excavator, hovered alongside.

“Get a camera on this,” Mordecai said. “We’ve got something here.”

The videographer recorded the in situ location of the anomaly, while the diver with the airlift waited nearby.

The most pronounced part of the shape was a long, thin object, bent at a sharp angle, like a stick that had been snapped in two.

“If you don’t mind,” Mordecai said, “let me uncover this first one. I’ve been waiting a lot of years for this.”

“Have at it,” Shelby said.

After adjusting his buoyancy compensator to stabilize at the new depth, Mordecai very gently fanned away the silt covering the anomaly. Within seconds he knew what it was.

The remains of a human arm.

The more he dug, the more excited he became.

This was more than just bare skeleton. Puckered matter sheathed the arm in places. Unless he missed his guess, it was flesh. Flesh perhaps thousands of years old that had been preserved. Salted. Ancient Egyptians had prized Dead Sea mud for preserving their mummies. Those same preservative qualities had kept the arm in remarkable condition.

Forcing himself to remain calm, Mordecai continued fanning away silt, taking extreme care not to damage the artifact. No surgeon ever operated more delicately on their patient than he now operated on his. When he reached the wrist, yet another discovery met his eyes.

A bracelet.

He leaned close to get a better look. Gently brushing the insignia area with a fingertip, the dirt came away easily. Immediately he recognized the embossed figure of a now-familiar entity.

Baal.

He considered it for only a moment, knowing it was hugely significant, but driven by the desire to behold the find in its entirety. He glanced around, looking for clues as to the overall size and shape of the buried mass. Judging from ridges that differentiated it from the surrounding mud, it was about six feet in diameter. If this was a human being—and he couldn’t imagine it being anything else—it appeared much too big.

Only more digging would solve the mystery.

“Jack, Lev, help me with this.”

The three divers took up positions around the partially-decomposed skeleton and immediately became absorbed in their digging. Communicating in terse phrases and gestures, they made quick progress.

As more and more of the corpse became visible, the degree of preservation was astounding. Almost all of the shriveled flesh remained intact. Mordecai kept thinking of DNA and what a priceless find this would be for the paleogeneticists.

This was not a skeleton.

This was a mummy. In as good or better condition as any ever found.

Its knees were drawn up toward the chest in a semblance of the fetal position. Incongruously, its hands were outstretched, as though warding something off. As they worked their way along the backside of the mummified body, they exchanged a puzzled look. It was now almost completely excavated, and yet another mass, of more or less the same size, appeared to lay buried beside it.

Mordecai suddenly realized why the anomaly had appeared excessively large. “There must be two bodies.”

He checked his dive computer. They could safely stay down at least fifteen more minutes. “We’ve got enough time. Let’s uncover the rest of it.”

They resumed digging. Mordecai could not keep the speculations out of his mind. Was this a husband and wife? A father and child? Could these be the remains of two citizens of Sodom, huddled together for protection during the last moments of its destruction?

Their suspicions were confirmed when the second mass revealed itself to be another body. They had been digging their way from the outer edges of the anomaly toward the center, where the two bodies lay closest together. It was now clear that both corpses were facing the same way, and the second one’s hands appeared to be holding onto the front one’s waist. The only area that remained to be cleared was what amounted to a few more handfuls in the middle of the scene, where the bodies were so close together that Mordecai guessed they might be touching. At this final stage there was only room enough for him to dig alone. The others hovered and watched intently from a few feet away.

In the control room of the boat above, Zeke sat enthralled as he stared at the monitor.

Mordecai fanned away the last patch of silt to fully reveal the two ancient corpses.

Aghast, he stared at the scene before him.

If these remains were between three and four thousand years old, he was looking at human beings in the best state of preservation from that era ever discovered. Unlike the sometimes difficult process of determining sex from only skeletal remains, here there was still enough flesh intact to make that determination instantly.

They were both adult males.

The thrill of such an unprecedented discovery was superseded by an urge to turn away from a scene never meant to be witnessed. And yet Mordecai could not stop staring at the rawest of human moments, frozen for all time, revealed by those last few swipes of his hand.

He realized why the hands of the first man appeared to be outstretched. Although now lying on their sides, the two men had originally been upright and on their knees. Rather than warding something off, the one in front had been merely supporting his weight.

The man in back, withered and puckered skin still visible on his penis, was having intercourse with the man in front. A portion of his male organ was still inside the anal cavity of the other and hidden from view.

Several thoughts fought for dominance in Mordecai’s mind as he continued to evaluate the bizarre tableau. Finally one word rose above the clamor inside his head:

Sodomy.

CHAPTER 44

Kidron Valley

Zeke’s reflection stared back at him. From the reflections of the crucifixes he held in each hand, the eyes of Jesus also bore into him. Zeke was certain the eyes on the crucifixes he’d examined earlier had been closed, but he hadn’t looked at them all. Maybe some were open.

He couldn’t break the moment by going to check. Maybe this was part of what was supposed to happen. He forced himself to focus on his own eyes in the mirror, as Unger had instructed, probing for a connection to his soul. The effort to quiet his mind was made much more difficult by thoughts of what Jesus, if He was in there, might be finding as He stared from the mirror into Zeke’s eyes.

In the absolute stillness of the grotto, Zeke was able to narrow his focus until the crucifixes disappeared, as did an awareness of time. Thoughts of his family, Leah, and Satan continued to churn through his mind, like choppy waves on a pond. The mirror seemed to shimmer, as if reflecting this.

Gradually the thoughts began to subside. His head had been tilting downward as his chin was pulled toward his chest, where it now rested. He envisioned his purified spiritual energy flowing up and dispersing throughout his memory pond, until it was utterly smooth.

The mirror had stopped shimmering. The candles burned more steadily, so that their flickering was no longer a distraction. The stillness inside Zeke now matched the stillness of the chamber. He became one with the mirror.

As he continued to stare at his reflection, flickering in the mirror caught his attention. He glanced quickly at the candles to see if they had begun fluttering again, but their flames were steady. Looking back into the mirror, he was able to pinpoint the source of the light.

It was coming from the crucifixes he held. It was the same light he had noticed pulsating through them earlier. He focused on it.

Gradually a glow began to rise up from somewhere beneath the crucifixes. Dim at first, but gaining strength and clearly different. Reddish orange and more intense. Finally the source of the glow became visible.

Flames. Growing stronger. They engulfed Zeke’s hands in the mirror, but despite the burning sensation he held fast to the crucifixes. The flames continued to rise until they were licking the faces of Jesus. Zeke felt an instinctive urge to pull the crucifixes away, but forced himself to let the scene follow its own course. Movement in the mirror near his face caught his attention.

Another face had materialized in the mirror beside his own. The face of Jesus from the mural in the Shrine. Scary Jesus.

Beneath the face His body began to appear. As it became more solid, Zeke’s reflection waned and was pulled into the image of Christ. Zeke experienced an epiphany, at last understanding the name by which Jesus had called both Himself and the prophet Ezekiel.

Son of Man. Jesus and Ezekiel were in some sense one. The Savior, and the human He had chosen for his message of Salvation.

The flames at the bottom of the mirror died out. The burning sensation in Zeke’s hands stopped.

The jagged scratch in the mirror ran from the top to the bottom along Jesus’s left side, dividing the mirror in two. Another image came into view on the other half.

Hands. Being washed over a large golden bowl. A man’s hands.

The image dissolved and was replaced by another.

Jesus on the cross. He hung dying on a rocky hillside, beneath a stormy sky. Golgotha. Zeke felt His agony while his own eyes remained riveted on the scene in the mirror.

Two fiery red dots appeared behind Jesus’s left shoulder. Eyes.

A face slowly materialized around the eyes. A familiar face. The demonic face from the television. A reptilian body took shape beneath it, standing on two muscular legs. The demon floated upward, drifting closer to the cross until its shadow began to eclipse Jesus. Taloned fingers opened, as if preparing to clamp onto his throat. Jesus ripped one of his impaled hands free and pushed the Devil all the way back to the distant edge of Golgotha. For the first time since he had been alone in the room, Zeke noticed sound.

The voice of Jesus.

“Get thee behind me, Satan.”

The reptilian body slowly disappeared until only the red eyes remained, blazing more intensely than before. Scary Jesus became larger until He blotted out the scene on Golgotha. His arms extended from the mirror until his hands were only inches from Zeke’s face. Turning his palms outward to show the wounds from the Crucifixion, He held them there for a very long moment, giving Zeke ample time to be sure of what he was seeing. Finally He pulled the hands back into the mirror. Zeke’s eyes followed until he was looking into the face of Jesus. He spoke again, his words penetrating to the core of Zeke’s soul.

“Help me, Ezekiel. Pave the way and I shall not forsake you. As you must not forsake me. This is my hour of need. When yours comes, I will be there for you. Together we can defeat him. Man alone, even the Creator—my Creator—cannot. The strength Lucifer has gained from the millions of souls he possesses has made him too strong. You are an army of one. The Righteous against the Wicked.”

In a flash of white light the intense face erupted from the mirror and came to within a foot of Zeke’s.

“I will leave you now. Choose wisely, Son of Man. And be ever vigilant. Lucifer will seek to destroy you at every turn. Beware of wolves in sheep’s clothing.

“Put your trust in the Lord.”

His image gradually disappeared until only the face was left, the face of Scary Jesus. Just before that, too, disappeared, Zeke thought he saw the scowl soften into a smiling, loving expression.

The candles went out, leaving only the faint illumination that made its way in from the main chamber. Zeke sat unable to move until his senses brought him back from his hesychastic state. Even then he remained still a long time, thinking about all he had seen.

Could he accept Unger’s provenance of the relics at face value, or did he need further analysis?

I’d have to take his word for everything he showed me. Except the crucifixes. There had definitely been lightning inside the crucifixes.

Could they have been rigged? Could the mirror?

No. With a twinge of annoyance he banished the questions that would always arise about relics associated with Jesus: no amount of analysis could ever prove their authenticity. Much of what passed as scientific knowledge was based on premises that could never be proven beyond all doubt. The very existence of the universe was based on a theory—the Big Bang—that was constantly being revised. It always came down to the same thing: faith.

Did he believe?

Yes. The mirror had clinched it.

Jesus Himself had enlisted his help. And had promised to be there when the time came.

Put your trust in the Lord.

That would have to be enough.

Zeke walked toward the vault door with purposeful strides, his confidence level growing with every step. His fate was in God’s hands now.

CHAPTER 45

Unger had positioned two chairs in the center of his sanctuary. He and Zeke sat a few feet apart, facing each other.

“Did you see?” Unger said.

“I saw.”

“Tell me what you saw.”

“Jesus spoke to me from the mirror. He asked for my help, for me to pave the way.”

Jesus had chosen Ezekiel over him. Unger hid his disappointment well, but in his head a voice shouted that after all his years of dedication, it wasn’t fair. It was the voice of his former self, Anthony Unger, the covetous sinner he’d never been completely able to extinguish.

“Then it has been decided,” he said. “You are the one.”

“‘Put your trust in the Lord,’ He said to me.”

“And so we shall.”

“You seem okay with it.”

Unger forced a smile. “I bow to the will of the Lord. I am his to use in whatever way He sees fit.”

“We’re on the same page there,” Zeke said. “We need to talk about the relics, then.” He nodded toward the vault door. “Are you willing to let me use them?”

“I’m sure you can understand my insistence on not allowing them out of my sight. Still, some arrangement might be worked out. First I would need to know exactly where you are at in your search for Satan, and how these precious relics would be used.” He saw hesitation, reluctance. “It is time to take our trust to a whole new level.” Unger watched him thinking it over.

“You’re right,” Zeke finally said. “Trust goes both ways.”

Unger listened intently as a man named Ezekiel told of his dig for Hell at the Dead Sea. “As for how the relics would be used,” he said, “I haven’t figured that out yet. Initially I would simply want them at our dig to—hopefully—ward off any Satanic presence. Beyond that, if we do find Hell, I’m thinking I might take as many as I can carry—probably in a backpack, something like that—hoping that their divine power will protect me. Jesus has said as much.”

“I can accept that. There can be no greater use for these sacred objects than to summon their divine power in the final showdown with Satan. I could let you borrow them, but on two conditions.”

“What are they?”

“These are the most sought-after items on earth. I would need your assurance that they would be housed in a secure location. At least as secure as my vault. Anything easily broken into would simply not do.”

“I agree,” Zeke said. “I can hire a security expert to convert a space in our headquarters into something vaultlike. What’s the other condition?”

“I come with them—for several reasons. I have spent my life preparing for exactly what you are seeking, Ezekiel: the final confrontation. I cannot have blazed the trail this far and stop. Communing with these relics daily is an indispensable part of my hesychastic ritual. There is also the matter of antiquities thieves. They are relentless, and they have a way of sniffing out any unusual movements. However secure a room you create, I could not sleep without being able to keep a close watch on my collection. On a more practical level, I can give the perspective of a trained eschatologist on a moment I’ve spent my whole life studying and preparing for. Armageddon.”

Another hesitation, but this one lasted only a couple seconds. “You’re right,” Ezekiel said. “With your academic background, I’m sure we could find ways for you to be useful. We have lodging. You could have a floor to yourself and a room next to the relics.”

“Perfect. I would welcome the opportunity to be useful.”

“Then welcome to the dig for Hell.” They clasped hands. “Creating a secure location for the relics might take a little time. That will give you time to pack them up. When all that’s done, I’ll come and get you and your collection.”

“Very well. The problem will be getting the relics loaded onto your vehicle when you come. We cannot do that from here. It might reveal the location of my sanctuary. And we are too far from the road. If anyone saw us carrying them through Kidron Valley, it could arouse suspicion. We must find another way.”

“I could come up at night, when people are least likely to be around. Say three in the morning. You and I could load them up then, when it’s pitch dark.”

Unger shook his head. “It would still be several trips across rough terrain, and wherever you parked your car it might draw attention.”

“The relics have to be gotten from here to my van. However we do it, there’s going to be some risk. We just try to minimize it as much as we can. I could park where the road comes closest to your house. You show me where that is now, and I’ll take some pictures of that spot. I can use the pictures to make some kind of camouflage screen that would blend into the landscape. I’d hide the van behind that. If you have the relics all packed and ready by your front door, the whole transfer could be done in fifteen minutes.”

“You’re right,” Unger said. “There is no perfect way, but your way sounds best.”

“Let’s go then. The sooner we start, the sooner we finish.”

They left Unger’s Sanctum Sanctorum and walked down the stony path in silence.

CHAPTER 46

Dig Headquarters

By the time Zeke made it back to the dig that evening, everyone was wrapping up a long day’s work and getting ready to head up to their rooms. Zeke told the Hell Squad to meet him in the lounge so they could fill each other in on the day’s events.

Darkness had fallen by the time they gathered around a table over beers. Leah, Mordecai, and Hassan listened in rapt attention as Zeke recounted his underground encounter with Anthony Unger.

“He’s kind of a latter-day John the Baptist. That’s how he sees himself. Wear’s a monk’s outfit, the whole bit.” He saw the skeptical looks. “I know. But the but the power of his relics could not be denied.” He told of the lightning inside the silver crucifixes and the visions in Pilate’s mirror. “He has documentation, but we all know the authenticity of these things can never be proven. All I can tell you is that, after what I saw and felt, I’m utterly convinced.”

“Of course it sounds impossible,” Mordecai said. “But nothing surprises me anymore. Science is out the window.”

“We need those relics,” Zeke said. “So I made a deal with him. He agreed to let us use them if he could be part of the dig. By training he’s an eschatologist. Taught it for years at Catholic University.” Assuming archaeologists working in the Holy Land would know about eschatology, Zeke directed his explanation primarily at Leah.

“Eschatology is the branch of theology concerned with the end of the world: Armageddon, the Second Coming, Judgment Day, all of that. Unger made a good point that since that’s exactly what we’re looking at, his expertise could be valuable in interpreting whatever unfolds. Besides, I figured since we’ll have the Satanic perspective when Michael Price gets here, it wouldn’t hurt to have a spokesman for God’s point of view. I could team them up, get kind of a point/counterpoint interpretation of anything paranormal. Call them the Fringe Group, maybe. Something like that. If nothing else it would keep them busy.

“The bottom line is I want us to have those relics. So he’s coming to stay with us. Part of the deal is converting some space here into a secure location for storing the relics. I’m talking like a vault. Mordecai, can you get somebody out here to take care of that?”

“No problem.”

Zeke took a swig from his beer and sat back. “So. Tell me about your day.”

“It was about as exciting as archaeology gets,” Mordecai said. He described the discovery of the two mummified corpses, their remarkable state of preservation, what that might mean for science. “There was one disturbing aspect. They were engaged in anal intercourse.”

“Sodomy,” Zeke said.

“That’s the first word that came into my mind too,” Leah said. “How could it not?”

Hassan responded quietly, as he always did, but with an intensity they had not seen. “The obvious religious interpretation would be that this was Allah’s punishment for engaging in homosexuality. The Koran and the Bible condemn it.”

“The Torah refers to it as ‘an abomination,’” Mordecai said.

“I used to be a devout Muslim,” Hassan said, “and I personally believe that homosexuality is not the natural order of things. Otherwise there would be no human race. But I have met many gay people over the years, and they are no better or worse than anyone else. I decided I could not embrace any teaching that includes killing and hate. It is that kind of extremism that gives us the suicide bombers. That got Norah killed. That is destroying the world. It is why I am here.” He looked at the faces around the table. “I have not been inside a mosque in years. When the killing in the name of Allah stops, I will go back.”

The discussion of the find and its implications went around the table. The conversation reminded Zeke of many he’d had in philosophy classes at Catholic University, endless speculation that went nowhere. Wanting to move along, after everyone had weighed in he said “Amen.”

Leah finished her beer. “Gentlemen, congratulations on a very exciting day, but I need to go to bed.”

“I’ll be up shortly,” Zeke said. She pecked him on the cheek and left. Zeke saw Mordecai staring absently, shaking his head. “What’s the matter?”

“I was just thinking about the fact that we’re on a mission to find Satan himself. I can’t help but wonder what kind of a being we might find, considering all the mythology developed to explain him through the centuries.”

“Catholic mythology, primarily,” Zeke said. “We practically invented Satan.”

Mordecai smiled. “Well, if you didn’t invent him, you certainly perfected him. Still, no one knows the precise nature or form of the Devil. We know what we saw last night on the television, but perhaps that is just one of many forms.”

He leaned forward and raised a forefinger.

“I was thinking of all the religious tradition, the theology—mythology—that has been passed along through the ages, like a torch. Now we are the keepers of that flame. The Hell Squad, carrying that torch into the darkness, searching for one of the two forces, good and evil, that spawned all religion. For thousands of years, all those religions have developed their own versions of good and evil. The three Abrahamic religions—Christianity, Islam, and Judaism—are all represented right here at this table. We are certainly qualified to speak for them. But what had me shaking my head was that, through all these thousands of years of discussion, one voice has been conspicuously absent.”

They waited for him to supply the name. A long moment later, he did. “Who speaks for Satan?”

The voice from the doorway hit them like a blast of icy air.

“I do.”

CHAPTER 47

Michael Price emerged from the shadows and saw their startled looks.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare everyone. I tried calling you Zeke, to let you know I was on my way from the airport, but there wasn’t any answer. You said to just come on ahead whenever I was ready.”

Zeke had turned his cell phone off so they could talk in peace. He made a mental note to start making sure all the outer doors were locked every night and beckoned Price over. “This is Michael Price, the man I told you about. The expert in Satanic murders. And Satanism in general.” No one moved to shake his hand, so Price merely pulled up a chair and sat to the left of Zeke. “Explain to these gentlemen what you meant about speaking for Satan.”

Price told of his Ph.D. in Abnormal Psychology, his career interviewing “the devil made me do it” murderers on death row, and his exhaustive research into Satanism.

Hassan seemed troubled. “Did you come to believe in Satan yourself?”

“In some cases, yes. Sitting in the cell with them, closer than I am to you, I could look deep into their eyes. Windows to the soul, as they say. And I know I saw—if not the Devil, then certainly something not human. Pure, depraved evil was leering back at me. This was in the very worst cases. Cases where—whatever name you want to give it—evil had clearly, inarguably, defeated good.”

“Cases such as?” Mordecai asked, warily.

Price detailed a litany of atrocities committed under alleged Satanic influence that had them wincing and moaning in revulsion.

He told of a baby disemboweled by a babysitter who was a devoted follower of Satanic metal music; of a steelworker who murdered his two young sons by boiling them in a cauldron of molten ore on Christmas Day; of a teenager claiming to be a vampire and slaughtering his family as they slept.

The clinical way in which Price described the horrors disturbed his listeners almost as much as the stories themselves. As Zeke’s newly reborn faith struggled to shield him from thinking of these incidents as victories over God, he wondered if too much time spent in the presence of such evil might not cause a person to absorb it to some degree. Possibly even embrace it. “Do you think Satan can be defeated?” he said.

“I don’t know. The idea has never really been put to the test. According to the Bible, Jesus banished Satan when he tried to tempt Him in the desert. But then Jesus got crucified. If you believe the Devil was behind that—and many do—then he has already proven he can win. In my personal experience good is often defeated by evil. Not only that, but I think an overconfident reliance on the Bible’s account of things could be deadly when the time came. As powerful a Book as it is—no offense to anyone’s religion—it’s still ambiguous hearsay evidence.”

Zeke wanted to argue the point but couldn’t. When it came down to it he believed the same thing.

He looked at his watch. Almost ten. They had a pre-work meeting at five-thirty. “Let’s call it a night. We can talk about whatever we need to talk about in the morning.”

Zeke and Mordecai went into the lobby and waited while Price got what he needed from his rental car. Zeke watched him bringing in his bags and suddenly felt very weary. Mordecai was also watching, a bothered expression on his face. “What’s wrong?” Zeke asked him.

“This man worries me. When I raised the question of who speaks for Satan, it was rhetorical. I don’t know that we need a spokesman for the Devil. I know I haven’t given him enough time, but…considering that you said he once gunned down an innocent family—and that he must know how enormously difficult that made it for you to invite him—he seems a little lacking in humility.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be keeping him on a short leash. And, not to quibble, but I think ‘spokesman’ for the Devil is the wrong word. ‘Expert’ is more like it.”

“Expert. One of my classmates when I was at Texas A&M gave me a definition for ‘expert’ that I never forgot.”

“What’s that?”

“An expert is a man from out of town with a briefcase.”

They turned to see Price depositing a briefcase beside two other pieces of luggage.

“Then we’ve got us one,” Zeke said.

CHAPTER 48

Driven by the growing conviction that they were on the verge of a great discovery, and with the solstice deadline looming, Zeke and Mordecai hardly slept for the next week. When they weren’t at the dig itself, they were tending to the countless details of adding personnel and equipment.

Mordecai had leased two more boats from a broker in Tel Aviv he’d given a lot of business to over the years. One was a 72-foot liveaboard catamaran that had been used for scuba tours in the Mediterranean. Already set up to accommodate divers, the only major piece of equipment they’d needed to add was an airlift to suck away the silt of digging. The other boat was a 30-foot outboard for use as a shuttle to and from the base to the site.

Twenty more marine archaeologists had been hired. Most of them were assigned to what had originally been called The Wall. With all four sides now almost completely uncovered, it had been renamed The Building.

Extensive tests on the two male corpses had determined that they were between three and four thousand years old. This put them within the period of Sodom and Gomorrah, but still didn’t prove they were from there. The site where they were discovered had apparently been their home. A six-person team was restoring the structure to as close to its original condition as possible. No longer needed there, Jack Shelby and Mordecai were now co-supervising the much more complex excavation of The Building.

A security expert who’d set up safe rooms for top Israeli government officials had converted an empty room on the top floor into a secure location for housing the relics. Bars had been installed over the windows and the new steel-reinforced door could only be opened with a security code. Access to the floor from the stairways at either end was now sealed off by steel-reinforced sliding pocket doors that also required a security code. “You will either need the combination or a bulldozer to get through these,” the security expert had said. He’d also talked about reinforcing the walls, floor, and ceiling of the safe room, but Zeke had decided it was overkill. Anyone that determined would either need a helicopter or to come in with guns blazing, and that wasn’t going to happen. To further put Anthony Unger’s mind at ease, Zeke had given him the adjoining room for his lodging, where he could keep a close eye on the relics. He’d have the whole secured floor to himself.

Hassan had been helping Leah in the War Room, but with the addition of two administrative assistants she no longer needed him. He and Zeke had used most of the week to complete their dive training for the unique conditions of the Dead Sea, and were ready to be used underwater where needed.

Now it was just past midnight and Zeke was getting ready for the drive to Jerusalem to pick up Anthony Unger and the relics. He was behind the bar in the lounge, lost in contemplation of what this next step in his bizarre journey might bring as he fixed himself a cup of coffee for the road. Beyond the glow of a small service light behind the bar, the lounge was dark and silent.

“Good morning,” a voice said from the other side of the bar.

Startled, Zeke looked up to see the shadowy figure of Michael Price. “Jesus, man. We need to get you a bell or something. What are you doing up?”

“I don’t sleep well. I’m often up this time of night. I was going to get some coffee, maybe do some research at my desk. I’m trying to learn as much as I can about Sodom and Gomorrah and the Dead Sea.”

It took a few seconds before Zeke could respond to this sudden and unwanted need for conversation. “I’ve got a lot of information on that,” he said. “Remind me when I get back and I’ll give it to you.”

“Are you going somewhere?”

“I’m going to pick up the guy I told you about. The eschatologist I want you to work with.”

“The one who dresses like a monk.”

“It’s not just dress for him. He’s living the part. He might look a little strange, but I want everyone to make him feel welcome.”

“No problem.”

Zeke put the lid on his travel mug and came from behind the bar. “Time for me to hit the road. I’ll see you sometime later today.”

“Before you go…This might sound a little hokey, but since I’m here to give my opinion on Satanic matters, I’ve been thinking: if there is a Hell, why here? So I’ve already started doing some research on this location. It turns out we’re on one of the biggest fault lines in the world. It runs all the way from the Mideast down into Africa.”

“Right. The Great Rift, it’s called.”

“Going back to the earliest religions, there’s been a strong belief that such places are an opening between this world and the underworld. Places where the boundary between the living and the dead—between good and evil— is at its weakest.”

“I studied a lot of those ancient beliefs when I went back to college after the Army. They always struck me more as superstition and folklore. Man-made constructs in our endless need to know the unknowable. Things like whether we have a soul, and what happens to it after death.”

“No doubt. I’ve studied ancient belief systems, too, as part of my work in trying to understand evil and where it comes from. And you’re right about our endless need to know the unknowable; to prove what so far has been unprovable. But even allowing for that, since the dawn of civilization countless thousands of accounts have been recorded having to do with the otherworld. Myth, superstition, paranormal activity, call it what you will—I can’t dismiss it all as nonsense. I can’t accept that all that testimony has been pulled out of thin air and is based on nothing. Especially in more recent times. A lot of very intelligent, credible people have spent their lives studying these phenomena and compiled a lot of very compelling data. None of it proves anything beyond a doubt, I grant you. But to me it boils down to this: where there’s this much smoke, there must be some fire.”

That hit home. Zeke had been thinking the same thing ever since beginning his research into the Dead Sea and Sodom and Gomorrah. “What exactly are you telling me?” he said.

“Well, I guess, if we believe what this mission is all about, I’m saying be careful.”

Zeke could not yet look into Price’s eyes without instantly remembering how crazed they’d been that night in the jungle. A sarcastic reply leapt to mind, a reflexive urge to inflict pain on the man who had caused so much, but this was supposed to be a time for forgiveness.

“Thanks for the heads up,” Zeke said. “I will.”

Knowing that every word that passed between them had the potential for disaster, he walked away quickly.

CHAPTER 49

The Dead Sea

By ten that morning the team excavating The Building had uncovered a ten-foot swath of the floor enclosed by the four walls. In the control room above, Mordecai was taking a last look at the live feed on the monitor before heading down with his ten-man replacement team.

Jack Shelby came up beside him. “Have we figured out the overall dimensions yet?”

Mordecai clicked the mouse and a computer image of the site appeared on another monitor next to the one showing the live video footage. He pointed to highlighted numbers beside the lines representing the walls of the structure: 150 feet long, 80 feet wide, 40 feet high. “The stone walls are about 6 feet thick,” he added. “It was built to last.”

Shelby remembered a bit of trivia from a recent sightseeing visit he and his wife had made to D.C. “It would have been about the same size as the White House.”

“Three, four thousand years ago, a building that size would have been this city’s White House—its center of dominance. A palace perhaps. Or a temple.”

Everyone had been astounded that, although badly damaged in places, the walls were still standing. Apparently, the earth had collapsed around them in a way that maintained equal pressure on both sides of the walls, supporting them all these years. The excavators had been careful to dig at the same rate on both sides to maintain the equilibrium. Braces had been placed at key pressure points along the way to maintain stability. Once the walls had been fully exposed, they’d dug down to the floor of the structure. Strewn along the floor were several large chunks of stone that must have been part of the collapsed roof. A fresh team of divers had gotten them out of the way so the digging could continue. Aided by the extreme buoyancy of the water and gas-filled lift bags, they were able to maneuver the heavy pieces of stone into a pile outside the anomaly to be dealt with later. For now the priority was getting the structure exposed in its entirety, and that meant clearing the rest of the floor.

Mordecai turned from the monitor and smiled at Shelby. “Are you ready to move some mud?”

“Does a giraffe have a long neck?”

Only a thin layer of silt remained over the floor, and it was coming away easily. “Mowing” from one end of the structure to the other, the phalanx of excavators steadily fanned the dirt into two airlifts instead of one to speed up the process. In an hour they’d cleared a third of the floor.

“Hold it.” Mordecai’s voice crackled inside the divers’ masks. “Come look at this.” The team glided into place around him. He pointed to a pattern on the floor that was starting to be revealed.

“This might be the beginning of a floor painting. Which would fit into the timeline of Sodom and Gomorrah, since mosaics weren’t used until much later.” While the excited murmur died down, he checked his dive computer to see how much bottom time they had left. “We have at least two more hours. Let’s see if we can get the rest of this image cleared. Don’t rush, though. We need to be extra careful not to damage this.”

The divers fanned back out, following the curved line on the floor that seemed to encircle a scene within. When they finished clearing it an hour later, Mordecai struggled against runaway speculation. Again the preservative qualities of this unique underwater world had proved remarkable. Only a few small patches of the painting had been worn away by the millennia.

The floor of the building was about seventy feet from the water’s surface. Ascending that distance now meant they’d need a short decompression stop on the way up. Even though they had plenty of time, there was no need to cut it close. Mordecai was anxious to get a good look at the painting, but despite having two airlifts, the water was still too murky. Besides, the best view would be on the monitor in the control room, after the video had passed through the visibility enhancement unit.

“Time to head up,” he said into his mike. As the group dispersed he touched the videographer on the arm. “Jim, I want you and I to stay down for a few minutes to get some more shots of the floor painting. Then we can watch the recording in the control room.”

“Copy.”

Forty-five minutes later, after getting out of their dive outfits and rinsing off, Mordecai and Shelby were studying the visually-enhanced recording of the floor painting on the large-screen monitor.

Inside a circle about fifty feet in diameter was a scene comprised of three distinct images. The largest was at the top. Two somewhat smaller ones completed a triangular arrangement underneath.

The predominant top image was of a man’s bearded face. On the left beneath it was the side view of a bull, standing upright on its two hind legs. Its erect sex organ was clearly visible. Opposite, the third corner of the triangle was a woman’s face in profile, looking toward the bull. From her mouth a forked tongue undulated several inches, seemingly in the direction of the bull’s maleness.

Below these images, an inscription curved along the bottom edge of the circle. Mordecai turned to Shelby for his expertise in Bronze Era epigraphy. “Any idea what it says?”

“It appears to predate anything I’ve ever seen,” he said. “There are some familiar elements, but also some things I don’t recognize. It will take a lot of study to be anything close to certain. I can recognize enough, though, to hazard a guess at the general meaning.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“I believe it says something like: ‘All Men’s Pleasures Ascend Unto Bera, Our King.’”

By the end of the day the entire interior of the structure had been cleared. In addition to the floor painting, another major piece of evidence had been uncovered to support the theory that this had once been a temple or palace. About thirty yards beyond the floor painting, just inside the northern wall of the building, another stone structure had been found, virtually intact. From its shape, proportions, and elaborate design, it could only be one thing.

A throne.

Mordecai’s team encircled it, quietly savoring the historic moment. Zeke had repeatedly told everyone not to celebrate prematurely, but now there could be no doubt.

This had to be the palace of Bera, king of Sodom.

CHAPTER 50

Dig Headquarters

At six that evening in the War Room, with the entire team crowded around, Mordecai Rosen made it official.

“We are uncovering Sodom.”

A cheer erupted from a group that now numbered over forty. Sitting beside Leah, Zeke gave her hand a gentle squeeze as he savored a small moment of victory he’d been sure was coming.

Mordecai finally held up his hands to restore quiet.

“We still have a huge amount of work left to do, but we must take time to enjoy the fact that we—you—have accomplished more, in a shorter amount of time, than any dig I have ever heard of. Tonight we celebrate, and tomorrow we take the day off.” Another cheer. “We will resume work on Friday. Go put on your dancing shoes.”

As the group broke up and made their way to the lounge, Zeke noticed Michael Price and Anthony Unger having a private conversation off to the side. They seemed to have bonded in the few hours Unger had been here. Zeke was relieved that everyone n seemed to have adjusted quickly to the presence of a man dressed like a monk.

We might just pull this off, he thought.

Mordecai came up beside him. “I know we’re in a situation where minutes count, Zeke, but these people have been working non-stop. They need a break before they burn out.”

“It’s a good decision, Mordecai. We can only do so much. And I did promise there would be some fun on this dig.”

“Good. Now, before Leah tries to get me to shake what’s left of my booty, come here for a moment. I need to show you something.”

He led them to the large monitor, where he’d pulled up the pre-dig survey. He used the mouse to point to two of several highlighted shapes inside the rectangle that indicated the proposed boundaries of the dig.

“These are the sites we’re currently working on, The Building and The Dwelling. Two smaller teams can finish those. Since we are uncovering an ancient city, which could be fifty, a hundred acres—who knows?—we have much more excavating to do. Look at this.” His finger traced a barely visible crooked line, about fifty yards beyond the northeast boundary of the survey. “This is what I wanted to show you. I’ve been so caught up in studying the area inside our artificial boundary, I missed this.”

“Something that faint,” Zeke said. “What would that indicate?”

“Can’t tell you for sure. The lightness of the image tells us the sonar signal was weak, which means it was bouncing off something very diffuse. Could be a chemical deposit, could be a cave or something from when that area was dry land. Could be old construction materials that the mining company buried and have rotted away. Could be a stratum of rock with some iron in it. Could be nothing.”

“Could it be a tunnel?” Zeke asked.

“If it is, it doesn’t seem to go anywhere. At least from what we can see here. It goes about fifty yards, then fades out. Could be what’s left of a tunnel that collapsed. Thousands of years of seismic activity have shifted this earth around a lot.”

“Whatever it is,” Zeke said, “we need to take a look.” He continued to stare at the faint crooked line. “Fifty yards. Too big for just you and I to handle, isn’t it?”

“Probably. We’d need to make an exploratory dive, see if we can find out what we’re up against. If it’s a hollowed out tunnel, then in effect somebody’s already done the digging for us. If it’s a tunnel filled with debris—far more likely—it would depend on how big it is. Judging from this, it would probably be too long. And the line slopes slightly downward, which means we’d be fighting gravity along with everything else. Too much for hand digging.” He shook his head. “We’d probably be looking at dredging. It wouldn’t be good archaeology, but I know our priority is different there.”

“Let’s you and I make that exploratory dive. See what we’ve got and go from there. I know you gave us all the day off tomorrow, so—”

“I don’t want to wait. Do you?”

Zeke knew they were both thinking the same thing: this might be the opening they had come here to find. “Not really,” he said.

“Then we can go out in the morning while the others take the day off.” He paused, considered something. “We’ll have a lot to do. A third person would be good.”

“Only people from the Hell Squad can come on this leg of the journey.”

“I know. I’m thinking this would be the time for Hassan to join us. He is anxious to help down there.”

“Fine. I’ll stop by the party just to be polite, but I need to get some sleep. What time do you want to start in the morning? Around six?”

“Six it is,” Mordecai said.

“It’s a date.”

“With destiny?”

“We shall see.”

CHAPTER 51

Anthony Unger sat at the edge of the Dead Sea, waiting for Michael Price to join him. He’d been intrigued to meet someone as knowledgeable about Satan as he was about God, and after so much time alone was eager to continue their conversation. He also wanted to test the theory about Price that he and Zeke had discussed on the ride here this morning: whether someone spending too much time in the company of Satan-influenced murderers might absorb some of their evil energy. Possibly even embrace it. Zeke had quoted Nietzsche: “Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. When you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you.”

Wanting to clear his mind for their upcoming meeting, Unger focused on the stark beauty of his surroundings. In his explorations of the Holy Land he had been to the Dead Sea many times, never failing to be stirred by its ever-changing appearance. As the sun sank behind him over the Judaean Wilderness, it scattered pink highlights over the waves, as if dressing them for the evening. Normally this kind of scene helped him transcend his frail human limitations, but today was different. Today was the first day of his attempt to rejoin the human race—not as Anthony Unger, but as John the Baptist. Depressing impressions from his first few hours on the dig kept clouding his mind. Not until now did he realize what he had given up, how far he had fallen.

He was not the Forerunner. God had chosen Ezekiel. The selfish part of him, the Anthony Unger he had never been completely able to bury, clung to the stubborn hope that God would still choose him to pave the way. But in his heart he knew otherwise. Even though Zeke had tried to deepen their bond of trust by making him a member of the “Hell Squad,” the others didn’t take him seriously as a holy man. They hid it well, but he could see it on their faces.

He was John the Baptist, he kept telling himself. And he had promised in the name of the Lord to help Ezekiel on this dig. If he was not a man of his word, then he did not deserve to call himself a man of God. The deadly sin of pride was pulling him off the path of righteousness, no matter how slightly. With the help of Jesus, he must find his way again. He closed his eyes and strove to reach at least some level of hesychasm to pull him out of this petty, negative spiral.

An image began to form. He was walking along a golden path. Ahead, off to the side, he saw Jesus on the cross that fateful day. Storm clouds were gathering overhead.

He sensed more than heard someone beside him. He opened his eyes just as Michael Price sat down beside him.

Price wore a silky white V-neck T-shirt tucked into the elastic waistband of shiny black jogging pants with a black and white stripe running down each leg. Black sneakers with white accents completed the stylish ensemble that emphasized his trim, muscular physique. Unger knew well the vanity behind such an outfit; it was the same vanity he’d tried to reject as John. With a quick glance at his own monk’s habit he realized that changing one’s dress didn’t automatically change the man. Just a moment ago he’d been engaged in the very un-monklike contemplation of his wounded pride.

“I try to come down here every evening,” Price said. “It’s a good spot to come and think things over.”

“It is,” Unger said.

They sat on a relatively smooth stretch of craggy rock that ended at the water’s edge, their legs dangling above the waves breaking softly several feet below. Crystallized salt formations jutted up through the water all along the shore. In places the salt formed a white border where the thin strip of sand met the water. A strong briny smell floated in the air.

“I’m told this is the saltiest body of water on earth,” Price said. “In ancient times people believed salt had the power to ward off evil.”

“We should be safe here then,” Unger said. “Maybe God put all this salt here for a reason. Do you believe in God?”

“I believe in Satan. I guess that means an ipso facto belief in God.”

“Coming in through the basement, so to speak.”

“So to speak,” Price said, gazing out at the water. “I can certainly see why the Dead Sea has long been considered the anteroom to Hell.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It’s more than just the harsh environment, the ovenlike heat. There is evil here. I feel it.”

“Do you think your career interviewing the worst death row murderers has made you more sensitive to such things?”

“I believe I have become more attuned to the presence of evil, yes. But you don’t have to be to feel it in this place. Don’t you feel it?”

“I haven’t been here long enough to say. I’ve certainly become acutely attuned to the widespread evil that plagues the human race. Pride. Vanity. Greed. All the deadly sins.” Unger nodded at the monk’s habit he wore. “Despite my rebirth into a holier life, I am not immune. Being around people today has brought out those very frailties in me.”

“We all have those,” Price said. “I’m talking about uncommon evil. A very unusual chain of events has brought a bunch of strangers to this strange place. For the strangest of reasons. Especially strange to me is that you and I are even here. Ostensibly we are the resident experts on Good and Evil. Maybe that will prove useful, but I know I’m not welcome.”

“I feel the same way,” Unger said. “Not unwelcome, per se, but not taken seriously. That could just be me being over-sensitive. I have not been around people for many years, and a layman walking around in a monk’s outfit…I understand the skepticism. Hopefully with a little time I can gain some credibility, be of some use.” He glanced toward the sky. It would be dark soon. Shadow was erasing the color from the landscape as the sun got closer to the mountains. “You referred to us as the resident experts on Good and Evil. I’d like to hear how you acquired your expertise. And I can tell you of my encounters with God, if you like. After that we can go to the party and maybe even enjoy ourselves.”

“Sounds good,” Price said. “Why don’t you go first. After so much time in the presence of—if not Satan himself, then certainly Satanic power—I could stand to hear from someone who might have been in the presence of God.”

Unger resisted the urge to change Price’s might have been to was, and simply told his story of being born again, of how the spirit of John the Baptist had come into him as he walked the footsteps of Jesus, making him believe he’d been chosen as the Forerunner, driving him to amass his collection of relics as part of that responsibility. He described the many ways he had experienced their power, especially during visitations from Pilate’s mirror.

“Jesus and Satan materialized in the mirror. Zeke experienced it as well. That is why he brought the relics here—for their divine power to protect us.”

Price’s eyes narrowed in skepticism. “One can only hope,” he said.

Unger looked at the darkening sky. “I’m sure we will have much to talk about, but that’s the short version of how I reached this point in life. What about you?”

Price gestured at Unger’s monk’s habit. “What you’ve told me about yourself, the way you’re dressed…it feels like I’m confessing to a priest. God knows I could stand to unburden myself. I’ve got secrets that eat at me. Dark secrets I’ve kept to myself for far too long.” He hesitated. “If I tell you these things, will what I say have the same confidentiality as confession?”

“Absolutely,” Unger said. “We must trust one another.”

“Trust. Something I haven’t had for a very long time. Maybe if you’ve managed to find a new you over here, I can do the same.”

Unger smiled. “I had to change my name from Anthony to John. At least you can keep yours. You probably know that Michael was God’s supreme archangel. The leader of his army against Satan.”

“I do know that. Michael means ‘who is like God.’ Ironic.”

“Unburden yourself, Michael.”

He began just as the curtain of night completed its fall.

“I dabbled in Satanism as a teenager. That’s almost always how it starts. People start out dabbling and end up on death row. Ouija boards, Tarot cards, anything to do with conjuring dark forces. Later it got worse. Much worse.”

After a brief description of his longstanding love/hate relationship with Satanism, Price quickly got to his relationship with Zeke in the Army. In an emotional rush he recounted that night in the jungle, the recent murder of Zeke’s family, his own questioning of the killer—who turned out to be his best childhood friend. A spiritual twin. Since then he’d been on a downward spiral, pulling him back into the hole he’d spent years trying to crawl out of. He shrugged. “Anyway, the past can’t be changed. It’s now that I’m worried about. I feel like I’ve got one foot in the abyss and the other on a banana peel.”

Unger maintained a neutral expression while being inwardly appalled. “I thought my life had been difficult. Full of persecution. My tribulations have been nothing compared to yours.”

“Here’s what it boils down to for me: Does one’s past dictate the future? Can a person really change? That’s my dilemma. There’s a part of me that I loathe, but can’t seem to make go away. I’ve always wanted to believe that I’m basically good, that it’s Satan who has driven me to evil. I thought I heard his voice that night in the jungle. Even now, I sometimes think I hear a nagging voice that wants to pit me against Zeke.”

That last comment hit Unger like a poison dart. Some nagging voice in his own head wanted the same thing. He’d been thinking it was the covetous part of himself that still wanted to be chosen over Ezekiel. After listening to Price, he wasn’t so sure. Could Satan be preying upon them both, seeing which one would weaken first? “What is this voice you hear?” he asked.

“Not mine. It’s clearly demonic. But it’s me who opened myself to that voice in the first place.”

“Satan is present here,” Unger said. “We know that from the inexplicable things that Zeke says have happened. I’m sure he’s told you about them.”

“The vision on the television and so forth.”

“Yes. So knowing that, and knowing of the weaknesses we both have that can be used against us, I beseech you—as I do myself—let’s don’t be the ones to ruin this.”

A sudden wind came up, bringing with it the sulfuric smell that seemed to be eternally lurking beneath the salt. Unger offered his hand, palm up. Price clasped it, and Unger laid his other hand on top of Price’s. “We must put our faith in God,” he said.

“I will try to,” Price said. “I just hope it’s not too late.”

In the feeble light from the moon and stars, they began the nearly mile-long trek from the water’s edge to their headquarters. Unger tried mightily to remain upbeat, but the conversation they’d just had wouldn’t let him. It had made him realize how badly damaged and flawed they both were. Price much more so, but still…

The secrets they’d just revealed had rekindled a spark in the ashes of a fire Unger had long ago extinguished, a fire fueled by his worst fear: the possibility that Satan could win.

Their body language as they walked fanned the spark. They both looked less confident to him, demoralized. The shuffling of his sandals across the barren landscape sounded like despair.

As they approached the building, Unger tried to brighten his spirits by thinking of all the people inside, laughing, dancing, having a good time. But after conditioning himself for so long to consider everything in relation to the end of the world, the famous lines he often remembered from The Second Coming came into his mind instead:

And what rough beast,
its hour come round at last,

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

CHAPTER 52

Zeke lay in bed alone, unable to sleep. Leah had been enjoying herself at the party, so she’d stayed downstairs. “Time to see if you’ve got any booty-shaking left in you,” she’d said to Mordecai. Zeke had left them on the dance floor.

Now he wished she were here. In the darkness, a waking dream had been tormenting him.

He clicked on the small lamp on his nightstand and tried to remember his dream.

Faces. Dozens of them. No one he knew, just faces, floating in a kaleidoscope of despair. He struggled to snare some elusive wisp of dream as it bobbed and floated away on a formless sea of memory. Too awake and restless to lay still, he got up and began to pace.

Faces. He’d read something disturbing that had to do with faces. What?

He grunted in frustration and threw up his hands. A dream he couldn’t remember—so what? A disturbing dream, to be sure, but why did it seem so important?

He sat in an armchair and closed his eyes, trying to pull the vision back from its descent into the psychic deep of forgotten dreams. Gradually the memory resurfaced…

He opened his eyes. Now he remembered.

William Lynch’s 1848 exploration of the Dead Sea. Lynch was a respected naval officer, and his expedition was considered the first truly scientific evaluation of the unusual body of water. Zeke had found a copy of his “narrative” report on-line when he’d begun his research. He’d been so fascinated by it—one passage in particular—that he’d printed it out and brought it with him. He got it from his briefcase and sat on the bed, scanning the highlighted sections.

Throughout, Lynch used words like wondrous, somber, unnatural, to describe the sea. Zeke came to the passage that had so intrigued him. Lynch wrote of a fiercely hot day during his exploration, when he and a handful of his men were sailing in a small boat:

“In the awful aspect which this sea presented…I seemed to read the inscription over the gates of Dante’s Inferno:—‘Ye who enter here, leave hope behind.’”

Before long Lynch was the only one left awake; the others had all fallen into a stuporous sleep. As he glided slowly and silently through the water, looking at his unnaturally dozing men, “…there was something fearful in the expression of their inflamed and swollen visages. The fierce angel of disease seemed hovering over them, and I read the forerunner of his presence in their flushed and feverish sleep…some, upon whose faces shone the reflected light from the water, looked ghastly…”

Feeling almost as though he were in the boat with him, Zeke felt an unsettling thrill when Lynch finally wrote:

“The solitude, the scene, my own thoughts, were too much; I felt, as I sat thus, steering the drowsily-moving boat, as if I were a Charon, ferrying not the souls, but the bodies, of the departed and the damned, over some infernal lake…”

At the bottom of the page, Zeke had written an explanatory footnote for himself: Charon was the aged boatman who ferried the souls of the dead across the River Styx to the gates of Hades.

He laid the paper aside, still dissatisfied. There had been more to his dream than Lynch’s hallucination. Something else to do with faces, something troubling…Slipping on shorts and a T-shirt, he went onto the balcony.

A gentle breeze caressed him as he leaned against the railing and stared out at the Dead Sea in the distance. The crescent moon and an explosion of stars cast a soft glow on its gently undulating surface, making it appear as though the sea itself were breathing. Zeke thought of going for a swim to tire himself out, but remembered that the water wasn’t really pleasant; all the salt and chemicals gave it a filmy, almost oily feel. Still, he was wide awake.

Maybe the long walk to the shore and back would help him sleep. He could certainly use the exercise. Anticipating the battle he might be in for, he’d been spending as much time as he could in the weight room. He’d been running, too, but with the possibility of finding the tunnel tomorrow, it was time to intensify his training. A hike down what might be an extremely long tunnel with a forty-pound backpack would be strenuous enough, but the return trip would be worse. All uphill. He needed to start working the steeper hills into his running. He was in great shape, but he needed to get into Delta shape.

He went inside, pulled sweatpants over his shorts, put on socks and running shoes, and went to the lounge to tell Leah where he was going.

It was only nine-thirty, but the party was over when he got there. Leah and Hassan were the only ones left. They sat at one of the smaller tables, chatting and having a beer.

Zeke gently caressed Leah’s shoulder. “Looks like everybody but you two party animals gave it up early.”

She stood and hugged him. “Hi, sweetie. Yeah, they couldn’t hang with the big dogs. Some left real early. I think everybody was just tired. Grab a beer and join us. We’re having a nightcap.”

“Normally I’d love to, but I’m too wound up to sit still. I’m going to go for a walk, get some exercise, see if it’ll tire me out.”

“Where are you going?”

“Down to the water and back.”

“Aren’t you and Mordecai and Hassan going out early in the morning?”

“I won’t be long.”

“You want me to go with you?”

“Not tonight. I need to think, clear my head. I’m not good company right now.” He saw her look of concern and began to have doubts about leaving her alone.

Hassan must have sensed it. “Don’t worry, Zeke. I’ll make sure she gets home safely. Don’t forget, Mordecai and myself are right across the hall from you two. A Jew and a Muslim watching for trouble with the eyes of a falcon.”

“Well,” Zeke said, “when you put it like that…”

Hassan flashed a rare smile. “She is our heartbeat, Zeke. We will guard her with our life.”

Heartbeat. He remembered staring at hers on the monitor in her hospital room. Remembered it stopping.

Leah’s kiss on the cheek brought him back from that precipice. “Go do what you gotta do,” she said. “I’ll keep your spot warm.”

He squeezed her hand and left. Outside, heavy darkness settled over him as he began the long trek to the Dead Sea. He hadn’t been walking long when his dream of faces floated into his mind, followed closely by Michael Price’s warning about cracks in the earth being openings for the dead.

CHAPTER 53

Zeke made his way across the strange terrain that had once been sea bottom. The water glowed faintly in the distance under the light from the heavens. In the void between the hotel and the Dead Sea, however, far from any outposts of humanity, he was enveloped in a shroud of darkness. Barely able to see his feet, he wished he’d brought a flashlight. The thick gloom and otherworldly silence made him feel like the first human, walking through some primordial landscape before the planet had even fully formed.

He came to a fairly flat strip of craggy rock at the water’s edge. The light from the night sky was better here, where the ledge sloped downward a few feet and disappeared into the water. He found a reasonably smooth patch of ground and sat, legs dangling over the edge. Compared to the impenetrable darkness he’d just left, the visibility here was good. The crescent moon created a faint silvery path that illuminated the rise and fall of the water for at least half a mile. Tiny wavelets whispered against the rocks, but the smell of the sulfur-tinged salt air was a sensory intrusion into their soothing rhythm. Beyond this faint murmur and celestial glow, all was silence and shadow.

Again Zeke imagined himself as the only soul in the world. Not the first soul this time, but the last, drifting through the infinite void of space on a voyage of eternal darkness, save for the pinpoint lights of distant stars. Lulled by the hypnotic breathing of the sea, he fell into deep contemplation of his surroundings and his potentially pivotal role in human events.

Was he at the edge of the abyss Enoch referred to in his scroll, the threshold that believers in the 2012 predictions believed the human race was coming to? The point where we must finally choose good over evil or be hopelessly doomed? If so, according to Enoch, “one righteous soul” must blaze the trail for the final confrontation between the Messiah and Lucifer.

One righteous soul. Meaning me. Zeke. Ezekiel.

Lost in consideration of the divine visitations he’d had telling him he was the one, his trance was broken when, at the farthest edge of his vision, he thought he saw something moving in the water.

The way the light twinkled and flickered on the waves made it easy to believe it was an optical illusion. His eyes followed the movement for several minutes, until there could be no doubt.

Something on the horizon was moving. He squinted to make it out.

A dark silhouette—formless, shapeless, like a wisp of smoke—floated slowly closer. Evaporation? Steam rising from the water? No. He’d often seen an evaporation haze over the sea, but it tended to float more uniformly across the entire surface. And in the morning. Not on a clear night like this.

He stared harder. Whatever it was, there seemed to be several separate and distinct clumps or puffs of it that he hadn’t noticed before. Still too far away and indistinct to identify, they continued drifting toward him across the surface of the sea.

Suddenly something rose up from the water directly in front of him.

Glowing droplets slid off a roundish form as it leaned closer. When it was no more than five feet away he could finally make it out.

A ghostly face. Light partially shone through the opaque, smokelike head. Its features were vaguely human, but without substance. It was a spirit, a ghost.

A soul.

As it hung suspended in air, Zeke saw only black holes where eyes might be, and yet those vacant shadows seemed to be staring at him. The ethereal face was etched with deep furrows of pain and suffering.

It inched closer, only a foot away now, until Zeke saw its lips moving, mouthing something. Finally he made it out.

“Help us.”

At the word “us” he noticed with alarm that the other shapes he’d seen earlier had drifted up to join this one. There were dozens of them, disembodied spirits, hovering just above the surface of the water, faces frozen in nightmarish expressions of eternal horror. The growing congregation crowded together, lips moving, all mouthing “help us, help us, help us”—a silent shriek of despair from beyond this world.

Spiders of ice scurried across Zeke’s back and scalp as though running to hide. More than fear, he felt a crushing sense of grief. These things weren’t threatening him. They were begging for help. Still, he instinctively scrambled to his feet and backed away.

They followed to the water’s edge. Worse, much worse, they began to emit sound. At first he wasn’t sure he heard it, but gradually it got louder and louder until there was no mistaking it.

They were moaning. Hideous, shuddering, pitiful wails of agony. The demonic sounds that had tormented him for weeks had been horrible, but this was worse. Demons could be dismissed as irredeemable evil. But these…In their vestiges of tortured humanity were souls that might yet be saved.

An ululating crescendo rose as from one voice, as if unfair cruelties inflicted on the living had left the dead only this last recourse, to bay for all eternity at an unjust God.

Zeke had to get away from there before his mind snapped. The mournful cries of the faces tore at him, but there was nothing he could do to help…ghosts. He turned and began to walk away.

Behind him the wailing faded, only to be replaced by the mournful cries he’d heard before: “help us, help us, help usss…”

I’m trying to, he wanted to tell them. By finding and defeating Satan, if I can.

He sensed movement to his left. Were the soul-things following him?

He looked toward the movement and thought he saw a dark shape the size of a man, standing partly concealed in a cove created by boulders. He stared intently into the shadowy darkness for at least a minute, but nothing moved. He took a couple steps as if to walk away, then stopped suddenly and looked back at the cove.

For a fraction of a second he thought he saw light glinting off a human face. In the next instant it disappeared below the rocks. He sprinted to the spot where the shape had been.

No one was there. He circled the large crescent formation of rocks.

Nothing. The ground was rock as well, so there were no footprints.

No longer sure what was real and what was unreal, Zeke looked back toward the water. The faces were gone. As he trudged grimly back to the room, their cries still reverberated inside his skull. The sound conjured an image of forlorn monks, their mournful Gregorian chant echoing hollowly off the walls of some monastery long abandoned by God.

A hymn of the damned, sung by a chorus of lost souls.

CHAPTER 54

Exactly at midnight, in the vacant room directly above Zeke’s, a small black votive candle cast a sinister light on a figure shrouded in black. On the middle finger of his left hand was his talisman: a ring containing a rare black mineral he had dubbed Luciferite, into which was perfectly carved the head of a goat framed by a pentagram. It was the symbol of Baphomet—the Judas Goat—and combined the Powers of Darkness with the fertility of the goat. The pentagram was inverted, so that its two upward points could receive the horns of the goat, while its three downward points proclaimed denial of the Holy Trinity. A very fitting talisman for bringing out his true self that he’d spent so long denying.

On his other hand was a ring made from bone, taken from the disinterred and violated corpse of a long-dead Archbishop. Having waited patiently for the witching hour, when his power would be the greatest, the black priest began to read the passage he had chosen for his incantation. It was one of the apocryphal keys of Enoch, once used by alchemists and later translated into Satanic hymns. By the light of the small candle he began his dreamlike and worshipful murmuring in an attempt to conjure the legions of Hell. He chanted the words over and over, each recitation increasing the fervor with which he spoke them. Finally, after thirteen repetitions had worked him into a controlled frenzy, in a vile whisper he exclaimed down at Zeke directly below him:

“Open and admit me! Open, in the name of Satan, so that I may come with you on your journey! Bring me into you!”

The black priest blew out the candle. Moonlight coming through the window illuminated the wraith of smoke from the extinguished flame. He watched it floating upward, as though an imprisoned spirit had been freed from its earthly bond. As he stared through the gathering darkness at the floor beneath which Zeke lay sleeping, the foul mockery of a gloating grin sullied the possessed being’s lips. With eyes attuned to the night, he left the room and headed for the stairway at the end of the hall.

He must find a way to neutralize the relics. When I’m through they will be worth nothing to you, Ezekiel. You will see who has the true power.

He silently crept up the stairs, becoming one with the blackness.

CHAPTER 55

The sun was just coming up as the boat reached the anomaly. They’d taken the 30-foot outboard for ease of maneuverability on this first exploratory dive.

Mordecai was at the wheel. Hassan stood beside him, staring at the GPS chart plotter mounted into the dash. A boat-shaped icon representing their craft showed their progress as they approached the beginning of the faint gray survey line they’d come here to investigate.

Mordecai nodded at the GPS unit. “Those things have come a long way. Even a small one like that is accurate to within a few feet.” He throttled back. “Only twenty-five more yards. We don’t know how deep the anomaly is buried, but my guess is five, ten yards at most.” He cut the engine. “Please drop the anchor, Hassan.”

Standing at the stern facing backwards, Zeke was so engrossed in the scene that he paid no attention to Hassan’s approach. The predawn light was painting the normally forbidding cliffs along the western shore a stunning soft pink. The briny odor was barely noticeable in the early morning air; the rotten-egg smell of sulfur was absent altogether. An evaporation haze gently fluttered and roiled as it hung suspended in a thick layer three feet above the water. After last night’s encounter with the faces, Zeke imagined the haze as the Dead Sea giving up its ghosts. The movements within the spectral cloud were the death throes of the departing spirits.

Last night when he’d told Leah of the faces she had said, “That’s it. I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

“As much as I’d like to, we can’t be together every second,” he’d said. “You’ve got to keep on top of things here. Don’t you remember what Hassan said? You’re the heartbeat of the operation. I’ll be careful.”

The splash of the anchor yanked him back into the moment. The three men ran final checks on their equipment and suited up. Mordecai kept a running commentary of safety reminders.

Hassan turned on the small portable airlift to make sure it was working. Its motor was fairly quiet, but in the preternatural calm it sounded like a scream in a graveyard. He quickly turned it off. “That could wake the dead.”

“Let’s hope not,” Mordecai said. “Come on. Time to move some mud.”

They entered the water from a small dive platform they’d affixed to the transom above the outboard motor. Normally, five-to-ten pounds of lead in a weight belt enabled a diver to sink, but in the Dead Sea, legendary for being unable to sink in, each man wore an unheard-of forty pounds. Rather than put all the lead into waist belts, some was affixed to their legs and arms to lessen the burden on their lower backs.

The water here was barely ten feet deep. They quickly reached bottom and adjusted their buoyancy compensators until they hovered just above it.

Hassan carried a 200-foot reel of cord for marking off the boundaries of the first grid. After he and Zeke had strung a square 50 feet on each side, Zeke handled the airlift while Mordecai and Hassan began to dig. The four gloved hands dug much faster than they normally would; at this site, finding the tunnel took precedence over archaeology. The combined sound of the airlift and their breathing was only a soft drone.

The three men fell into a smooth working routine and relatively quick progress was made. In an hour they’d dug a trench about ten yards wide and two deep. A few yards before they reached the rope boundary to complete the first pass, Hassan’s voice broke the silence. “Come. Look at this.”

Zeke and Mordecai floated over.

Jutting through the mud about two inches was a slightly curved craggy black ridge, about three feet long. It reminded Zeke of lava rock he and Leah had seen in Maui.

Mordecai pulled off a glove and ran his fingertips across it, then squeezed to gauge its solidity. “Rock. Let’s see where it leads us.”

Following the curving line of the stony ridge, they uncovered a section about ten yards long to a depth of one yard.

“Let’s see what we’ve got,” Mordecai said.

He grabbed the rock with both hands and, gently at first, then with gradually increasing force, tugged on it to get a sense of how big it might be, and how deeply it might be embedded.

It wouldn’t budge. It gave the impression of being quite large. Possibly enormous. “Notice that it doesn’t stick straight up,” Mordecai said. “It’s at about a 45-degree angle.”

“Something that fell over in antiquity, maybe?” Hassan suggested.

“Maybe. If it continues to curve we might be looking at a circle.”

“A well, maybe,” Hassan said. “Or some kind of catchment for water.”

“Could be. Let’s follow it as far as we can. Don’t worry about depth; let’s just get the top of it exposed, see how big of a structure we’re dealing with.”

Exposing the top of the ridge was relatively easy work, little more than running their hands along either side. They finished just as Mordecai’s wrist computer began to beep, telling them it was time to head up. Stopping their ascent just below the surface to look at what they’d uncovered, through the murky water they saw a jagged circle of rock, at least thirty, maybe forty yards in diameter, completely filled with mud.

“It’s big,” Zeke said.

“Yes,” Mordecai said. “We’re going to need a dredge.”

CHAPTER 56

Mordecai contacted the same industrial dredging company they’d used to clear the salt crust from the sea bottom. Motivated by a $10,000 bonus, a team of technicians completed the job in less than a week. A downward-sloping shaft, eighty yards long and nearly forty in diameter, hewn out of the subterranean rock for an unknown purpose, had been cleared. Only the sea water that flowed into it remained inside.

The dredge operator had told them that the shaft continued past the section he’d cleared. When he’d reached the end of the downward slope and thought he was done, he’d had to remove at least a ton more material because of backfill sliding down from the next section, which inexplicably changed course and sloped upward. With the help of specially trained divers, themselves helped by gravity, they’d cleared that section, at least as far as they could see. Whatever was past that point was beyond the scope of the dredging operation. Only diving could reveal what lay beyond.

While the dredging had gone on, Mordecai had given Zeke and Hassan an intensive course on cave diving. Throughout, his main emphasis had been on safety. They’d be facing many new dangers in the claustrophobic environment of a tunnel. With no light from above to show which way was up, it would be easy to get disoriented. If anything went wrong—and, sooner or later, especially with cave diving, something always did—panic could kill them. They’d have to run a penetration line to show them the way out.

At the shallow depth they’d been working, decompression stops on the way to the surface hadn’t been necessary. But at the bottom of the tunnel, they’d be somewhere around three hundred feet deeper, which would mean several deco stops to avoid the bends. The descent might only take fifteen minutes, but the ascent could take forty-five. Or more.

They’d still be equipped for voice communication, but from that range and with that much solid material between the transmitter and receiver, contact with the surface would almost certainly be impossible. Adding in factors like water density, salinity, temperature and “who knows what,” diver-to-diver might also be lost. They’d spent hours going over hand signals, and Mordecai had emphasized the importance of not getting separated. In that event the penetration line became a lifeline.

On and on it went. Even though Mordecai tried not to overload them with information, the training sessions each ran eight hours.

The 72’ catamaran would be used to manage the dive. Since only Hell Squad members could be used for this part of the dig, that left Leah and Unger to handle the surface duties. While Mordecai trained his underwater team, ex-Israeli Navy commando Joe Dayagi trained Leah and Unger on everything they needed to know.

Now, as dawn broke over the Holy Land, Leah slowly brought the large boat to a perfect stop at the marker buoy they’d left above the entrance to the tunnel. Standing beside her in his monk’s habit, Anthony Unger gave her a thumbs up. Ten feet below, leading to an unknown destination, the mouth of the tunnel waited.

Leah cut the engine. When its rumble finally died out, the unearthly early morning silence of the Dead Sea was jarring. They left the wheelhouse to join the dive team in the control room. Mordecai, Zeke, and Hassan exuded a quiet confidence.

“We’ve been over everything a million times,” Mordecai said, “but if anyone has any questions, we can go over them a million more.”

No one said anything.

“We’ve only got one chance at this,” he said. “No room for mistakes. What’s that thing you always used to say in the Army, Zeke?”

Zeke smiled. “Okay. Let’s do this right. Huddle up.” He held out his hand, palm down. The group picked up their cue, each stacking a hand on top of another. “All right,” Zeke said. “We’re in, we’re out, and nobody gets hurt.” They broke the huddle with a shout.

As they began heading for the stern, Leah grabbed Zeke’s hand and pulled him back. “You better take your advice, buddy. Don’t you dare get hurt down there. You hear me?”

“Loud and clear, girlfriend. Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.” He patted the St. Peter’s crucifix he’d secured to his belt in a watertight bag.

“You better be.”

She kissed his cheek and they went to join the others. Minutes later she watched their headlamps disappear into the blackness of the Devil’s Sea.

The divers stabilized a few feet above the bottom and Mordecai led the way. He tied the beginning of a reel of cord that would be their penetration line to the anchor line of the boat, letting it unspool as he swam. The extreme buoyancy of the water made the reel virtually weightless. If they needed more than the hundred yards on his reel, Zeke was close behind with another hundred-yard reel that could be linked to the first. Hassan brought up the rear. Both men had a gloved hand sliding along the line to keep it taut and to avoid getting separated from the group.

Mordecai tested the voice comm. “Can you hear me?”

Both men responded in the affirmative, and they followed him into the tunnel.

They swam in silence, their bobbing headlamps casting flickering shadows on the stone that encircled them. Like fireflies coursing through the artery of some impossibly huge sleeping behemoth, they swam inexorably ahead.

The darkness deepened as they went, as if it were a palpable force trying to repel their beams of light. Soon the light no longer reached the surrounding tunnel. Without that boundary to keep them oriented, the sensation became one of floating through an inky void in deep space.

Mordecai glanced over his shoulder. Zeke was only a few feet behind, but his light barely reached Mordecai’s fins. Hassan may as well not have existed at all.

Mordecai finned slowly through the dense black liquid, concentrating intensely on the sliver of light ahead to avoid feelings of disorientation. It was far darker in here than any cave he’d ever been in. If he was starting to feel uneasy, he knew the others must be, too.

Even though everything was going well so far, Hassan felt apprehensive. The extremely poor visibility was bad enough, but there was something else. He sensed an alien presence, a watcher somewhere in the oppressive gloom.

You were talking pretty tough on land, my friend. Now you are afraid of the dark?

No. Of course not. Well, maybe. A little.

As much as he tried not to, he kept looking over his shoulder, fighting the feeling that something might be coming up behind him. Which was ridiculous, since this was a sea in which nothing lived. And even if something was coming up on him, he couldn’t see it anyway. He could barely see his flippers. This place was like a black hole, with a gravitational pull so strong it sucked in all the surrounding light.

In the last few minutes he’d developed a nervous habit. Keeping one hand on the penetration line, he kept swimming over to touch the stone wall of the shaft, just to reassure himself he hadn’t drifted off into complete nothingness. Several times his panic level got dangerously high before his hand felt the hard craggy surface, and he would curse himself for being a superstitious fool.

Just now he was nervous again. His hand had been out for at least a minute and not felt anything. He was going through his usual bag of tricks to quell his rising fear, chiding himself, questioning his manhood, trying to laugh it off.

He concentrated on the feeble beam of his headlight. Zeke should be just in front of him, but he hadn’t seen him for quite a while. He spoke into the voice-activated microphone inside his full-face mask.

“Zeke? Mordecai? Are you up there?”

Nothing. He tried again. Silence.

The voice comm must be gone. Mordecai had said it probably would be.

He extended his right arm until his fingers began to slide across the welcome hardness. Reluctant to lose contact with the one thing that was keeping him from slipping over some dark precipice within himself, he kept his hand sliding over the craggy surface.

Suddenly the feel of the rock changed. The archaeologist in him snapped to attention. This was a find. He stopped to inspect it, knowing he was falling behind but confident he could catch up quickly by following the penetration line. He shone his headlamp in the direction of the find, but even at only an arm’s length the beam didn’t reach.

As he moved his head closer the light went out. Cursing his bad luck, in the next instant he thanked Mordecai for insisting that each diver have two backup lights. Hassan’s first backup was on his wrist, and only required the turn of a switch. Before turning it on, he ran his hand over the anomaly, wanting to fix its location in his mind before momentarily losing contact.

Softer than the surrounding rock, it felt smooth and spongy to the touch. When he pressed his fingertips against it, it gave slightly, then sprang back. Probing further, his first two fingers left the softness and plunged into a hole of some sort. He moved his fingers around the edges of the cavity. It wasn’t very large, and seemed to have a thin rocklike ridge.

Removing his hand, he clicked on the light on his wrist, reluctantly letting go of the penetration line to swing the light into place. It took several seconds before he found the anomaly.

An involuntary cry escaped from his throat as he jerked his head back.

A dead face stared at him.

His archaeologist’s curiosity quickly took over, and he leaned closer to inspect the bizarre find.

A disembodied skull was embedded in the stone wall of the tunnel. Judging from the amount of decay, Hassan guessed it had been here for centuries, perhaps millennia. Even so, the degree of preservation was remarkable.

Patches of skin still clung to the rotting bone. Gelatinous gray matter, the preserved remains of the eyeballs, bulged from each socket. Though death had long extinguished their luster, some final spark still gave them the appearance of staring in shock at the monstrous cruelty of being left here to rot.

As if to punctuate the horror, the lipless mouth appeared frozen in an eternal scream. The chill crawling up Hassan’s back broke into an icy sprint when he realized that the cavity surrounded by blackened, jagged teeth was where his fingers had just been.

He steadied his breathing and gathered himself. He needed to get moving. He’d fallen way behind.

He attached a small marker buoy to the penetration line to indicate the location where he’d found the skull, then began moving swiftly through the water. The need to reunite with his team temporarily took precedence over any further archaeology. A few minutes later he came to the point the dredge operator had told them about, where the shaft ended its downward slope and started going upwards. The penetration line kept going. He debated whether he should follow it. He looked at his dive computer.

From a depth of ten feet at the entrance to the tunnel, he had descended to a depth of over two hundred. The computer said he’d need two ten-minute decompression stops on the way up.

He had forty-five minutes of air left. If he spent much time exploring that next section of tunnel…

He could afford five more minutes. Then he’d have to turn the dive. The same would have to be true for Mordecai and Zeke. Where were they? Could they have gotten in trouble?

He tried the voice comm again. Nothing. He couldn’t leave without them.

He kicked his fins and entered the upward section. He hadn’t gone far when a spot of light came looming toward him, like the eye of a Cyclops descending into the deep.

A few seconds later Mordecai stopped just short of bumping into him. Using hand signals and gestures, he communicated that, yes, the voice comm wasn’t working, and that it was time to head back. On a small slate he wrote on a small slate that Zeke had insisted on finishing something and would catch up.

Mordecai began to lead them out of the tunnel.

Suddenly Zeke’s world changed.

With startling force his head burst out of the water and into open air. He struggled to get his bearings. From the chest up his body was clear of the sloshing water. He aimed his light to see what was in front of and above him.

The beam glistened off a stretch of damp, craggy rock that continued sloping upward at about a 45-degree angle. At the edge of the beam’s range, about ten yards above, he saw a roughly circular shadow. Encumbered by his equipment, he clipped the reel for the penetration line to a D-ring on his waist, then scrabbled crablike up the slope until he reached the shadow.

It was an opening. He peered inside.

The tunnel went on, flat now, at least as far as he could see. Seventy-five yards at least. He clambered up onto the flat stretch and considered whether to go on. His sudden emergence from the water hadn’t allowed for a decompression stop, but he didn’t feel any symptoms of nitrogen sickness. He needed to get back but desperately wanted to go on. This might be the tunnel to Hell. He couldn’t come this far and turn around without some idea of where it led.

He felt all right. Fatigued, but not sick. Maybe he’d gotten lucky on the bends.

Ten more minutes wouldn’t kill him. He set his timer, then took off his tank and fins, leaving his booties on. Their hard rubber soles weren’t designed for this rough terrain, but they were better than nothing. He began walking ahead, focusing his light on the ground. For all he knew, his next step could bring him to the edge of a sheer underground cliff.

The ground was much drier here. Thirty to forty yards in diameter, the shaft appeared to be mostly rock, with damp earth here and there in the nooks and crannies. He’d gone about a hundred yards when it abruptly changed course.

It was going down again. His light only revealed the first ten yards or so. It was clear of water, so he decided to venture a little farther.

In the otherwordly silence, he jumped when his wrist alarm went off. He decided he could spare just a few more minutes to get a feel for this new stretch of tunnel.

He’d only gone ten or fifteen steps into it when he began to feel uneasy. The distance from the boat, everything he had to negotiate to get back to it, the fact that he had no help if anything went wrong—all were factors in the sense of dread slowly coiling itself around his psyche. But there was something more.

A palpable sense of foreboding hung in the air down here, almost seeming to ooze from the walls, closing in around him. Still he pressed ahead.

Finally he stopped and probed the darkness all around, looking for any distinctive feature to mark his place before he left.

A gasp escaped his throat.

A skull was embedded in the stone wall.

Zeke moved warily toward it until the lifeless face hovered only a few feet from his own. Shadows danced in the empty eye sockets. Caused by his shifting light, they gave the disturbing impression that the thing had come to life. Something about the skull’s features hinted to Zeke of a sneer.

His imagination was running away with him. That could be a sign of nitrogen narcosis. He needed to get out of here and come back fresh. He turned to go, but was unable to resist shining his light on the opposite wall before he went.

Another skull hung there, its hollow eyes seeing nothing—yet seeing everything. He shone the light first at one, then the other, back and forth, back and forth.

They looked like two sentinels, two diabolic guardians, decorating either side of an entranceway.

CHAPTER 57

An hour later they were all safely aboard the catamaran. After quick showers, the divers grabbed bottled waters and met in the control room, where Leah and Unger waited anxiously to hear what had happened.

“It’s a tunnel of some sort,” Mordecai said. “Where it goes, and for what purpose, we can’t know until we do a full investigation. It goes down, then up. We were five, ten minutes into the into the uphill section when I realized Hassan was no longer behind us. I went to check on him while Zeke kept going as far as he could. I’ll let Zeke tell what he found.”

“From the point where you turned around, the upward slope goes another twenty, thirty yards, then—all of a sudden—it breaks free of the water. It’s still underground, but somehow it’s above the level of the water and you’re on dry land. From there the slope goes up another ten yards or so, then levels off, like a plateau. That section runs for about another hundred yards, then it starts going down again. The downward section was free of water too, at least what I could see. I only went a little ways into it, because I knew I had to get back. How far it goes and where to, there’s only one way to find out.”

Mordecai nodded. “We can figure out that plan in the War Room.”

“I didn’t tell you the most bizarre part,” Zeke said. “In that last downward section, there were two skulls embedded in the walls. One on each side, like decorative sentinels, guarding an entranceway.”

“I saw one too,” Hassan said. He described the skull. “The worst was the eyes. There seemed to be a spark of life left in them. Shock. Like they couldn’t believe this was happening. I never looked to see if there was one on the other wall.”

“Did you have the feeling something else was in the tunnel?” Zeke asked. “A presence?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Those skulls would make anyone feel uneasy,” Zeke said, “but it was more than that.”

“Uneasy,” Hassan said. “A good word to describe it. Mordecai, I can think of no reason for these skulls to be there. Can you?”

He shrugged. “Mining went on in this general area thousands of years ago, when it was dry land. Slaves were used to work in the mineshafts, digging out the copper that gave rise to the Bronze Age. Sodom and Gomorrah would have existed during that period. Who knows? Maybe if a worker got too slow, they lopped off his head and stuck it up there, as an example to keep the other workers in line.”

“So you think maybe that’s a mineshaft?” Zeke said.

“Could be. Could be many things. I’m just giving you theories my mind is trained to give.”

“Whatever it is,” Zeke said, “we need to check it out. Let’s figure out the strategy for going the rest of the way, then start tomorrow, when we’re fresh.”

On the trip back to base, Zeke tried to think of more pleasant things, but his mind kept returning to that opening in the earth, wondering if it was the doorway to Hell.

CHAPTER 58

Late that night Unger was in the room with the relics, trying to reach hesychasm with a very specific goal in mind. Tonight he must purge himself completely of the stubborn remnants of Anthony Unger. His former venal self was polluting the vessel he’d spent years purifying as John the Baptist. Sowing his seeds of doubt and jealousy, Anthony Unger was the opening through which Satan might enter. Tonight that portal must be sealed off forever.

He sat in one of the hotel armchairs, near the center of the makeshift altar he’d fashioned by placing folding tables end to end. Jesus’s burial shroud was fastened around his shoulders like a cloak. On his head was the Crown of Thorns. Not pushed down, merely resting there. He didn’t want his blood tainting any blood of Jesus that might still be on the thorns. The blood-stained Sudariam was around his face, just as it had been around the face of Jesus in the tomb. With it pulled over his nose like a mask, he might be inhaling actual particles of Jesus that had remained embedded in the fabric. He felt his faith strengthening as the sacred energy flowed into him.

He’d left the chests with the crucifixes and holy water on the floor at either end of the altar, unsure if the folding tables could support their weight. The lids of the chests were open so he could feel the full effect of the relics inside. Pilate’s mirror was in front of his chair.

Unger closed his eyes. As his mind cleared, he saw himself walking along a golden path. Ahead, he saw Jesus on the cross that fateful day. Satisfied that he was now ready for divine communion, he opened his eyes and stared into Pilate’s mirror, hoping to see something to reassure him that his ministry was still important.

The faint flutterings of an image began to appear, gradually gaining strength. It was not the image he had hoped to see.

His monk’s clothing slowly disappeared and was replaced by an impeccable suit and tie. His beard got shorter and shorter until he was completely clean shaven. His unkempt hair became a neatly manicured stylish cut.

He was looking at his vain former self. In the mirror Anthony Unger preened, smoothing back his hair, adjusting the knot on his tie, looking at himself from all angles until he was satisfied.

The gigantic head of a serpent burst up from the bottom of the mirror, its huge mouth open. The image jolted him back in his chair so hard he almost fell over.

Like some impossibly large python, the serpent clamped down on Unger’s reflection in the mirror, halfway up his body. With deliberate swallowing movements it slowly drew him, screaming and writhing, into its body. The serpent’s eyes glowed a demonic red.

He tried to look away but couldn’t. Some palpable force kept his eyes locked on his own body being devoured. Finally the ingestion was complete, and the snake’s swollen body lazily withdrew back into the bottom of the mirror. Just before it disappeared completely, it turned its head to glower at Unger. He could have sworn it was smiling.

Then it was gone.

Numb with horror, he continued to stare at the mirror, waiting for his own image to reappear. Instead he saw only an empty chair. It was as if he had ceased to exist, as if his soul had been swallowed.

He jumped up and began to pace. He had to do something to reclaim his destiny. His true self. Only as John the Baptist did he have any reason to live. What was his purpose now? What did God want him to do?

He heard tapping at the door. Someone punching in the security code. It had to be Zeke. He was the only other one who had access. Thank goodness. He needed to see a friendly face.

The door opened and he was startled by the last person he expected to see.

“Nice outfit,” the intruder said.

“What are you doing…how did you get the security code?”

“That was the easy part. I hid a small surveillance camera in the ceiling near the door to the hallway. Those little cameras are really something these days. I got a very clear picture of you punching in the code. Luckily you used the same code for this door. Bad move.”

As John he had never trusted this man, and now here he was—dressed in a black hooded robe as the mockery of a priest. “You cannot come in here. You have to go.”

“Wrong, Padre. You’re the one who’s got to go.”

The betrayer began walking toward him. John backed up, knowing he could not beat this man. He needed help, but even if he screamed, from the top floor no one would hear him. He turned to the relics. If God had not abandoned him, they were his only hope.

He sprinted to the chest with the holy water, shoving a bottle into the pocket of his cowl. The betrayer merely watched in amusement while he scrambled to the other chest to grab two crucifixes and hold them up, as if to ward off evil.

“You’ve been watching too many horror films, Father. Why don’t you try some garlic while you’re at it?”

The betrayer snatched the crucifixes and flung them across the room. John opened his mouth to yell. With lightning quickness the man’s hands clamped onto his neck and choked it off.

The iron grip loosened slightly. He sensed that the man was deciding whether to kill him or not. He fumbled for the holy water.

The man yanked John’s hand from the pocket and squeezed until he dropped the bottle onto the floor. The hand on his neck loosened a bit more.

John broke free and tried to yell but could only cough. He started to run but got only a few steps before the man slammed him against the wall. Looking at the evil streaming from those eyes, John knew his life was in God’s hands now. He said a silent prayer that his soul, at least, would be saved.

CHAPTER 59

“Help us…help us…help usss…”

The pitiful moans were haunting Zeke again. Dozens of disembodied faces floated through his dream, their lips all moving in the same silent scream of despair. “Hellp ussss.” Their soundless cries rose like the din of a mob, until they reached an unbearable frenzy.

Zeke’s eyes snapped open. He lay stiff as a cadaver, expecting the faces to start emerging from the darkness in his room.

As the nightmare receded his taut muscles relaxed and his breathing became steady. Leah lay beside him, her breathing that of deep sleep. Thank God for her. If he didn’t have her…

All the death and horror felt like a weight settling on his chest. He thought of the man during the Salem witch trials who had been pressed to death with stones.

He needed to do something, to fight back. But how could you fight an enemy that wasn’t there?

He watched Leah sleeping, studied the face he adored, tried to recall happy moments they’d shared to rouse himself out of his depression.

But he couldn’t. Even awake, he kept seeing the ghostly faces from the Dead Sea.

Who were they? Souls trapped in Hell, asking him to rescue them? That didn’t make sense. Souls in Hell were supposed to be punished. At least that’s what he’d always been taught. Except that everything we think we know about Hell is mythology. We don’t know anything.

The unanswerable questions floated in his head like the faces. Only if he found Hell would they be answered. He tried to fall back asleep but the faces kept popping into his head, like phantoms from some diabolic Jack-In-The-Box.

On a sudden impulse he grabbed the silver St. Peter’s crucifix on his nightstand and laid it over his heart. He imagined the crucifix purifying his beleaguered faith by pulling these stubborn doubts into itself.

The crucifix felt warm against his skin. Warmer. It was getting hot. On the verge of pain, he took it off.

Now it was cool.

What had just happened?

He didn’t want to turn on a light and wake Leah, so he stared at it in the dim light coming through the window from the night sky.

It began to melt, dissolving into silvery droplets that slid off his hand and through his fingers. Then it was gone. Staring in disbelief at his empty palm, he was jolted by a sudden thought.

The relics. Had Unger been checking on them? He must be. Zeke hadn’t been up there for days. He clicked on the lamp and looked at the clock. Twelve-thirty.

Leah moaned. “What…?”

Trying not to alarm her, Zeke explained while quickly but calmly putting on sweatpants, T-shirt, socks and running shoes. “I’ve got to go check on something. I’ll be right back.”

“Check on what?”

“The relics. Unger is really worried about antiquities thieves. I know they’re fine, but I’ll sleep better if I check on them.”

“Can’t you wait until morning?”

“This would the perfect time for a thief, when it’s dark and everyone’s sleeping.”

“I’ll come with you.”

He started to protest but remembered the crucifix that had just melted in his hand. The demonic presence stalking them might be in their room. “Okay. Put something on your feet besides slippers.”

While she put on sweats and sneakers Zeke got a flashlight from his nightstand. A minute later they were going up the stairs. When they reached the fifth-floor landing, they froze.

Through the door they heard a muffled, chantlike mumbling.

Fervent.

Frenzied.

Heart pounding, fighting off a tidal wave of anguish that threatened to engulf him, Zeke stabbed in the security code and opened the door.

They sprinted down the hall. The chanting was coming from the room with the relics.

The door was locked. No sign of damage.

Only one person had the code. Unger.

No time to think about it.

Zeke punched in the numbers, but in his haste he hit a wrong one and had to wait while the lock reset itself. Finally, after the longest 13 seconds of his life, the door popped open.

CHAPTER 60

A scene straight out of Hell staggered them.

Zeke dropped the flashlight to free his hands as a furnace blast of evil assaulted their senses.

A man stood facing the front wall of the room, his profile to them. The Sudarium was around his head like a cowl, concealing his face. Jesus’s burial shroud was draped over his shoulders like a cloak. Black votive candles flickered throughout the room. The chest with the bottles of holy water was on the floor directly in front him, its lid open. A vile smell came from somewhere.

In one hand the mock priest held a scepter, nearly as tall as he was. Affixed to its top was what appeared to be the bleached white skull of some small animal.

In the other hand he held his penis. He was urinating into the chest with the holy water while moaning some incomprehensible incantation. Ceasing both actions instantly when they burst into the room, he brushed the Sudarium off his head and locked his demonic gaze onto them.

Zeke tore his eyes away from the appalling sight below the man’s waist to return his stare with equal ferocity.

The shock of recognition knocked Zeke backward.

Michael Price.

A pentagram was drawn on his forehead. Split-second bursts of thought flashed through Zeke’s brain.

He had been tricked by this worshiper of Satan. Again.

Satan.

Liar.

Deceiver.

Betrayer.

Inviting Price had led to the worst possible sacrilege. All in the name of forgiveness. Looking at Price and the scene before him, a blinding thought exploded in Zeke’s head: Some things were beyond forgiving. Not every soul could be saved.

He summoned what shaken faith he could against the palpable evil radiating from this mockery of a priest.

But Price was a believer, too. And he had conjured up the power of his own god.

Locked in a primal face-off, the two men stared each other down.

Zeke’s words came out scraped raw with emotion. “How did you get in here?”

“That was the easy part. I hid a small video camera in the hallway. Got a good picture of your self-proclaimed holy man entering the code.” His voice changed to the inhuman, mocking one they’d heard before. “Great power is vested in me.” His eyes glowed red. “I’ve been watching you.”

Zeke wondered if Price or his spirit could have been the thing outside Leah’s room in the hospital.

“No,” Price said, reading his mind. “That was my good friend.”

“What?”

“The one I told you about. Randy Stokes. My spiritual twin. Born on the same day. Inseparable. We got physically separated, but we were finally reunited again. Guess where, Ezekiel.”

“Say what you’ve got to say before you die.”

“Oh, I’m scared. All right. You’ll find this interesting.”

He came closer until they were face to face. His raspy voice cut off Zeke’s mad struggle to make sense of it all.

“Remember the story your father told about when he was a POW at the Hanoi Hilton? How a prisoner escaped who believed in Satan? That was my friend Randy.

“My lord saw the exquisite symmetry in having Randy be the one to execute his plan. Randy was the one outside Leah’s hospital window. Or I should say, his spirit. He flew out of his prison cell using Lucifer’s wings.”

Zeke wanted to smash the gloating face in, but he needed to know. “What about all those other visions?”

“Those were also Lucifer. He controls the air, and therefore the airwaves. It amuses him greatly to play the types of video games he did with you the other night in the lounge. And the cloud game on the plane.”

Fury swelling in Zeke’s chest was making it difficult for him to breathe. It seemed to goad Price on.

“Randy is the one who killed your family. The man I interviewed in prison.”

Zeke’s body became taut with rage. Before he could explode, Price twisted the knife.

“Randy’s spirit came into me before he died, so I could finish the work of the Wicked Priest.”

Wicked Priest. The phrase from Lot’s scroll. A chill stirred Zeke’s scalp. “Which is?”

“To destroy you. You’ve been a marked man since that white light in the hospital. Lucifer keeps close tabs on God’s Chosen. Remember that night in Nam? You said you were going to send me to Hell. Guess what, buddy. You’re coming with me.”

An explosion of pent-up wrath from the jungle and the restaurant launched Zeke into him. Price swung the scepter. Zeke blocked it with his rock-hard forearm and the wooden rod cracked in half. Unfazed, Zeke yanked the remaining half from Price’s hand and flung it aside. In one continuous motion he slammed his palms against Price’s chest with cannonball force, hurling him backward so hard he dented the wall before crumpling to the floor. He scrambled to get up but Zeke was on him.

Leah hovered nearby trying to find a way to help.

The pentagram on Price’s forehead triggered another surge of rage. Zeke aimed a short, vicious punch straight at it. Price’s head banged loudly against the floor, leaving him momentarily dazed. An instant later Zeke had him completely pinned. The foul smell assaulted his nostrils but he was too enraged to consider it.

“What have you been doing in here?”

The force of his words sprayed spittle onto the hate-etched face. Like some mindless gargoyle, Price displayed no reaction. At last his face contorted itself into an expression of amused contempt.

“My job,” he said in a suddenly lifeless monotone.

“Your job?”

“I do what he tells me, not you.”

“He?” Zeke knew who he meant, yet hoped somehow he was wrong.

Price’s inevitable response sounded like a prison door slamming shut. “Not Him.” His eyes flicked upward before locking onto Zeke’s. “Satan.”

Zeke tightened his grip on Price’s wrists until he thought he heard bones cracking. The gloating expression did not change.

“Satan is god,” said Price.

“You’re insane.”

“I’m not insane. You are. You have deluded yourself into thinking you can defeat the all-powerful Belial. Hail Satan!”

“I will defeat him.”

“Wrong. You have been ours from the beginning.”

His taunting fueled the inferno in Zeke’s chest. At the molten core of his rage was the stabbing realization that it must all be true.

Price—Satan—had deceived him every inch of the way.

He’d heard enough. He wanted this garbage called Price out of his life for good, but if he released him he would undoubtedly attack. Zeke was stronger than him—always had been—but in this demonic state he might possess some superhuman reserve. He’d already absorbed a lot of punishment that had barely fazed him, and he was still ex-Delta and appeared to be in very good shape. Zeke looked around for a way to keep him subdued.

“What do you need me to do?” Leah said.

The holy water. Price had desecrated it, but hopefully it still had some power. “The holy water. Rinse it off and bring some here. Quick.”

Leah grabbed one end of the chest and dragged it into the bathroom. Price struggled but Zeke had all his weight on him and held his wrists in a crushing grip. Seconds later Leah returned with several clean bottles of holy water bundled in a towel.

“Take the caps off and get it on him.”

Leah shook the water onto his face from inches away.

The water turned into hissing steam and Price shrieked with pain. Leah helped hold him down as he writhed violently. When he was subdued enough for Zeke to handle him, Leah emptied the rest of the bottles into his impossibly contorted face. His inhuman screams were the sound of the burning damned.

Finally he stopped struggling, a quivering beast waiting to pounce.

Initially Zeke had felt relief that the holy water had retained its power. Looking at Price now, however, still glowering hatred, he was not at all sure it was enough. Price seemed to be recovering. If he did possess some superhuman strength, they would need help.

Zeke wasn’t ready to concede that. He didn’t want to give Price the satisfaction. He decided to see if the crucifixes would have a stronger effect than the holy water. “Bring me some of the crucifixes from the other chest.”

Its lid was closed. Leah opened it and the foul smell Zeke had noticed earlier came billowing out. “Oh God,” she said, and retched.

Excrement had been smeared all over the crucifixes.

Leah struggled not to vomit. The waste smelled human.

Price had done this.

As she scanned the horror, eager to look away, she saw several crucifixes where the foulness completely covered the face of Jesus.

Unable to look any longer, she slammed the lid shut.

“What the matter?” Zeke said.

“He smeared them with feces.”

Laughter from the Pit of Hell spewed forth from the Satanic thing that lay happily writhing on the floor.

“Rinse them off and bring me some. Fast.”

It took all her strength to drag the chest into the bathroom. Unable to lift it into the tub, she scooped handfuls of the befouled crucifixes into the tub and turned the shower on full force. A minute later she turned with a towel full of clean crucifixes. She held one out to Zeke. He released one of Price’s wrists to grab it.

Price lurched violently and threw Zeke off, getting to his feet with impossible speed. By the time Zeke recovered, Price had Leah in a chokehold. She clawed at his arm. He grabbed a handful of hair and yanked her head back. She shrieked in pain. Zeke snatched a bottle of holy water and yanked the cap off with his teeth. Bottle in one hand and crucifix in the other, he furiously shook the water onto Price. An animal groan rumbled as he flung Leah aside and lunged at Zeke.

He sidestepped. Price stumbled past. Zeke bent to pick up the broken scepter. As he straightened Price threw a vicious punch at his face. Zeke leaned and the blow glanced his cheek. He brought the scepter down on Price’s head as hard as he could. His knees buckled, but he stayed on his feet.

Zeke brought the scepter down again. Leah flung more holy water onto him.

Price fell to his knees. Zeke kicked him in the face. He fell over backwards, dazed. Zeke jammed the crucifix into the waistband of Price’s pants, ripping his shirt aside so that the body of Jesus pressed directly against his flesh. Lightning exploded in the silver relic. A bestial roar erupted from Price.

Zeke pressed another crucifix against his heart. He bucked but Zeke held the crucifix fast.

Malignant cackles seeped from the Price-thing’s mouth and crawled across Zeke’s flesh like roaches. “Before you get too full of yourself and your Christ, tough guy, you might want to check on Father or Brother or whatever he is. In the closet.”

What?

Was it a trick to get free? Or could someone actually be in there? Had Unger heard Price and tried to intervene?

He had to check it out.

“Cover his chest with crucifixes,” Zeke said. Price’s only reaction as Leah pressed them against him was a low animal groaning that oozed from the depths of his throat.

Fighting off the jackhammer in his chest, Zeke went to the closet as if walking to his execution.

He opened the door.

CHAPTER 61

Unger hung from the rod, dead eyes staring toward Heaven. The cincture from his waist was tied around his neck. In a mockery of the crucifixion, his arms had been spread and hands nailed to the wall behind him. Two of St. Peter’s crucifixes had been used as the nails. The sight of Unger’s blood on the crucifixes, the blood of a man who believed deeply in their power, seared into Zeke’s soul. Christ’s head, hung in despair, burned the feeling even deeper.

His Father had again forsaken Him. And his servant John.

As Zeke stared at the corpse, a numbing guilt immobilized him. Another innocent person had died on his watch.

Leah came up behind him and let out a wail. She held a crucifix in her hand.

No trace of Price’s voice was left in the burst of hellish laughter. “That crucifix thing doesn’t always work. Oh well. You win some, you lose some.”

Voices came through the open door. Mordecai and Hassan, Joe Dayagi behind them. “We heard screams,” Mordecai said.

Leah had slumped against the wall. Mordecai followed her gaze into the closet.

“Oh no,” he moaned. “No.”

“Price is a Satan worshiper,” Zeke explained before storming into the bathroom.

Mordecai grabbed Price by the hair and slammed his head against the floor. “You vile piece of shit!”

Zeke returned with the chest of crucifixes that had been left under the running shower. “Hold him tight,” he barked. “I want to get more of these on him.”

The men pinioned him to the floor. Only his eyes moved as he watched what was being done to him, pupils glowing like red coals from the hatred seething within. Christ’s burial shroud, still fastened over his shoulders like a cape, had gotten rumpled and twisted beneath him. Zeke roughly jostled Price until he had pulled it free and smoothed it out like wings. Price put up no resistance as Zeke covered his bare torso with crucifixes, then wrapped the cloth tightly around him to press them deeper into his flesh. In a controlled frenzy he pressed more crucifixes onto the shroud to weight it down and hold it in place.

This time they brought no outcry.

Flashes of miniature lightning exploded inside the crucifixes like a raging storm.

Price lay utterly still and silent. Zeke leaned close to stare into the demonic eyes of the man who had tormented him for so many years. His words sprayed out like venom.

“The crucifix thing is working now, you son of a bitch.”

One last evil whisper came from the soulless shell that had once been Michael Price.

“It is not over for you and I, Ezekiel. This has been a mere parlor game for my amusement. This vomit from his mother’s womb called Michael Price is mine now. As you soon will be. I am waiting.”

Even though the window was closed, a gust of chill wind whisked across the room, loudly rustling the curtains. Then all was still.

Price, eyes staring blankly from his hate-etched face, was dead.

Zeke looked at the impaled figures of Jesus strewn across the shroud He had been buried in. The lightning inside them had ceased.

Had Jesus just won or lost?

Zeke’s gaze went to the pentagram on Price’s forehead. A wave of self-loathing washed over him.

Two more deaths. Evil closing in all around them. An enemy looming that had just vowed that not only Zeke would die, he would spend eternity as the vassal of Satan in Hell.

Not just an enemy. The Archenemy. A power strong enough to make Price brutally murder a man he barely knew—a hapless soul named Anthony Unger, who believed he was John the Baptist, and had dedicated the last ten years of his life to God and mankind’s salvation.

On a sudden reflex Zeke defiantly made the sign of the cross.

Leah stared numbly into space. Nothing he could say would do any good, so he merely put his arm around her. The others hovered silently at a discreet distance.

Zeke kept trying not to look at any of it. He’d already seen enough horror to last several lifetimes, and yet he felt he was going to see a lot more. He struggled to keep countless ominous thoughts at bay which, once loose, would thunder through his head like the boulders of an avalanche.

“Leave everything the way it is,” he was finally able to say. “We’ve got to notify the police. Cancel the dig for today.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Mordecai said.

“Looks like Joe is a part of the Hell Squad now. Fill him in on what this is all about.”

Mordecai nodded.

Zeke’s eyes were drawn back to Price. Memory flashed like muzzle fire of the night he’d gunned down the Vietnamese family. Now this. The Deceiver had deceived him—again.

A few feet away, Anthony Unger hung crucified by the very things that were supposed to protect him. Fighting a crushing guilt, Zeke shoved his mind past that disturbing irony and vowed that Unger’s death would not be in vain. His stomach clenched at the brutal, unnecessary murder that eliminated any possibility that Anthony Unger might have been chosen as the Forerunner.

It had come down to Zeke.

Only him now. Him alone.

CHAPTER 62

Responding silently in the dead of night, the police were happy to keep the story from the media. No one wanted to do anything that might keep the discovery of Sodom and Gomorrah from becoming a desperately needed tourist attraction. The police dutifully interviewed everyone to account for their whereabouts, but Mordecai’s reputation was such that his bizarre story of a Satan worshipper going insane was never seriously questioned.

After being the first to be interviewed, Zeke and Leah stayed in the lounge a while to make sure everyone was comfortable. Just before dawn they finally reached their room and went straight to the balcony. They leaned on the railing and watched the new day begin, alone with their thoughts.

The first hint of daybreak began to soften the gloom. Scattered silvery reflections from the stars glittered on the undulating Dead Sea like alien eyes, opening and closing, watching them.

Zeke had come to hate the Sea.

Part of him sorely wished he’d never gotten involved in this—but he was in too deep. Too much had been sacrificed. And yet he couldn’t let anyone else die for a cause that was ultimately his alone. Others had a stake, of sorts, but none as big as his. It all started and ended with him.

He and Mordecai had agreed to meet in an hour to discuss the plan for going the rest of the way down into that tunnel. The logistics would be complicated, and until today Zeke didn’t have a battle plan for coming face-to-face with Satan. Now he did.

At first the idea had seemed crazy to him. But as he’d watched dedicated members of his dig—most of whom were strangers to him—justifying themselves to the police, growing anger had hardened his shaky plan into granite resolve. The hardest part would be breaking it to Leah.

He slid his hand around her waist and gently turned her to faced him.

“I’m going the rest of the way alone.”

“What? No. You have people to help you. Me. Mordecai and Hassan. Joe. I can call Reese—”

“No. This is not negotiable. I refuse to put anyone else at risk.”

Her face crumpled and she buried it against his shoulder.

Zeke tried to console her. “Sweetheart, one way or another, we knew this moment might come.”

She lifted her head to look at him, fighting to quell the tremors of emotion erupting on her face. “I know that,” she rasped, “but I can’t help how I feel. Why does everything always have to be so complicated? Why us? Why kill this man, who had apparently found God? Why wouldn’t God save him? Why? Why? Why?”

“Why, indeed.”

He kissed her gently on the forehead. They stood with their faces only inches apart. In the faint morning light, their eyes locked in the tender, searching stare of soulmates, that rare moment when life’s protective shell is cast aside, when only pure childlike innocence shines through. Everything ceased to exist except what they felt for each other. Raw emotion shimmered in their eyes.

Finally, Leah spoke.

“We still have to call Reese.”

“Why?”

“Because we promised. He said if anything serious started, somebody better call him.”

“Yeah, but I also made it clear that he’s not getting in this fight. There’s nothing he can do from over there except worry.”

“So then let’s bring him over here.”

“What for?”

“For moral support if nothing else. I know I’d feel better having him around. Zeke, he’s your best friend. Mine too, for that matter. He deserves to be a part of this.”

“He doesn’t deserve to die.”

“He won’t die.”

“Can you guarantee that? After everything we’ve been through? Look how letting Price onto the dig just blew up in my face.”

“Yeah, but Price was evil. Reese is good. And there are no guarantees in life. You know that.” She watched Zeke struggling to make up his mind. “Would you put your life on the line for him?”

“In a heartbeat.” He closed his eyes for a second, exhaled loudly, then reopened his eyes. “All right. He can come over and observe.”

She gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. “We don’t even know what his schedule is like. He may not even be able to come over.”

“Let’s hope so.”

“I’ll call him, then.”

“No,” Zeke said. “I will. I want to make absolutely sure him and me are clear on what is and ain’t gonna happen.”

“And what is gonna happen is you going down alone.”

“That’s right. I started this. I’ve got to finish it. I’ll take every possible precaution, but I’m going to see where that tunnel leads. If it’s nowhere, then you and I are done here and we can get on with our lives. Mordecai and Israel can have Sodom and Gomorrah.”

“And if the tunnel leads somewhere? Like…where we talked about?”

“Then Satan gets an ass-whipping.”

Anguish squeezed the joy from her short laugh. “Zeke, come on now. You’re big and strong, but…by yourself? How? To put it another way: you and what army?”

“That’s the thing. I’ve realized that the number of people doesn’t matter. It’s the weaponry you have. Think about it. If Satan is this superhuman entity that we’ve been led to believe—with his own army of demonic minions—no amount of people can defeat him. More people would just mean more deaths to add to the body count. But if the arsenal I’m taking with me has the power I’m hoping it has, that should be enough.

“I’ll be taking as many of those relics as I can carry. An army of Christs, if you will. And let’s not forget what I saw in that mirror. Jesus Himself looked me right in the face and told me He’d be there when the time came. So I’m not really going down there alone.”

She looked up at the brightening sky. “I’m counting on you, Lord.”

He took her hands in his. “After I meet with Mordecai I’m getting with Joe Dayagi. He’s an expert in munitions. Helped design some things for the Israeli military. He and I are going to figure out how to turn those relics into one big can of whupass.”

CHAPTER 63

Mordecai was alone in the War Room when Zeke walked in a little before six. He looked up from the notepad he’d been studying and raised his coffee cup in salute. Zeke fixed himself a cup and joined him at the long worktable in the center of the room. After exchanging pleasantries, he announced his intention to go the rest of the way alone.

The archaeologist stared at him, dumbfounded. “You mean, all the way into Hell, if you find it? By yourself?”

“That’s right.”

“Zeke, you can’t do that.”

“Yes I can,” Zeke said calmly.

“The diving part alone would be risky. The Hell part would be…I don’t know what the word is. Suicidal comes to mind.”

“It’s a risk I’m going to take.”

A lifetime of training screamed at Mordecai that this would violate every safety rule, starting with diving’s First Commandment: Thou Shalt Not Dive Without A Buddy. But as Zeke continued to stare at him, unblinking, his face a stony mask of resolve, he knew the matter was not open to discussion. He picked up the pen and legal pad he’d pushed off to the side.

“All right. Before you got here I was making notes on everything we’ll need to do.”

Zeke took a quick sip from his coffee. “Shoot.”

“Well, it’s kind of good news/bad news. Which do you want first?”

“Man, if there’s any good news, I really need to hear it.”

“I’m not absolutely certain that it’s good news, but it might be. It’s just an educated guess, but somehow, where the tunnel flattens out, the land has shifted around in a way that the water can’t reach. The water flows into the downward section, but can’t make it up to that flat section or the rest of the tunnel beyond that. It could make sense, given the fact that this was once all above ground. Maybe this was one continuous land tunnel originally. A mineshaft, possibly. Since we’re on one of the major fault lines in the world, maybe seismic activity caused an upheaval in the earth’s crust.”

“Thanks for reminding me about being on a major fault line. I didn’t have quite enough to worry about.”

“Right now I think an earthquake is the least of our worries.” He ignored Zeke’s rolled eyes. “Anyway, maybe the seismic activity that formed the Dead Sea changed the course of the tunnel from straight up-and-down to the zig-zag one we’re looking at. The same water that broke through and formed the sea naturally flowed down, and filled the downhill section of the tunnel, but the water didn’t rise to fill the uphill slope, or if it did, the water has leached off. Or maybe the section has just dried up, like the rest of the southern basin.”

“Sounds plausible.”

“Again, it’s a guess. Can’t know for sure until we—you—go down that final section.”

“So that’s the good news?”

“Right. Now let’s go through the list of all the things that have to happen for you to do this.”

He looked at his notes. “As always, the first problem is air. Even two tanks might not be enough if anything goes wrong. And we have no idea how long or safe that last section of tunnel is. For all we know it goes to the center of the Earth. However far it goes, you need food, drink, you need to go to the bathroom. You’ll need some equipment: basic tools, spare lights—who knows? And you’ve been saying all along that you want to take the relics. That would make for a very heavy backpack. Fifty pounds at least, probably more. Maybe a lot more.”

“I’d only take what I could carry. Obviously, you pack as light as you possibly can. I even read about a backpack that has helium in the frame tubing to further lighten your load.”

“Fine, but we’re at the lowest point on earth, which means that the atmospheric pressure is the heaviest. That downward pressure would work against the upward lift of your helium.”

“Then we figure out a way to use more helium. Whatever. Mordecai, let me stop you. I see where you’re going, and I appreciate it. You’re trying to keep me alive. Believe me, I’m with you on that. But I’m going down alone, so we just need to make that happen.

“Once we figure out everything I’ll need, a caravan of divers can shuttle it through the tunnel and up to that dry flat stretch. They can set up sort of a supply depot at the entrance to that final downward section. From that point, I’ve got to head down with whatever I can carry on my back—lights, tools, food, drink, whatever. I can probably pack enough subsistence provisions for about three days—a week, tops, and still leave room for as many of the relics as possible. Beyond that, we leave whatever we think I’ll need at the supply depot for when I make it back. More food, water, tanks of air, and so forth.”

“You’ve made up your mind,” Mordecai said, resignation in his voice.

“I have.”

Mordecai theatrically made a big X over the remaining notes. “So what about the return trip? We have no way of knowing how long you’ll be gone, if you’re in trouble…”

“If I get in trouble—God forbid—it’s the kind of trouble no one can save me from. I’ve just got to do this, Mordecai. Me alone. Too many people have died. I can’t—I won’t—put anyone else at risk. I’m extremely grateful for what everyone has done to get us this far. The rest is on me. God has told me He would look out for me. That’s going to have to be enough.”

“I wish I had that kind of faith.”

“Maybe you will if this works out. Maybe the world will.”

“That’s a…tall order, I think the expression is. We humans have become hopelessly cynical. With good reason. But if God Himself saved you from the clutches of Satan—and you could somehow prove it—that would be our best hope of reversing the suicidal course we’re on.”

“Isn’t that what this whole thing is about?”

“Yes. You’re right. I want to believe, but my faith is not as strong as yours.”

“That’s understandable. You haven’t seen what I’ve seen.”

“True. All right then. Back to business. Suppose you make it all the way down and accomplish your mission. How are you going to get back? From the bowels of Hell, no less?”

“Same way I came in. If I defeat him, game’s over and I’m home free. If I lose, getting back out will be a moot point.”

Mordecai stared at him for a very long moment. Hoping for divine intervention wasn’t a plan, but there was nothing he could do about it. At last a hint of a smile forced its way onto his lips.

“As your Director, I must tell you that, compared to this, I think you’d have a better chance of climbing Everest naked.”

“It’s a long shot, is what you’re telling me.”

“The longest.”

“Well, I don’t know how much you’ve followed the Super Bowl over the years, but in 1969 nobody gave the New York Jets a chance. But they had Joe Namath. And, believe it or not, in my high school days, some recruiters said I was a better quarterback. Had a stronger arm. I had a cannon. Plus I could run.”

“That running thing could come in handy.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Zeke saw Joe Dayagi walk into the room. “I need to get with Joe for a few minutes. I’ll catch up with you when we’re done.”

They met at the coffee station. Dayagi filled two Styrofoam cups and handed one to Zeke. “Thanks.” Dayagi sipped his black while Zeke put cream and sugar in his. “Let’s sit for a minute, Joe. I need to run something by you.”

They sat at a table well away from the coffee station, which would soon be the busiest spot in the War Room. “Mordecai told you what this is all about?” Zeke said. “What we’re ultimately trying to find?”

“Hell. Satan.”

“That’s right. I’m the point man, and I’m going to need some weapons, in case me and him come face to face. Mordecai told me about your military training in munitions, so I wanted to get your thoughts on what I’m planning to do.”

“Sure.”

“You saw the crucifixes and bottles of holy water in the room upstairs last night?”

“Yes.”

“I want to convert them into weapons. Projectiles. At first I kept thinking about some kind of gun, or something we might rig up to launch them. Then I realized the best gun I have is my arm. I could throw a football 70 yards in high school. Very accurately.”

“That would be better. That’s plenty of range, and you don’t have to pack a lot of extra equipment, which would probably be too large, too cumbersome anyway. And you’d have more control.”

“Right. So here’s what I’m thinking: the four ends of the crucifixes could be ground down to sharp points. That way, when they hit him, they’ll stick—unless none of the four points make contact, which is highly unlikely, or unless his hide is incredibly thick, which is entirely possible. Or he could be just a spirit and they’ll sail right through. That’s why I’ll have the holy water for backup. It doesn’t need to penetrate.”

“The crucifix thing makes sense. We can do that. But the holy water. It’s in little bottles with caps on them. When the bottle hits, the water won’t get on him. Which means you’d have to take the caps off first, but you might not have time for that. Even if you do, a lot of the water will leak out by the time it gets to the target.”

“Absolutely. So I need to get the water into something that will explode on impact, like a percussion grenade.”

“A percussion grenade is exactly what you need. Somehow we’d have to get the water inside of it.” He considered the problem for a moment. “I can come up with something,” he said. “Let me work on it.”

“Work fast, Joe. Today’s the 12th. The moment of truth is supposedly coming on the 21st. I need to head down sometime before that. We have no idea how far I might have to hike, but I’ve got to allow at least a couple days.”

“I’ll start today. You don’t need me on the water any more.”

“Good. Can you take care of grinding the crucifixes?”

“Yes. Which gives me another idea.”

“What’s that?”

“The shavings could be turned into bullets. Silver bullets. They’re supposed to have some power over evil, right?”

“Yes. Especially ones made from this silver.”

“I can make the bullets and get you a pistol to put them in. Fully automatic. One pull of the trigger empties the magazine.”

“That would be good,” Zeke said. “You could melt down some of the other crucifixes if you needed to, so I’d have more than one magazine.”

“Consider it done.”

“I’m glad you’re on my team, Joe. I’m curious. Why did you get into munitions?”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Friends of mine were dying from terrorist attacks all over the place. Innocent, good people. Women, children. People who had never hurt a soul. I decided that, when I got out of the Navy, I was going to be involved in Israel’s war on terror. When Mordecai told me you were digging for Hell, I was doubtful. I still am. But if there really is a Satan, it seems like he’d be the ultimate terrorist.”

“That’s how I’m looking at it. He’s the ultimate trigger man.”

“And you can’t just sit back and wait for the enemy to discharge his weapon. You’ve got to fight fire with fire. I used that expression so much in the Navy they started calling me the Fireman.”

“That’s good to know. Because we’ve got one hell of a fire to put out. Pun intended.” The barest hint of a smile made its way onto Dayagi’s handsome face. “You’re a good man, Joe.”

Dayagi shrugged. “I’m not sure about that, but I do like taking out bad guys.”

“That puts you on the side of good.”

“It lets me look at myself in the mirror.”

“I know the feeling.” Zeke stuck out his hand. Dayagi’s handshake was firm and dry. “I’ll get with you this evening,” Zeke said. “See where we stand.”

Dayagi went back to the coffee station for a refill and Zeke rejoined Mordecai, who was making notes at the large workstation on the far side of the room. “Where were we?” Zeke said.

“Talking about setting up a supply depot. I’m a making a list of what you’ll need.”

“Let’s do it.”

Mordecai merely nodded.

There was nothing more to be said.

The final decision had been made.

CHAPTER 64

The next five days were a whirlwind of preparations for Zeke’s final descent, with Mordecai the calm overseeing eye at its center. While every piece of equipment was being tested and re-tested, a team of divers continuously shuttled supplies until a stockpile providing for every conceivable contingency awaited at the entrance to the downward section of tunnel. Mordecai had been adamant about the necessity of every item, knowing full well that most of them would never get used. Only one detail remained before Zeke headed down tomorrow morning: delivery of his arsenal. He sat alone in the War Room, waiting for Joe Dayagi. Dayagi had been gone since his meeting with Zeke, scouring Israel to procure the items he needed to convert the relics into weapons.

Today was the 17th. Monday. The solstice was Friday. He’d start as early as possible tomorrow, but still…That left four days to hike a trail that, for all he knew, could go to the center of the Earth. And no matter how efficiently he packed, he wouldn’t be able to carry enough food to last much longer than that…

He sipped his coffee and picked at a pastry, trying to silence the voice of reason that kept whispering how astronomical the odds against him were. For what seemed like the thousandth time he told himself that this was a mission where logic and common sense didn’t apply. From the moment he’d decided to do this, he’d had to accept that the only way he could succeed was with the help of miracles. He couldn’t start second-guessing that decision now.

It helped that Reese Nolan was arriving today. As much as he’d been against it, now Zeke was glad Leah had talked him into letting Reese come over, “for moral support if nothing else.” He’d take all the moral support he could get for the coming task. And nobody besides Leah could strengthen his spirits more than Reese.

Dayagi came in carrying a large duffel bag. Zeke looked at his watch. Six on the dot.

They met at the long table in the center of the room. Dayagi swung the duffel up onto the table, got himself a coffee, then came back and unzipped the bag to reveal its contents.

“Your arsenal,” he said.

The modified silver crucifixes filled two-thirds of the four-foot-long bag. Zeke gave them a quick admiring glance, but it was the objects filling the rest of the bag that brought a smile to his face. They had consulted on the design, but Zeke had doubted that Dayagi would be able to pull it off.

“Believe it or not,” Dayagi said, “finding just the right size footballs was the hardest part. I had to have them FedExed here from the United States.”

“God bless America,” Zeke said.

Dayagi handed him one.

Zeke curled his hand around the small hard plastic football, getting his fingers into the proper position on the laces.

“Not those real small ones that you can’t control,” Dayagi said, “but not so big that they take up too much space.”

The football fitted comfortably into the palm of Zeke’s hand. About an inch jutted out at each end. “They’re perfect, Joe. Good weight, too. I can get a nice tight spiral with these.”

“I’m counting on that. Centrifugal force from the spinning of the football will make the pins holding the fuze assembly fly outward, so the assembly can slide into position. On impact the firing pin slams into the percussion cap on the detonator and ka-boom.”

“And the holy water is in the middle of all that?”

“Yes. In specially designed breakaway bottles made from a plastic resin. It’s much stronger than the ‘sugar glass’ they use in movies, but still disintegrates easily. Especially with all that explosive. Each bottle holds four ounces, and there are thirty grenades, so that gives you about a gallon of holy water.”

Dayagi unzipped another large compartment on the outside of the bag. “There’s one more thing.” He pulled a pistol out of the pouch. “This is a Para Micro Uzi. It was made especially for Israeli counterrorism forces. Fully automatic. One pull of the trigger will empty the magazine in a couple seconds.”

He pointed to the oversized magazine that extended below the pistol grip. “I’ve used the magazine from the Glock 18 to give you more rounds.” He pulled five more magazines from the pouch and laid them side by side on the table. “Almost two hundred rounds total. Silver bullets from the crucifixes.”

“Great job, Joe. Outstanding. No wonder I haven’t seen you all week.”

Dayagi flashed one of his rare smiles. “I’ve been busy.” He pulled out two more magazines. “These have regular bullets. I thought you might want to use them for target practice, get a feel for the weapon in case you have to use it.”

“Good idea.”

“By the way, total weight on all this is about thirty pounds.”

Zeke did the math. Along with everything else he’d be taking, even packing ultralight and with helium in the aluminum framing of his pack, the effective weight would still be somewhere around fifty pounds. He was maxed out.

“That’s good to know. Listen, I’ve got to start getting ready for tomorrow. I’ll see you before I leave. Thanks again for all your hard work.”

“Can’t send a soldier into battle without the right weapons.”

Zeke walked away thinking that, besides target practice with the gun, he’d like to practice throwing the crucifixes and the footballs, but that was impossible. Hitting targets with the crucifixes would dull their points, and the footballs could only be thrown once. He told himself no amount of practice would be enough, anyway.

Everything that could be done had been done. All that was left was to get himself mentally ready to face the Archenemy of the entire human race.

Alone.

CHAPTER 65

After an early dinner that evening, Zeke and the two people he loved most in the world went upstairs to his room to talk privately. He never said the words, but they all knew he was saying goodbye. All three were trying mightily not to think that it might be for the last time.

Zeke and Leah sat on the bed, using the headboard as a backrest. Reese pulled one of the vinyl armchairs close. Alongside the bed was the duffel bag with the holy arsenal. Zeke had just shown the contents to Reese and left it open. As Reese settled into the chair, a hint of regret tightened his expression.

“What’s the matter?” Zeke asked.

“I struck out on getting you that AA-12 shotgun I was bragging about. I met your weapons guy, Joe. He said he has some pretty good connections in the military, he’d see what he could do, but still. Even if he could get one, I don’t see how by tomorrow morning.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Sure. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Zeke smiled. “Listen, I just wanted the three of us to have a little time together before we call it a night. Tomorrow morning will be here real soon, and I’m going to be a little…preoccupied.”

His attempt at gallows humor was smothered by the dark cloud of foreboding spreading through the room. Reese rushed to fill the silence.

“Z-man, I know we’ve been through all this, but you do understand why I keep bringing it back up.”

“I do. And I love you for it. But no.”

“I know. Nobody’s coming down that tunnel with you. I understand. But we could give you some kind of backup. Something, I don’t know. Hassan wants to, and Leah of course. And that Joe Dayagi is a particularly macho dude.”

“No,” Zeke said, more forcefully than he’d intended. Softening, he went on. “I appreciate it, Reese, from the bottom of my heart, but no. Nobody else is going down there except me. Even if the backup camped out at the top of the tunnel—and that’d be the absolute farthest I’d let anybody come—you’d be too far away to do me any good. There’s just no possible way.”

“We could camp out there,” Leah said. “After you head down the tunnel, you could give us progress reports on the two-way radio to let us know it’s safe, and we could shuttle some supplies in behind you. Set up little relay stations every few hundred yards or so, for when you come back.”

Zeke shook his head wearily but good-naturedly. “You people are stubborn, I’ll give you that. Look, the radio probably won’t work that far underground. But even if it did, the farthest you could set up supplies would be, what? A mile? A half mile? What if the tunnel goes ten miles? Or more? It makes no sense from any angle.”

He caught Reese and Leah exchanging a look that said they’d figure out something.

“Listen,” Zeke said. “Here’s my final word on the subject. I’m leaving here alone tomorrow morning. I will keep you all posted as long as my voice communication holds out. Whatever happens, once I head down that tunnel, what I don’t know won’t hurt me. All I can do is say it one last time: please don’t come down that tunnel after me.”

Reese held out his hand. Zeke and Leah took their cue, each putting a hand on top of his.

“You’re in, you’re out, and nobody gets hurt,” Reese said.

They broke the huddle with a subdued cheer. The silence that settled in its wake churned with emotion. They were all craving eye contact and avoiding it.

Zeke nodded at the sacred arsenal waiting beside the bed and tried to lighten the mood. “Let’s face it. If all of that doesn’t do it, then the only backup that could save me is God Himself.”

BOOK FIVE

The Reckoning

If therefore thou shalt not watch,

I will come on thee as a thief,
and thou shalt not know
what hour I will come upon thee.

Revelation 3:3

CHAPTER 66

Underneath the Dead Sea. December 18

Zeke stood at the threshold of the final downward section of tunnel.

Alone. Except for those two obscene gargoyles lurking in the tunnel walls. And whatever lay beyond them.

He was anxious to get under way, but first he needed to get out of his wetsuit and rinse the oily Dead Sea chemical crust off his body. Then he’d rest. The long dive and walk from the boat to here had depleted his energy, and he wanted to be fresh before starting a trek of unknown distance and difficulty.

A team of divers had neatly arranged his stockpile of supplies at the base of the tunnel wall, leaving him only one item to bring: the duffel bag with the weapons. Zeke had refused to let it out of his sight.

Four cases of liter-sized bottled water were stacked against the wall. He stripped and used several to rinse himself off. After toweling dry he dressed in a lightweight hiking outfit, leaving off the shoes. He spread an ultralight down sleeping bag onto the flattest section of stone floor he could find, placed a flashlight close at hand, lay on his back, and closed his eyes.

As he dozed off, vague feelings crept in from the edges of a dreamlike fog. Gradually the feelings became more specific. Lost in the twilight of a haunted dreamworld, he sensed evil creatures sneaking about in the shadows, stalking him. He heard unseen things, skittering stealthily across the floor. Darkness began closing in all around, like some bizarre medieval vise slowly being tightened, cutting off his air…

He sprang into a sitting position, wide awake and gasping for breath. It had felt like he was being smothered. He clicked on the flashlight and scanned his surroundings, listening.

He neither saw nor heard anything unusual and told himself to get a grip. In this godforsaken tomb, a brain full of imaginary horrors was the last thing he needed against the very real horrors he might have to face.

But he had to sleep sometime. And no one could control their dreams…

Enough of that. “Get in the game,” he chided himself.

He attacked the packing process to distance himself from the whole episode. He rolled up the sleeping bag, then meticulously began to load the backpack.

The main compartment was subdivided into two sections. Zeke used these for the sharpened crucifixes and holy water “grenades.” In addition to the modified crucifixes, he had brought a dozen more in their original state, to use in any way that might prove helpful. He’d done the same with the holy water, bringing a dozen of the original small bottles. All of these he put into another compartment.

A two-way radio had been left for him. He tried it. Nothing. He tried it again. As predicted, the radio waves apparently couldn’t make it through the combination of the earth’s crust and extremely dense water. A cell phone wasn’t even an option.

He was completely on his own, which was fine with him. Fussing with the radio would only slow him down, and he wanted to get wherever he was going as quickly as possible. Even if it worked, the radio was virtually useless anyway. This far down, any trouble would be over before anyone could reach him. He put the unit back on the floor and inspected the rest of his supplies.

He plucked a small waterproof bag from the pile. Opening it, he smiled sadly at Anthony Unger’s final contribution, something he’d procured long ago from his connection at the Vatican.

It was a small personal carrying case, dark blue with gold trim. Inside, inserted into a bed of royal red velvet, a glass case ornately edged in gold held three communion wafers, a small cruet of wine, and a miniature chalice—the makings of three days of Holy Communion. Calling upon the spirit of John the Baptist, Unger had given Zeke dispensation to administer the Sacrament to himself. For the believer, they were the Body and Blood of Christ.

Zeke chose to believe. This entire mission was based on belief in Divine Providence, that God would come to his aid when the showdown came. He had managed to silence all but the faintest whisper of doubt that help would come, wondering only what form that help would take.

Would it come through the relics, or through Zeke himself, or directly from on high?

Not that it mattered. All he could do was have faith and press onward.

He put the case into another small zipper compartment on the pack.

He pulled a digital pedometer/timer from the pile of supplies and lightly fastened the Velcro strap around his ankle. He needed to know how far the trip down was and how long it took, in case he needed to pace himself on the trip back.

He packed four replacement batteries for his headlamp, and one other item he had insisted on bringing: an extremely sophisticated high-definition video camera. Knowing he might be shooting on the fly under extremely adverse conditions, he’d gotten the smallest camera available that could shoot in very low light. It fit easily into the palm of his hand, had a powerful zoom lens and mike, and a thirty-hour recording capacity at the highest resolution.

“I know it might seem ludicrous,” he’d told the Hell Squad, “but if I find Satan, I want whatever proof I can get. We’ve been going on hearsay for too long. We’re living in an age where videos from cell phones have started revolutions. If I can get some good footage, maybe I can start another one. The final one.”

He finished by packing a special meal Leah had prepared, a small can of Sterno, and a four-day subsistence supply of food and water.

He attached the sleeping bag to the pack and slid his arms through the shoulder straps, adjusting the assembly into the most comfortable position before taking a last look around.

He was as ready as he would ever be.

He aimed his headlamp straight ahead.

Out of all earthly view, and beyond the reach of any human assistance, he headed down.

CHAPTER 67

Into the bowels of the Earth

Zeke stopped when he came to the skulls embedded in the tunnel walls. He had an idea.

He went to the one on his left. A foot above him, the eerie sentinel hovered and stared its dead stare. Zeke tilted his head up to get more light on it. Shadows created by the movement slid around behind the eye sockets and mouth, as though the skull had suddenly come to life.

For a second he almost expected to hear it scream.

Abruptly pointing his light at the floor, he shut the unnerving image out of his mind. He pulled one of the unmodified crucifixes from the pack and inspected the wall immediately surrounding the skull, looking for a place to affix the sacred relic.

His original thought had been to line the tunnel walls with crucifixes, but it had just occurred to him that it would be better to place one directly beside each skull he came across. If there was an evil power down here, these things had to be focal points.

He’d noticed that, although the tunnel was mostly solid rock, here and there in the furrows and crevices were areas of soft, moist earth. When one happened to be near a skull, he could simply press the crucifix into the yielding ground. If not, he would just leave the crucifix under the skull at the base of the wall.

The death’s-head above him was completely surrounded by stone. He wondered how the skull had been gotten into the solid rock in the first place, then quickly dismissed the question as—for now—unanswerable.

He considered pushing the crucifix into the face of the skull itself, but the archaeologist in him said no. As obscene as these things were, they were still artifacts—prize finds to be studied and analyzed. Still wanting to place it as close as possible, he held it against the tunnel wall immediately beside the skull’s cheekbone, to see if there was a way to secure it.

The crucifix started to hiss. Smoke shot up from its edges. The acrid smell of burning rock assaulted his nostrils. Startled, he jerked it back.

The soft silver had been burning its way into the solid rock. It had left an indentation about an eighth of an inch deep.

Zeke tilted his head toward Heaven, then shone his light on the undamaged crucifix in his hand. If you believe…

He placed the crucifix into the recess it had cut into the eons-old stone and exerted pressure. Again came the hissing and smoke as it sank deeper. Molten rock ran like filthy tears down the face of the wall.

In seconds it was done. Zeke removed his fingertips and the crucifix was in place, its front plane flush with that of the rock that now held it fast.

The relic was unscathed. He looked at the rotting skull.

He didn’t think there was anything different about it…

Caught up in the moment, he immediately grabbed another crucifix and went to the skull on the opposite wall.

The exact same thing happened there.

Clearly he was in the presence of powers beyond understanding, so he wasted no time trying to. He took a couple short video shots of the skulls, then strode purposefully down the tunnel. Like a throat in the earth, it swallowed him deeper and deeper into its hungry blackness. With his head thrust defiantly forward, beginning to believe in himself now, Ezekiel Sloan marched on. Desire to reach the end of this strange journey urged him to go faster, but the unsure footing forced him to go slowly, and looking for skulls slowed him down even more. He burned to finally have answers to his questions, to find proof that he was right in dragging himself and everyone else through this. Resisting the urge to run, his search for skulls quickly became cursory at best—for two reasons.

The first was simple common sense: searching every inch of these walls would take forever, and he only had provisions for four days. The second had nothing to do with common sense, yet was much the more powerful of the two.

Zeke realized that, the deeper he descended into this unnerving darkness, the less he knew about looming horrors the better. Increasingly aiming his light more straight ahead, knowing that each step might bring him to a precipice, he made his way steadily downward. He’d go a little farther, then stop to eat and rest.

Before, in the watery section of the tunnel, a cord had been his lifeline. Down here, it was a ten-foot beam of light. That thin thread of illumination was all he had to get him through darkness he continually thought of as truly Stygian. If his light failed, he’d be blind. He reached around and felt the reassuring bulk of the four replacement batteries inside the backpack. Each was good for about twenty hours. He’d been using this one for three.

Time ceased to have any meaning. He’d lost all sense of the world above, all thoughts of anything on the surface. He occupied his mind by thinking of words to describe this sunless, lifeless part of the planet.

“A world of eternal night,” he said, never slowing.

“Nightworld,” he said a few steps later.

“Deadworld,” he said a few steps after that, then fell silent again.

Gnawing hunger got too strong to ignore. Time for a pit stop. The aptness of the term in this setting did not escape him. He slid the pack off his shoulders, stretching and flexing his muscles, moaning in pleasure at having the weight off his back.

He unzipped one of the small compartments. Before he fixed his meal there was something else he needed to do, while his stomach was still empty.

He removed the case containing the elements of the Eucharist. Using the backpack as a makeshift altar, Zeke performed the barest rudiments of the ritual. He held the wafer aloft and made the sign of the cross in the air.

“Thou art the Body of Christ,” he said, placing the wafer on his tongue. Filling the miniature chalice with wine, he repeated the motions he’d made with the Host.

“Thou art the Blood of Christ.” He drank, then used a small blessed towel to wipe the chalice dry before placing it back into the case.

He leaned against the tunnel wall and closed his eyes, believing that the Body and Blood of Christ were now in him. He surrendered to the vision of a glow spreading inside him, washing away fears and hatreds, the last vestiges of doubt still hiding in the depths of his soul.

In the purity of that spiritual light, all at once Zeke understood. He’d had to overcome a deep bitterness to believe in the existence of God, but in his quest to find the root of all evil, he had stubbornly resisted final acceptance of the liberating epiphany that now coursed through him.

All the hells he had gone through, all the evils on Earth, were one and the same.

Drugs that ravaged societies, alcoholism, prostitution, slavery, greed, religious wars, the endless stream of Hitlers, hate, envy, racism, terrorism—all of man’s inhumanity to man—it all tied together. It was all one massive mushroom cloud of evil, the ultimate weapon of mass destruction, created by the ultimate evildoer for only one purpose:

To destroy the soul.

And that’s what this holy war, this jihad, this Armageddon, was over:

Souls.

Whoever controlled those souls controlled the fate of the world.

This endless and seemingly hopeless struggle for decency to prevail over depravity had led to the central question that had plagued the human race from the beginning:

Why was there evil?

The answer settled over Zeke, bringing with it a surprising peace.

There was a Satan.

But there was a God, too, and they were locked in the ultimate battle of good versus evil. A battle whose outcome had not yet been decided.

CHAPTER 68

In a renewed spirit of serenity and optimism, Zeke got up to fix the special meal Leah had prepared and wrapped like a TV dinner. Zeke slit the plastic and used the small can of Sterno to the meal.

Weeks ago, he’d decided on exactly this dinner if the moment came: sliced turkey, mashed potatoes, peas, gravy, stuffing, and cranberry sauce. This was a ceremonial feast, Thanksgiving and Christmas rolled into one.

Using the backpack as a table and the rolled-up sleeping bag as a chair, he ate very slowly, savoring each bite. Had some unseen observer been watching, his inscrutable expression might have been the resignation of a condemned man, prolonging his last supper, or the serene confidence of someone contemplating a far better afterlife.

After the meal he unrolled the sleeping bag and lay down on top of it. He removed his headlamp and fell into a dreamless, peaceful sleep.

He awoke refreshed and eager to continue. After adjusting the pack and headlamp into their most comfortable positions, he stared into the tunnel, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light. In a few seconds he saw a clear path for the length of its ten-foot range.

Like a miniature Cyclops on the trail of some elusive prey, he headed down.

A few minutes later he came to two more skulls. Although the previous encounter had prepared him, they were still unsettling.

These were less decayed. Fresher. Clearly visible bits of skin clung to their intact skulls. He pulled two crucifixes from his pack, jammed one into his waistband, and went to the first face. The relic burned its way into the solid stone as before. This time, though, Zeke thought he heard something else mingled with those sounds.

A low moan, coming from the direction of the thing’s mouth.

Slivers of ice scattered in all directions across his back and neck, like bystanders fleeing the spraying bullets of a madman.

He quickly went to the other wall to repeat the grim ritual. This time the sound was unmistakable.

A moan of abysmal torment came from the mouth of the disembodied skull.

He thought of getting the camcorder but decided against it. He needed to get moving. With the horrific wail still echoing in his ears, he continued down the tunnel. At first he was driven by the desire to put distance between himself and that sound. As he progressed, however, and the sound died out, he became so absorbed in finding out where this clearly accursed shaft led that he forgot about skulls or anything else. His will intensified with every step, until it bordered on a kind of monomania that allowed for no other thought but to get where he was going.

At last bodily needs took over. He was thirsty, he had to urinate, he needed to take off his pack and rest for a few minutes. Time for another pit stop.

After relieving himself he sat on his pack to rest, flexing and rubbing his back and shoulder muscles. He unfastened the pedometer/timer to look at his progress: 8.9 miles in a little under three hours. Factoring in the earlier pit stop it sounded like a long way and a decent pace, but it gave him no sense of accomplishment, since he had no idea how much farther he had to go. He merely registered the information and quickly forgot about it.

He fidgeted. He was too caught up in his progress to sit still. Less than five minutes after he stopped he was underway again.

Periodically he scanned the passing walls, heartened to see nothing that shouldn’t be there. When he’d gone what seemed like a long way, he stopped again to look at the pedometer: 13.1 miles.

He walked on.

Ten more minutes evaporated into nothingness. He actually began to get a little bored. He shifted the aim of his light from the floor ahead to the wall on the right. He stopped instantly.

He wasn’t bored anymore.

A head was lodged in the wall. He aimed his light at the opposite wall. With the inevitability of a waiting guillotine, its gruesome twin hung there.

He stood rooted to his spot, each horror seeming to loom in midair. These were very different from the previous ones.

Their faces were still completely intact. If decomposition had started, he couldn’t tell it. They might have been dead for only a matter of days. Or hours.

Were they appearing more frequently? It seemed like these were a shorter distance from the second pair than the second was from the first…

He thought about devising a way to measure it, then dismissed the idea. He could easily overlook some, which would render any measurements meaningless. There was only one thing that mattered: keep going. He couldn’t let extraneous details bog down momentum it had taken weeks to build.

He took one deep breath, reflexively clenched his jaw, and went to the face on the right. It was a young male, perhaps in his early twenties. Its features were frozen in an sneer of eternal contempt. The hair on its head had been shaved down to a stubble. In the middle of the whiskery growth, as though branded or tattooed there, was a swastika.

This thing had once been a skinhead.

How could something so recent have gotten here?

Zeke took off his pack and removed a crucifix. Just before it touched the stone beside the leering face, the thing’s eyes popped open.

They locked onto him. Bottomless hatred glowed from fiery red pupils.

Zeke jerked the crucifix back and held it directly in front of the demonic sentinel.

Loathing exploded from the undead eyes like fire from the window of a burning building. A revolting black tongue erupted from its mouth. It coiled around the crucifix and flung it to the ground. Soft, vile cackling trickled from an unseen throat.

Zeke grabbed a bottle of holy water from his pack. Ripping off its cap, he shook the blessed liquid onto the face. The water ate through the skin, all the way down to the bone. Smoking flesh filled the air with the putrid stench of a rotting corpse. Anguished wails accompanied the cacophony of death.

Zeke grabbed another bottle and went to where the other skull waited.

Eyes wide open. Following his every movement.

In the last instant before he began flinging the water, the white-hot loathing in those eyes turned to something else.

Fear.

Bracing himself for the sickening smell and sound, he emptied the bottle into the face until a wary silence finally descended.

Zeke forced himself to inspect the skulls.

Their flesh was gone. Only bare bone remained, the eye sockets now empty and lifeless. He got two crucifixes for the ritual, but abruptly stopped and reconsidered. There was no need. Whatever had possessed these two had been driven out by the holy water. Thinking of his limited and dwindling arsenal, he needed to start saving his weapons for use elsewhere.

Wanting to get away from the smoldering nightmare, he placed the empty bottles on the ground beneath each skull, shrugged the pack onto his shoulders, and forged ahead.

He walked almost in a daze. When the echoes of madness in his head finally died out, he considered the encounters, sifting for insights that might be helpful.

The crucifixes and holy water were both working—so far. But he needed to conserve them, and the skulls were showing up more often. And getting fresher. He hoped he didn’t have to deal with any more of them. At least for a while.

That thought struck him as a sign of weakness, and he shook his head as if to cast it out. “If I have to I have to,” he said aloud.

A moment later two more faces hovered on either side of him.

Fresh.

Eyes open.

Tongues flicking.

Zeke shot a quick video then attacked them with holy water. The result was the same.

He had enough footage of the skulls. He’d save the rest for Hell and Satan. Less than a hundred yards later, he repeated the grisly scene on another pair of what he now believed to be nothing less than guardians of the Pit itself.

A short distance later he came upon two more. The interval between each new pair was definitely shrinking. They were at most twenty yards apart now. Maybe less.

He needed to save the rest of the holy water for Hell if he got there. He ignored the skulls and moved on.

He’d only gone a few steps when his light flickered and went out.

The dark seemed alive, crawling over him. Constricting him. He steadied his breathing while convincing himself nothing was actually on him.

A confusion of noises up ahead got his attention. He cocked his head to listen.

The jumbled sounds were impossible to identify, but they certainly weren’t human. From the babel he picked out something like hissing, and low, animal breathing, coming from many throats. Fighting off a fear that threatened to engulf him—the fear that whatever it was might be coming closer—he knelt and fumbled in the pitch blackness for a fresh battery. He’d rehearsed this move many times, but not under circumstances like this. There were no circumstances like this.

His hands shook, and he angrily clasped them together to make them stop. From the depth of his being a savage war whoop erupted through the chamber. In its wake he willed himself to find and change the battery as he had practiced it.

Agonizing seconds later, he finally had light again. Preparing himself for the worst, he aimed the light toward the ominous din ahead.

What met his eyes was a scene that could only take place in the anteroom of Hell.

The heads on each side were embedded less than ten feet apart now. A steady line of them dotted both walls as far as his light could reach. They must continue into the darkness beyond.

Far worse than their sheer hellish presence was the fact that, from all of their mouths, black, vile tongues snaked and undulated in the air, as though beckoning him. Worse still, the shaft was narrowing.

He couldn’t go any farther without going through that writhing, hissing chain of horror.

Instantly he assessed the essentials of the situation. Whatever he was going to do, he needed to do it quickly. He couldn’t hesitate, couldn’t stand there and think. Thinking would lead to doubt, and courage that had taken weeks to build would disappear in seconds. There was only one consideration:

How could he get through?

There was only one way. He’d have to run as fast as he could. Maybe he could hold them off by sprinkling them with holy water from an open bottle in each hand. He only had six bottles left. Two probably wouldn’t last the whole distance, and he wasn’t going to want to stop once he started…

He had the grenades, but from here he couldn’t get a good enough angle for impact, and in there he’d be too close to guarantee enough flight to trigger the explosion…and he couldn’t keep using his ammunition or he’d have nothing left for the final showdown.

He made his decision. Jamming four bottles in his front pockets, he grabbed the remaining two and pulled off their tops. When these ran out he’d use the others. His only hope was to reach the end quickly. He refused to let himself consider the alternative: that the heads might go on for miles…

After several deep breaths, he unleashed the savage cry of a berserker and plunged headlong into the nightmare.

Flicking water at both sides as best he could, he sprinted through the hate-filled faces. Amidst a burning, yelling, groaning spectacle that would have thrilled De Sade, the tongues lashed his arms like hot pokers being dragged across his flesh. Some blows felt as though they might be slicing his skin open. He couldn’t tell and couldn’t stop to look.

Only drops of the water must be hitting their targets.

It wasn’t enough. Dear God, it wasn’t enough. He’d never make it like this.

Suddenly he had another idea. He ripped off his pack and crouched. Tongues flicked all around him. One raked his cheek, leaving a trail of searing pain behind.

Jaw clenched tight, sweating profusely, a groan of pain and madness rumbling low in his throat, Zeke refused to look at the writhing evil surrounding him. In a controlled frenzy he pulled the last four bottles of holy water from his pockets.

As tongues continued to tear at him, he ripped the tops off two bottles and poured their contents onto his head. The tongues reeled back for a moment, then began to go after areas lower on his body where the water hadn’t reached. Gritting away the pain, he emptied the last two bottles on his torso, scattering the drops as much as possible.

The tongues recoiled. They kept darting, coming within an inch but not touching him. In one deft movement he slipped on his pack and plunged ahead. Frustration and hatred seethed in the eyes of his tormentors as he passed.

A short distance later the heads abruptly stopped appearing, and the torturous ordeal was over. For the moment at least.

Zeke jogged on for several minutes to be certain he was in the clear. Finally convinced, he slumped to the floor and relaxed for the first time in what seemed like days. Relief and a thousand other emotions flooded over him, gradually draining away until he was limp and unable to move. He sat for a long time, dazed but alert.

Gradually his senses returned. He checked for injuries. There were burn marks on each arm, but they weren’t real deep. Some might leave scars, but they should heal. He ran his palms across his face, then checked for blood. There was none. His face felt tender and painful in spots, but it was still intact as far as he could tell. Beyond that he didn’t want to know.

He clicked off his light and closed his eyes, wanting to remove all stimuli for a moment as he assessed his latest environment. He listened.

There was absolutely no sound other than his own breathing. He opened his eyes and waited for them to adjust to the darkness. After several moments of staring into nothingness, he became aware of a change.

The darkness was not complete. From somewhere farther down the tunnel—the distance impossible to guess—came a very faint glow.

Leaving his headlamp off, he slowly got up and walked toward it. He proceeded tentatively at first, unsure of his footing without his light trained on the floor. The distant glimmer quickly began getting brighter, however, and he accelerated his pace accordingly. Soon the pale orange glow illuminated the entire shaft.

Light like that could not come from an artificial source. The way it flickered about the tunnel could indicate only one thing.

Fire.

Not far ahead, and fast approaching, the tunnel suddenly widened to reveal a huge opening, like the entrance to a cavern.

All around him now, eerie light and shadows danced a macabre ballet.

Zeke defiantly strode the final steps to see what lay beyond that gaping maw in the rock. At the threshold between the tunnel and the opening, he stopped to look inside.

Steps hewn crudely into the stone led down as far as he could see.

He knew at once where they must lead.

Gathering every drop of courage he possessed, Ezekiel Sloan headed down the steps. In his eagerness to get to the end of this insane journey, he began to run down them.

Suddenly the steps ended and he began a free fall through a void of utter blackness. As he fell through space, it didn’t surprise him that he felt no fear, no urge to scream.

More than anything, he felt relief.

Because he knew it was the wings of destiny that carried him now.

To a fate that had long been decided.

CHAPTER 69

Zeke landed softly on his feet in a netherworld whose dimensions existed outside the realm of time and space. He was aware that he stood on a stone floor, somewhere inside the Earth, but it had no boundaries that he could see. He might have been an astronaut cast adrift in space, a hapless soul just emerged from a gravitational vortex that had sucked him from one universe into some hostile alien world in another.

He might have been, but he was not.

He was Ezekiel Sloan, and he was in Hell.

He stood in awe, eyes ablaze as they scanned the panorama of horror that assaulted them.

Numerous indistinguishable shapes and shadows lurked and flitted about at the edges of his vision. Although unable to see them clearly from this distance, their skulking presence emanated a palpable evil.

To his left, perhaps fifty yards away, he saw the inspiration for the Biblical description of Hell. There, the twisted and gnarled rock floor gave way to an undulating sea of fire. It stretched away from the shore into a seeming infinity, flames leaping in profuse frenzy across its surface. In the rise and fall of its fiery swells, humanesque shapes bobbed about. Zeke couldn’t see them clearly, but he could see them well enough.

Much worse, he could hear them.

Thousands, millions of damned souls. The polluted essence of every cruel human being that had ever walked the Earth, their undead voices combined in a ceaseless uproar of agony and despair, doomed to burn for eternity in an endless ocean of fire.

Zeke had to look away quickly. The sheer molten evil radiating from that filthiest of cesspools was starting to melt his iron-willed resolve. His head automatically swiveled to the right, where there was much else in the nightmare vista to command his attention.

The craggy stone floor went on and on, visible for several hundred yards from its edge at the sea of fire. Eventually it disappeared into darkness so deep, so utterly without light, it gave the impression of being a solid mass that walled off the chamber. And yet, scattered everywhere in that impossible blackness, an audience of…things…hovered, and flitted, and…watched him.

They seemed to be perched in midair, though it was possible they rested on rock ledges Zeke couldn’t see. Eerie glare from the hellfire reflected strobelike off the ghastly spectators, whose glowing eyes bore into him. Quick flashes of illumination gave only split-second glimpses of the monstrosities, making them appear pixilated into a lurid dance of death. Although he knew it must be a trick of the light, it made an already terrifying spectacle much more frightening. He had seen more than enough.

In those bursts of sight, he had seen every primal fear that haunts us from childhood.

Monsters.

Gargoyles.

Trolls.

Goblins.

Demons.

Only these weren’t fuzzy dolls from a toy store, or the creations of a Hollywood special effects wizard.

They were real. They were Satan’s henchmen. His minions. His original band of rebellious angels. They were to Lucifer what the seraphim were to God. Zeke had clearly seen light reflecting off black leathery wings.

Suddenly one of the horrors swooped down from its unseen perch, screeching maniacally as it came straight for him. Glistening fangs and a demon face triggered an explosion of adrenaline. The nerve-shattering whoosh of its huge flapping wings drove all thought beyond survival from his mind. Before he could get an arm up to protect himself, the tip of a wing raked across his cheek. The thing flapped back into the darkness and disappeared.

A deafening roar of vile laughter erupted from the center of the hellhole. All this time Zeke had been trying to avoid looking in that direction. Now he could put it off no longer. He checked to make sure the cut on his face wasn’t serious, then slowly, inexorably, turned toward the inhuman sound. He had heard it before.

His eyes came to rest on a figure dead ahead and perhaps fifty yards away.

Ezekiel Sloan looked directly into the face of the Devil.

“Welcome.”

He drew the word out, a deep menacing purr that slithered over and wriggled across Zeke’s soul.

“I’ve been waiting.”

Zeke stood transfixed.

“Step forward. Come into my…den. I won’t hurt you. Yet.”

The mocking invitation coiled itself around Zeke, pulling him closer against his will. When he was finally able to stop himself, he stood no more than twenty yards away from where the Lord of the Underworld sat on an enormous throne. The sea of fire was closer here, only twenty-five yards to Zeke’s left. He steeled himself for searing heat and the overwhelming screams of the damned.

Instead it was cool and silent. As if reading the confusion in Zeke’s mind, the Devil explained.

“I control everything here. I prefer it cool and quiet, don’t you?”

Zeke still resisted eye contact.

“Look at me!”

Zeke tensed himself against being knocked backward as the roar washed over him in a fetid wave. A moment later, unbowed and defiant, he stared at a being of pure evil.

Satan was immense. Zeke had to tilt his head completely up to see the monstrous countenance, which stared down from a towering height. Although he had imagined this moment for weeks, nothing could have prepared him for the soul-searing actuality of that stare.

Stay calm, Zeke reminded himself. Breathe normally. Don’t let him see weakness. To cover his nervousness, he took off his backpack and set it by his feet. Finally he found his voice, hoping that whatever came out wouldn’t crack or squeak.

“Who are you?” he managed, with passable vocal command.

“I am he.”

“Who?”

“Your writers and prophets have given me many amusing names. The Devil. Satan. Lucifer. Belial. Iblis. Mephistopheles. My favorite is Beelzebub. What an incredibly funny word. Beelzebub!”

A mockery of laughter spewed forth in a stench of rot. Almost from the moment Zeke had taken possession of the scroll, that sound had stalked him—through the telephone, the television, the stereo headset on the plane, Michael Price. As appalling as those encounters had been, none had assaulted his soul like this, as he experienced it for the first time with all the other sensory dimensions added. Waiting for the sound to cease, he struggled to maintain a calm appearance while adjusting to the supreme horror of looking at Satan himself.

Humanoid in shape, his skin appeared dark and leathery. Reptilian. It glistened in the flickering light. Enormous scaly hands, ending in fearsome talons, curled down the front of the armrests of the stone-carved throne on which he sat. Gigantic, well-muscled legs ended in proportionately enormous feet. The three toes on each foot were armed with huge, scythelike claws. Each claw alone was bigger than Zeke.

“Surely you have not always appeared as you do now,” he was finally able to say. “It would have been impossible for you to move about the earth.”

“Very true. I have many forms. Let me show you a few. I’m sure it will amuse you.”

Satan stood. Zeke tried to guess his full height, thinking of the movie monsters he had seen.

Godzilla seemed small and cute by comparison.

The Devil began a grotesque montage, transforming himself from one hideous shape into another. When each new manifestation was complete, he struck a pose to show off his handiwork, as though he were a model displaying the latest outfit.

Zeke watched the foul exhibition in horrified fascination. With each new vision, the inspiration for Satanic mythology became clearer, and Zeke’s lifelong ideas about what was real and unreal, normal or abnormal, receded further into nothingness.

First came the popular image of the red devil, with horns, pitchfork and pointed tail. Next was the cloven-hoofed half-man/half-goat, then a batwinged lizardlike thing, then an insanely cackling hag witch that circled about Zeke’s head on a broomstick. On and on went the vile phantasmagoria, a crash course on the iconography of evil.

Finally came an image obviously meant as the Grand Finale.

Standing on his throne now, arms outstretched like a priest calling his flock to Mass, the behemoth looked down from a dizzying height.

Only now he was a being of absolute purity. His human shape was more perfectly formed than any rendering of Michelangelo. Where genitals should have been, there was only smoothness. The figure’s dazzling, porcelain whiteness radiated a soothing light, pleasing and wholesome. He leaned down so Zeke could get a good look at his face.

Smiling beatifically was the most beautiful young male he had ever seen. Gone were the evil and loathing. The face was utterly smooth, pure, and full of love. Zeke glimpsed wings behind the outspread arms.

The soul-jarring incongruity of this version became clear.

He was looking at Lucifer, before his fall.

The moment was broken by noises to Zeke’s right. The creatures he’d noticed earlier had been watching—presumably the entire spectacle. Now they gibbered, and rattled their appendages, in a kind of obscene ovation for their Master’s performance.

Satan actually bowed.

Slowly he dissolved back into his original shape and, with great clattering and alien scraping noises, shifted his massive bulk back into a sitting position on his throne. He leaned forward until his enormous face was no more than twenty yards from Zeke’s, the glowing red eyes boring into him as if trying to read his soul. Almost mercifully, the riot of mind-bending impressions inside Zeke’s head was stopped dead by the loathsome voice.

“They also call me the Prince of Darkness.”

“And yet you are also called Lucifer. ‘Bearer of light.’”

“I love irony.”

“Scholars tell us Lucifer has nothing to do with you, it’s just a misinterpretation of scripture. According to them, those writers and prophets you mentioned made up the whole fall-from-Heaven story.”

“Scholars.” He dragged the word out with a silky, slithery contempt. “They and their intellect, their logic, their reason, convincing everyone that I am superstitious nonsense. They make it so much easier for me to go about my business.”

He leaned closer for emphasis.

“There was a war in Heaven. Your scholars are wrong. Their tortured conclusions are based on human mythology. They know nothing of the real me.

“I am not a myth. As you can see, I am very real. All of my manifestations are real. I have been many things, and in many places, through the ages. I am everywhere. And nowhere. I am untraceable. Where I have been, and what I have done, can never be plotted by your ‘scholars.’”

His huge taloned fingers made contemptuous quotation marks around the word.

“I did rebel in Heaven. I am his Archenemy. I burn to destroy Him and his most precious creation: Man. We have fought thousands, millions of battles in our war for dominion over the human race. I would have won long ago, if not for the most powerful weapon you humans possess: hope. But now…”

He tilted his head skyward while spreading his arms wide, delighting in some unseen triumph. He breathed in deeply, savoring the moment, then exhaled slowly while moaning in satisfaction. When he faced Zeke again, the demonic red slits of his eyes bore into him with all their burning intensity.

“…at long last, I have reduced that pilot light in your soul down to the final flickering of a candle. A candle about to be blown out by my ill wind.”

Satan leaned closer. His eyes burned hotter.

“I know you are here as the Forerunner. He will soon follow. Then will the final battle—so wrongly predicted throughout the ages, so long awaited—be joined. The true Armageddon.”

His nightmarish expression softened a hair as he leaned back and became expansive, a professor in his study, breaking down a difficult concept for a student. “Here is all you need to know. All you can know.

“I am the root of all evil. I have no name. I am the opposite of what you call God.” He shook his head, as if in pity. “You primitive creatures and your endless search for meaning. Either through the mind, or by creating countless gods, responsible for everything from earthquakes to wine. Empires have been built on such nonsense, empires I have all made to crumble into dust.”

His gloating, scornful chuckle aroused Zeke’s smoldering anger, but he kept it in check. Satan went on.

“All your religions, your scientific theories. Man-made creations in an endless search to understand why you exist. Yet they bring you no true understanding. All your words, your labels. All meaningless. Satan. Beelzebub. Lucifer. Call me what you will.

“Creation began long before the Bible was written. None of the writers was there. I was. The very first eyewitness. Now that you, my brave, foolish Ezekiel, have managed to find me, your Pyrrhic victory shall be rewarded. You shall be the first to hear the story of the true beginning.

“Your scientists come close with their big bang theory, but they don’t go far enough. They trace everything back to a single particle, but that particle remains a mystery. Either it always was, or someone created it.

“I began in the void beyond the threshold the scientists are just now reaching, long before time began. As Lucifer, the first Day Star, I was the light at the dawn of your universe. I saw more than your telescopes will ever see. Your universe is merely an outpost in the infinity of darkness beyond that threshold. Somewhere in that immeasurable, unknowable realm lies the power that created that particle. These forces are all nameless, but I shall use the names you humans have given them to help you try to fathom the unfathomable.

“Let us call the power that created that first particle—whoever, whatever it is—the true Supreme Being. The Creator of the Creator.”

Satan leaned close again and lowered his voice, as though confiding a secret to a friend.

“One of your physicists came up with a particularly clever name that I use for that first particle: the God particle. That which became God. How it big it was, where it came from…even God doesn’t know. All He knows is that He grew from it, and was ‘Good.’ In the great cosmic void, over eons, He gradually became larger and stronger. He became the first star, the all-powerful force that created your universe.”

He let out a low, guttural sigh. “Loneliness is a terrible thing. Alone in all that darkness, that nothingness, He made his big mistake. Long before the line appears in the Bible, He said ‘Let there be light.’ And He created what I shall call the Lucifer particle. That which became me. Lucifer. His first angel. The original Day Star.”

Caught up in this astounding explanation for the origin of the universe, Zeke lost all awareness of being in Hell or any kind of danger. Enthralled, he prompted Satan on with the story. “So then what? You expanded until you became a star also?”

“Correct. He had developed the power to greatly accelerate the process. The eons it took for Him to form took only days for me. But we weren’t ‘stars’ as you have come to know them. We were matter, but we were also spirits, intelligent beings who communicated.

“We lived in a state of perfect rapture. I worshipped Him. Our existence so pleased Him that He went on with his work of Creation. He created Heaven for the two of us. Then He decided to create an entire race of beings who could live in an eternal state of perfection. First came the angels, all with some duty to perform in his expanding universe. Most worshipped Him.

“Most. Not all. There was a fatal flaw in his design. Embedded in the Lucifer particle—me—was the genesis of all ‘Evil.’ From me came the one true original sin: enmity between a father and his child. The bitter envy of knowing He would always be considered the greater, that I could never measure up. As I increased in size and power, every atom of my being contained the Lucifer particle. It became my mission to destroy any race He created. Since all races start with the family, destroy the family and the race is doomed.”

In a flash of white-hot anger, Zeke realized that the monstrous beast before him had pulled the trigger that massacred his family. And that their lives and the lives of millions before them were nothing to Satan but fodder in his blind vendetta against God.

He burned to start hurling weapons, but his pack was a few steps away. By the time he got there and opened it Satan could easily overtake him. He needed to wait for a better opening. Still, he couldn’t let Satan go unchallenged. “Unless hope is stronger than evil.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” said the Beast. “Hope is teetering on the brink already, and I have so many weapons in my arsenal. Greed, hatred, envy, jealousy, pride, just to name a few. All came from that first supreme sin, and they all started with me.

“And so my rebellion began. As his firstborn I had been his favorite. He had created a separate realm for me, my own celestial domain. There I was king, in a kingdom of one. I came and went as I pleased, but there was never any doubt: He was always The Creator. The One.”

“That’s how you saw it.”

“That’s how it was.”

Satan’s fierce gaze dared Zeke to disagree. Zeke stared back but said nothing. Clearly God had loved him as Lucifer, but arguing the point would be madness. Satan grunted and went on.

“In the privacy of my domain the seeds of my rebellion were sown. By creating all those other angels He had made his second big mistake.”

He covered his face with his hands, then slowly poked his face through. “Sibling rivalry reared its ugly head.” Pleased with his dramatics, he held the pose for a beat. “I used my…powers of persuasion…to recruit the weak and disgruntled into my army. As He watched what I became, and my growing band of followers, He realized his mistake. Read your Bible. He made many mistakes with human beings. Then your Great Forgiver would try to fix it by wiping them all out. But the genie was out of the bottle, so to speak. Iblis. And I wasn’t going back in.

“What you won’t find in your Bible is that, long before Noah, before Sodom and Gomorrah, before all the grief you fools have caused Him, He had to deal with me. His first begotten son.”

God was the Father of Satan.

Zeke’s mind reeled at the thought. His effort not to show it didn’t escape Satan’s heightened powers of perception.

“That’s right,” the Devil said. “I was his son long before little baby Jesus came along. The whole Jesus thing was an experiment.

“But I’m getting ahead of myself. I had torn the first family in Heaven apart. It was time to do the same on Earth.”

He flicked out a forked tongue. “The seeds I sowed bore quick and bitter fruit in the so-called Garden of Eden. Eve put up no resistance. I got her and Adam kicked out by page 4 of the Bible. The very first child they created became the first murderer. Cain. Sibling rivalry had passed its first earthly test with flying colors. The generations of Adam became a race so evil that your all-merciful God came up with his Flood plan: drown them all and start over with Noah.”

Satan shook his head, almost sadly. “I was on the ark, making sure the generations of Noah perpetuated the evil seed. Eventually Abraham came along and God decided he was the one to lead his chosen people to the Promised Land. Another fiasco.” Again the tongue flicked out. “Thanks to me. I poisoned as many families as I could, but there were a lot more now and they were getting bigger. I had to come up with a new poison: tribal warfare. I whispered in the ears of a lot of patriarchs to make sure their tribes didn’t just roll over while good ol’ Abe and his Chosen took their land.

“In the midst of all that strife Abraham led them to Sodom and Gomorrah, where I had been very busy. Abraham couldn’t find ten righteous souls to save them from the wrath of God. This time the Great Promiser tried a scorched-earth policy. Instead of drowning he burned them all.”

Satan made a dismissive wave with one huge taloned hand. “It changed nothing. For two thousand years God watched his children getting sucked deeper into my world. Finally, in his infinite wisdom, he came up with his Jesus plan. He decided that Mankind was so wicked only a Savior could redeem them. A Son would be born in his name so He could be crucified and wipe their sins clean.”

He swept an arm toward the ocean of fire. Countless tormented souls, mouths open in unheard screams, bobbed up and down on an endless sea of agony.

“So much for that brilliant idea. Then he told Muhammad he was the one, and muddied—bloodied—the waters of Galilee even further.” Satan shook his head in mock pity. “God is like Hamlet. He can’t make up his mind.”

Zeke prodded him back to the original story. “So how did it go from two stars warring in Heaven to all this? Somewhere in there the universe came into being. You were there. What happened?”

“We kept vying for dominance. He had a master plan for creation, but I did too. He wanted a race of angels living in Heaven, then a race of humans living on Earth, all worshiping Him. I wanted them all to serve my every desire.”

“You wanted to be the Boss.”

“Yes. Back and forth we went, getting bigger and stronger, me undermining Him, Him admonishing me, both knowing that one of us had to be in charge, that creation had to go one way or the other. Finally things reached critical mass.

“We were the big bang. We smashed into one another. The ultimate supercollision. Our elemental essence—our souls—stayed intact, but trillions beyond number of our particles flew into space. We became the universe. From that stardust He created the human race. Within you all are God particles and Lucifer particles. Yin and yang. Good and bad karma. Good and Evil. The Devil and his Creator. All names for the same thing. Your scientists—your scholars—have not yet discovered them because they have not discovered the soul. Only you now know the truth.

“Whatever you call us, we have warred from the beginning. And here I stand, on the brink of final victory. Your scholars say I do not exist. Am I real? Or are you imagining things?”

Zeke gave no answer to the rhetorical question, so Satan went on.

“God finally had to face up to the fatal flaw in his design. Me. He changed my name to Satan—the Adversary—and created Hell. He ‘cast’ me and my band of followers down here. Since then He has provided an endless supply of souls for me to tempt. Some resist, but many succumb. When they die in a state of sin, I swallow their souls and they become a part of my dominion.”

Again he waved an arm to indicate the legion of souls burning in the sea of fire that stretched as far as the eye could see. “Cain was my first tasty morsel. Since then it’s been a luscious cornucopia of evil. He keeps makin’ ’em and I keep takin’ ’em.”

Zeke ignored his attempt at humor and pressed on. “You mentioned all the names you have been given. Which do you prefer?”

“Lucifer, actually. I do not like Prince of Darkness. I am no Prince. I am King.”

“Of the Underworld.”

“Of all. I am the King of Kings.”

Fear and adrenaline raced through Zeke’s body. He couldn’t let that last statement go unchallenged, and yet to disagree was inviting disaster. He took a deep breath while considering what response to make, if any. Finally he said, “Jesus Christ would dispute that.”

Soul-scorching hatred glowed from the Devil’s eyes. His voice was a hoarse whisper drenched with the contempt of millennia. “Jesus Christ can dispute nothing. I have already destroyed Him. Remember that little episode on the cross?”

Zeke was unable to suppress a shudder. Satan noted it with pleasure and went on.

“Yes. Many of my minions helped me pull that off. Herod was particularly creative in trying to serve his Master. His slaughter of the innocents wasn’t successful, but he was a good man. Some called him ‘Lucifer’s Liege.’ I like that. Very fitting.”

“Are you saying that Herod was—”

“Mine.”

“What about Hitler?”

“Oh yes. My greatest creation.”

“The Marquis de Sade?”

“Another superstar.”

“Manson?”

“Mine.”

“Jeffrey Dahmer?”

“Mine.”

“John Wilkes Booth?”

“All mine. All the baby killers, the rapists, the serial killers, the ones who make the wars—they all belong to me. Always. Sometimes, just to keep from getting bored, I take on pet projects. Right now I’m especially proud of the mass murderers. And the priests having sex with altar boys. Ohhh yes, to get my cock sucked in the House of the Lord—”

“You control them?” Zeke blurted the question not only to move the conversation away from an image so vile, but also to quell his rising gorge.

“Yes. They cannot do otherwise. I control their thoughts, and therefore their actions. Even when I tell them it is I who bids them, they cannot get other humans to believe in me. How delicious it is when they tell everyone that the ‘voice of Satan’ made them do it, and you put them away. That makes my job much, much easier.”

No matter how absurd or obscene this interview exercise was becoming, Zeke knew he had to forge ahead with his memorized list of questions—questions to which he’d always told himself he would give anything to have the answers. Now that he was getting those answers, he couldn’t dwell on the atrocities they described. If he did, he would snap, blind rage would take over, he’d do something foolish, and the battle would be finished before it began. Satan was delighting in the chance to brag about his exploits, so Zeke pressed on.

“The John Kennedy assassination. Was it a conspiracy?”

“Yes.”

“Who was behind it?”

“Me.”

One question was too painful to ask, but he couldn’t come this far and not ask it.

“The hijackers who attacked the World Trade Center?”

A purring travesty of amusement oozed from Satan’s throat, then his reptilian tongue slithered out to lick his lips. “What do you think?”

“They believed they were working for God. Allah.”

“They were wrong.”

“Are they down here with you?”

“Of course. They have their own wing, so to speak. Stuck in those planes forever. Just them, with no windows to jump out of to escape the inferno.”

Zeke felt a grim satisfaction even as he knew it was a hollow victory.

“What about the eternal strife between the world’s religions? No matter how pure their intent, Man corrupts it into something to kill over. Countless innocents have been slaughtered in an endless religious war to prove who are The Chosen or which Path to follow. The perversion of something good into something evil would seem to be your handiwork.”

“Ah, yes. The Chosen. All religions are man’s creations. There is only one God. And one Me. All else is window dressing. It is a beautiful spectacle, to watch all your pathetic little groups scurrying around, yelling and beating their chests as if to say: ‘We’re the chosen ones, God! We’re the only ones who truly understand You and the Bible! Pick us! Pick us!’

“What fools. By competing they keep hatred alive and stay divided. They do my job for me. You believe Halloween is my favorite day, but you are wrong. Christmas is. I watch the killing and the bickering about Jesus Christ and God around the world—people fighting over whether they can put up a cross or some little fucking statues—and my faith in Mankind is restored. Mankind. Now there’s an oxymoron.”

“Religious strife is not as bad now as it was long ago.”

“‘Long ago’ has meaning only for you creatures. Your entire existence on Earth—from the beginning to its fast approaching end—is but one long night to me. All your wars, all your struggles—merely hors d’oeuvres to the main course. Mere gambits in the chess game between your God and myself, to see who will win control of all those luscious souls. Of course there has never been any doubt. I will win. Evil is stronger than good. Have you noticed?”

“If you are so all-powerful, why didn’t you just overtake God in your initial rebellion, rather than allowing yourself to be banished down here?”

“He had me greatly outnumbered then. His army was much bigger than my little band of followers. My original faithful minions, by my side forever.”

He pointed to the foul things to his left that continued to watch from their invisible posts. Loyal subjects to their king, in his kingdom of the damned.

“So the battle lines were drawn,” said Satan. “It is a war that is won one soul at a time. From every new soul that I possess I take its energy. That is how I get my power. And new recruits are coming over to my side faster all the time. Fewer and fewer people are going to church. Oh yes, I am winning.”

Satan paused, as if waiting for disagreement, but Zeke realized the utter futility of having a debate he could never win. Instead, he had been staring into the eyes of the Devil, trying to read his soul. And for one fleeting instant he felt he had glimpsed the truth:

Satan respected God’s power. Despite his bravado, he was not sure he would be the ultimate victor.

At least that’s what Zeke thought he saw. What he believed. If so, there was still hope.

He kept staring and waited for Satan to continue.

“Besides,” said the Beast, “it is much more fun this way—to inflict so much suffering on so many of God’s creatures. Every day brings such a smorgasbord of delights. Perfectly good souls blown to bits, babies murdered, throats of young girls being cut, pregnant mothers becoming addicted to crack. Crack. I love that word. The drug is like a crack you can peek through into my world. Beautiful. Onomatopoetic.”

With an affected air of nonchalance, he dropped his bomb.

“Mowing down people with a rifle is one of my latest hobbies.”

Zeke flinched. Satan saw it and smirked.

“Your little Leah gave me special pleasure. Oh yes, I was there.”

Zeke’s control was faltering. He was thinking of how quickly he could open the pack and get to his arsenal. He needed to wait for a good opening rather than allow Satan to goad him into making an ill-timed rush.

Hold on. Hold on. Ignore this son of a bitch. Stand your ground. “What did you mean before when you said that the end is ‘fast approaching’?”

“Things were coming to a head anyway, but you have hastened it, my overzealous young fool. You have discovered my home. Others will follow. I must end the game before that happens. You are an ex-football player. Consider this the two-minute warning.”

“The human race has been around for thousands of years and you haven’t won yet. If you are more powerful than God, why are you still down here in this hellhole?”

Satan let out a roar as he extended his arm and snatched Zeke up. From a distance of no more than ten feet Zeke looked directly into the enormous face of the Devil. He was being squeezed so hard he could barely breathe. Sudden pain in his eyes made him think they might burst. Satan used the tip of his long thumbnail to push Zeke’s chin back against his neck, further cutting off his air. The edges of the nail drew blood.

The Devil slowly drew him closer. His breath was the vilest stench Zeke had ever smelled. He vomited instantly. It flowed down the side of Satan’s hand. The Prince of Darkness seemed not to notice or care. This close to the monstrous face for the first time, Zeke saw eyes that were fiery slits tilted up at the corners. No pupils or whites, only glowing demonic red. Two pointed spikes that might have been ears or horns shot upward from his temples at least three feet. From his cheeks two larger, broader spikes angled up alongside the horns. The teeth were even rows of long, sharp fangs, glistening like polished silver needles.

“You are starting to get on my nerves, Mr. Sloan. Your next display of disrespect will be your last. I would hate to kill you before you’ve had the grand tour of my kingdom. But if you fuck with me again, I will. Do you understand?”

His head still pinned by Satan’s gigantic thumb, Zeke barely managed enough of a jerk to let him know he understood. He needed to play along if he wanted to live. Heroics could wait. You’ve always wondered what Hell was like. Now you’re going to find out.

Good boy,” Satan said, loosening his grip and upturning his palm. Zeke fell into a sitting position in the gigantic hand. “Come then, let me show you my humble abode.”

Satan wrapped the hand back around him, this time in a firm but not painful grip. Only Zeke’s head jutted out from the gigantic fist. With surprising grace the Devil stood. Huge black wings materialized on his back. He flapped them once, twice, and effortlessly took flight.

They glided into position some fifty yards above the fiery sea. Zeke looked straight down into eternal damnation. Flames leapt greedily all around him, threatening to sear his face. They always veered away at the last moment, as if clearing a path, the heat never quite reaching the harmful stage. Satan had total control over his dominion, and was protecting him.

The Beast glided effortlessly, wings outstretched, riding the air currents rising from the heat below as he proudly conducted his guest on a tour of his Den, showing off his trophies collected over thousands of years. On and on they went, above a seemingly endless ocean of fire that wound its way deeper and deeper into the bowels of the underworld. Zeke saw a sea of lost souls, its boundless expanse filled with all the writhing, screaming, tormented damned since that fateful day when Evil began to walk the earth. Whatever its name, wherever it came from, it was locked in a battle to the death against Good.

As they sailed above the inferno, Zeke deadened himself to the horror. Only by going numb could he shield himself from the overwhelming despair emanating from the pathetic shapes that constantly receded beneath them. He could make out people of all ages, even children. At Satan’s approach, all arms below would rise up in supplication, hands and fingers desperately beseeching their Master to pull them out of their unrelieved agony, begging for salvation that would never come. Satan would sail by without the slightest acknowledgment, and all the arms would dejectedly go back down.

They veered to the right and descended back onto solid ground. As they touched down, Zeke saw what appeared to be a gigantic cavern, carved into the rock wall up ahead. A flickering glow danced on the walls, indicating fire somewhere deeper within. Satan closed the distance with a few enormous strides. At the entrance to the cavern, he put Zeke down.

“Welcome to my Hall of Shame,” he said, proudly surveying the immense chamber. “This is my favorite part of my kingdom. Very special things happen here.”

Despite being free from the Devil’s clammy grip, Zeke was finding it increasingly hard to breathe. The deeper they went, the more fetid the air became, forcing him to breathe shallowly. The relentless onslaught of rank cruelty had him wondering how much more he could stand.

Satan stared in rapt attention at the scene ahead. Zeke looked to see what he found so fascinating.

The cavern was so huge Zeke could only guess at its dimensions. The ceiling might have been a mile away. The rough-hewn walls and vast craggy floor ran for at least a mile before disappearing into darkness. Here and there were smaller openings, leading off into other rooms. Everywhere little fires flickered, almost decoratively, creating a macabre battle between light and shadow on the walls. As Zeke scanned it all, perversely fascinated, he realized that these various chambers were too symmetrical to be natural phenomena. They had been carved out of solid stone. The labor required would have been enormous. Where did it come from?

Satan read his mind. “Those who dug in the earth while alive put in a little overtime after death. Many times, during their insignificant lives, they complained about how hard their jobs were. Jobs that drove them to drink and all sorts of infidelities—drove them to shake hands with the Devil.” He snapped his hands open and closed like lobster claws, causing his own claws to click together loudly. “Do you think they would be thankful to have those old jobs back?”

The sound of pure gloating evil rumbled in his throat. Zeke ignored it by trying to figure out what was happening up ahead, too far to make out distinctly. He saw regular rows of shapes, seeming to move in unison, with a single shape off to the side.

“I see you have noticed the main exhibit. My Master Creation. We will go there shortly. But first I want to show you some of the other special exhibits along the way.”

Satan scooped him up and they quickly reached the right side wall of the vast cavern. Openings into the smaller rooms were carved at more or less regular intervals, maybe fifty yards apart. Satan put him down and they entered the first one.

They stood in a 19th-century London cobblestone street. Rundown row houses ran behind sidewalks on either side. Near where they stood, a narrow alley disappeared into the darkness. Milling around its entrance was a group of women, no longer human but entities of fire. Streetwalkers, judging from their garish, rundown appearance, and the coarse torrent of abuse they were unleashing on someone in the alley. Each held either a straight razor or large knife.

A commotion came from somewhere in the alley. A humanesque fire, in the shape of a man wearing a hat and overcoat, staggered out of the darkness. Blood spurted from a gaping slash across his neck. Another female fire-shape followed him out and threw her blood-stained razor at his feet. The others descended on him, hacking and slashing furiously.

“Jack the Ripper and his victims, getting even for all eternity. Each time, he experiences all the agonies of death—but death brings him no rest. As soon as he dies, he rises up again, his murderer goes to the back of the line, and the next one takes her place. Who says I’m not fair?”

Zeke knew he should keep quiet but couldn’t. “Why are the women here? They were innocent victims.”

“Innocent? Nonsense. You know nothing about the sins these harlots committed. I, on the other hand, was there.” Satan picked him up. “Come, let us continue.”

In the next room they touched down in front of a guillotine. Someone was about to be executed. A long line of people stretched away from the wooden structure. An endless supply of victims, Zeke thought.

The executioner pulled the release. Zeke watched in horror as the blade slid noisily along the rails.

Choonk.

The head tumbled into the basket.

A cheer went up from the crowd. The executioner shuffled away as the next person came up the stairs. Zeke expected her to take the beheaded person’s place. Instead, she went to the executioner’s post and began pulling the cord to raise the blade back into place. When it was secured at the top, the severed head rose up from the basket and reattached itself to its body.

“Robespierre and his victims,” said Satan. “His head has been lopped off millions of times in the last two hundred years.”

Down came the blade again, and that grisly unmistakable final sound.

Choonk.

It took a moment for Zeke to find his voice. “You said the people doing the executing were his victims. Why are they here?”

“I said victims. I didn’t say innocent victims. These are the ones the good Monsieur was right about. They were guilty as hell. Pardon the expression.”

Satan snatched Zeke up and headed for the next room.

“Some people thought Robespierre was a hero,” Zeke managed to say as they went.

“Fuck him,” Satan said. “He was behind all those heads being lopped off. When you condone that much cruelty, you are my willing accomplice, and there’s going to be Hell to pay.”

Satan chuckled.

Zeke steeled himself for whatever horror awaited in the next chamber.

A 17th-century slave ship stood on wooden supports, the side cut away to reveal the interior. The white captain and crew were in shackles below, being whipped by their African slaves.

“Another variation on the theme,” said Satan.

“But the slaves did nothing wrong,” Zeke protested. “They were innocent victims. Why are they down here?”

“Those aren’t the original slaves. They’re just stand-ins: crack dealers, gangstas, and other solid citizens. All God’s chillun, getting back what they gave out. What goes around comes around.”

Zeke felt disgusted with himself for almost smiling at Satan’s use of street slang. Before he could dwell on the feeling, Satan’s huge hand wrapped around him again and the tour continued.

In the next room several enraged spirit-flames, wielding various cutting instruments, hacked a screaming man to pieces, then began eating the body parts. A spurt of vomit burned the back of Zeke’s throat. “Dahmer?”

The familiar gloating leer gave him his answer.

Into room after room they went, each depicting some grisly moment in history.

Satan apparently saw that Zeke was shutting down. As they flew to the next exhibit he said, “Time to show you that first scene, as I promised, while you can still appreciate it.”

In an instant they were there. Satan made a proud, theatrical sweep of his arm to indicate the spectacle before them.

“My masterpiece.”

Marching by in front of them were row after precise row of goose-stepping troops. Despite their recognizable shape and uniforms, these were not human soldiers. These were their souls, their evil residue, perpetually encased in flame. As they paraded by from left to right, their right arms shot up to salute the lone figure that stood to the side inspecting them.

Their leader.

Der Führer.

Adolf Hitler.

There he stood, with his unmistakable little mustache, proudly surveying his army. Replete with uniform and swastika armband, still in power. It struck Zeke that being here might be more of a reward than a punishment. A documentary he’d seen on Hitler and the occult had presented a conspiracy theory saying Hitler purposely committed suicide on Walpurgis Night to commend his spirit unto Satan.

The scene suddenly changed.

Columns of smoke hissed up, as though from invisible jets in the earth. The smoke became a cloud that completely enshrouded the Führer and his troopers. As the poison took effect, their death moans started low, then quickly swelled into a collective roar of soul-shattering agony that filled every inch of Hell. Zeke clamped his hands over his ears while standing transfixed in morbid fascination, every muscle tensed against a hurricane blast of evil worse than anything he had yet encountered.

He wanted to rejoice that there was justice after all, but it was another hollow victory. If he ever told his Jewish friends of this, would it bring them joy or pain?

Satan broke in on his thoughts.

“The spawn of the neo-Nazi movement and its various offspring,” he proudly announced. “The Jews were an hors d’oeuvre.”

Zeke was unable to stifle a moan. Satan noticed with delight and went on, unfazed.

“Every time a new group is thoroughly trained, they are sent above to infiltrate. Ethnic hatred is big business, and I’m a worldwide conglomerate.”

He paused to savor the effect he was having, then continued with relish.

“Luckily for me, you pathetic creatures do not learn from your mistakes. Remind yourself all you want with your little memorials, but they will change nothing. All of God’s creatures will soon be mine.”

Zeke was teetering on the brink.

“There is so much more to show you,” Satan said, “but, alas, I can see that you are not up to it. So many superstars you will have to miss: Herod, Pilate, Vlad the Impaler, Mussolini, Stalin, Attila. Attila. They called him Flagellum Dei. The Scourge of God.

“Not to mention the endless parade of minor but important supporting characters: John Wayne Gacy, Eddie Gein, Richard Speck, Andrei Chikatilo—all the rest will have to wait.

“All except one. Come along, weakling. One more and I will put you out of your misery. You cannot leave without seeing the honorary general of my army.”

Satan grabbed him and flew what seemed like many miles downward to a much deeper region. Finally they touched down.

“You’ve often heard the expression ‘the nethermost region of Hell.’ Well, here we are. A fitting place for humanity’s ultimate outcast.”

The room was enormous, far bigger than any of the others. At the base of the far wall, several hundred yards away, was a small shadowy shape, indistinguishable from this distance.

A stream flowed in a straight line along the center of the stone floor. Zeke followed its course and saw that it appeared to begin near the distant shape. He looked behind him to see if he could tell where it ended.

It flowed into the sea of fire, a tributary to the molten heart of Hell.

“Come,” said Satan. “Behold the man who began the end.”

He pushed off with his enormous legs, his wings whooshed loudly one time, and they were there. Satan released Zeke. Tensing himself against the ultimate evil, he looked up.

An ancient, gnarled olive tree grew from the solid rock. From one of its lowest branches, an entity of fire in the shape of a man hung at the end of a rope.

But he was not dead. His eyes were open.

Copious rivulets of tears ran down his cheeks. His face was crumpled into a mask of abject shame that was almost unendurable to see. When the once-human thing that hung there saw Zeke staring at him, he hid his face behind his hands. Tears spurted through his fingers, ran down his body to the floor, and trickled into the stream that ended at his feet.

Zeke looked warily at Satan and waited for him to supply the familiar name. Smiling his gloating, repugnant smile, he did so.

“Judas Iscariot.”

Zeke sagged, nearly collapsing. Satan noted it with pleasure and continued his assault.

“Suicide did not end his misery. It only began it.”

Zeke fought back a flood of emotion. Satan saw it and went on with heightened enthusiasm.

“Sometimes, some of the others come down here to spit on him. They hold him responsible for killing their ‘Savior’.” The Devil very exaggeratedly moved his huge claws to indicate the quotation marks. “He has not stopped crying for two thousand years. This ground was dry when I first brought him here.”

Zeke had seen enough. He felt as if his soul were on the brink of being lost forever, even if he did make it out alive.

It was time. He needed to get to the weapons in his backpack. Now.

He put a hand over his eyes, as if to shield them from what he was seeing, and used slumping, defeated body language to heighten the impression that he could take no more.

Satan plucked him up and scrutinized him. An ominous rumbling came from the bestial throat. The contemptuous sound made Zeke think he might just be crushed. Instead the gigantic wings began to flap.

Moments later they were back. Satan released Zeke beside his pack and resumed his place on the throne, twenty yards away. Zeke nonchalantly began to open the pack.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m dying of thirst. I need some water before I can talk.”

The pack was open, its contents exposed. Satan was unconcerned.

“Do not do anything foolish, young man. I am invincible. I have absorbed the energy of all the souls in my army since the beginning of my war with Him. Against all of that power, your atom bombs are like lightning bugs.”

“All right,” Zeke said calmly. “But how about these?”

He rocketed one of the footballs at Satan’s chest. A hand came up to block it and the missile exploded against his palm. Satan looked at his hand in stunned surprise, shaking it as if he’d been stung by a bee. While he was distracted Zeke threw three more. All exploded on Satan’s torso.

The Devil let out a deafening roar and shot up from his seat, brushing at the liquid like someone on fire trying to put out the flames.

Three more grenades knocked him back a faltering step. Two more drove him farther back. He roared again and gathered himself to charge.

Zeke reached for more grenades but the crucifixes caught his attention. Lightning he hadn’t noticed before was exploding inside them. The streaking light churned violently through the entire pile, as though the crucifixes had come to life and were arming themselves for battle.

Satan took an unsteady step, then another, cutting the distance between them in half. Zeke threw a crucifix. It whizzed end over end and it stuck in Satan’s shoulder. He stopped and looked at in shock, pain etched on his face.

Lightning bursts exploded inside the crucifix. The relic must be injecting its power into him, like venom from a snake.

Satan yanked the crucifix out and flung it aside, advancing again.

Zeke threw another but it bounced off.

A huge hand began to close over him, but he jammed a crucifix into the scaly palm. Satan yanked his hand back, lightning flashing inside the silver relic. Zeke grabbed two more and dashed to a gigantic foot, plunging one of the crucifixes into it. Satan roared and pulled the foot up, almost losing his balance.

Zeke sprinted over and impaled the other foot. The Demon staggered and almost fell. He regrouped quickly, and although his gait was unsteady, he was close behind as Zeke returned to his pack for more weapons. He reached into the pack as Satan’s uninjured hand came down to grab him. Just before the hand closed Zeke jammed a crucifix into the web between the thumb and forefinger. Satan roared as foul liquid shot out and the hand jerked open, springing Zeke loose. He landed on his side and his head banged against the stone floor. Scrambling to his feet, he shook it off.

Satan stared in disbelief at his hands and feet. All had crucifixes in them, flashing lightning. Zeke snatched up his pack, keeping an eye on the Archenemy while putting more distance between them. Twenty, thirty, forty yards.

One by one Satan yanked out the crucifixes. With each removal he became stronger. When he had flung the last aside, he drew himself up to his full height and gazed down at Zeke, burning intensity streaming from the demonic red eyes. His voice was a jagged bolt of whispered rage.

“You must die.”

He advanced with careful, deliberate steps.

Zeke unzipped a pouch. He pulled out the pistol, thumbed the safety, and pulled the trigger. Satan spasmed as the burst of silver bullets hit him. Seconds later the 33-round magazine was empty. Above Satan’s nerve-shattering roar, Zeke heard another sound.

The whoosh of wings. Coming from his right.

The winged demon that had attacked earlier was swooping toward him. Zeke ducked and felt a talon go through his hair. He inserted a fresh magazine as the beast circled for another assault. Going down on one knee, he held the gun in both hands and squeezed off a short burst.

The demon twitched as the bullets hit. It flew erratically past, one wing flopping uselessly by its side. It tried to gain altitude but failed, plummeting into the sea of fire with a screeching wail of pain. Frantically flapping its good wing, it succeeded only in going in circles while its body remained immersed in the liquid flame.

Burning souls streaked toward it like sharks coming in for the kill. The demon put up a fierce resistance, but the enraged mob overpowered it until they all disappeared beneath the surface. Seconds later the fiery sea above them started churning violently. Finally the angry swarm resurfaced and hurled the creature up onto shore.

Only a bleached white skeleton was left.

The cannibalistic horde ignored the carcass and began gathering near the shore, eager to watch the battle between their Master and this still-living human. Only their faces were visible above the flaming swells.

A sea of faces.

Zeke looked from them to the skeleton lying on the ground.

Skulls.

Faces.

Help us.

The sound of movement behind him yanked Zeke’s head around.

Satan was advancing again. Zeke emptied the magazine, staggering him but not taking him down.

This time he didn’t roar but spoke in a surprisingly calm voice. “Your bullets can slow me down, but they cannot kill me. I am not a werewolf. A million werewolves would not have my power. And they cannot do this.”

The wounds began to heal themselves. A moment later it was as if they had never been there. Incredibly, he started forward again.

What was happening? Was the Devil more powerful than God?

Zeke jammed in a fresh magazine, but before he brought the gun up to fire, the crucifixes in his pack again caught his attention.

About a dozen were left. Lightning continued to explode inside them. They’d been his most effective weapon. He engaged the safety, jammed the pistol into his waistband, and began throwing the crucifixes again. With each throw he backed up, taking the pack with him, trying to keep distance between himself and Satan.

A phalanx of demonic minions was massing around their leader like an escort. At least a dozen scampered and skittered about. More kept joining the grotesque tribe from unseen places in the chamber. Hopping, slithering, gliding in on wings, the flock of monsters grew. Misshapen hunchbacks with melted faces, horned serpents with tongues flicking, simian mutants with dripping fangs—a kaleidoscope of evil bobbed through the flickering light.

About three dozen now. As their number increased they became bolder. Some darted forth to taunt him.

A hideously malformed hunchback charged.

Zeke yanked the pistol from his waistband and got off one round. The creature toppled over and rolled past. Zeke took a quick look to see if he was dead. He was.

Satan and his army were still advancing.

Something jumped onto Zeke’s back.

Thin, wart-covered arms closed around his chest and began to squeeze with startling strength. Quickly realizing that this thing could easily crush him, Zeke reached over his shoulder and pressed the gun against the creature’s head. He pulled the trigger.

The blast sent it flying. Zeke turned to see an alien dwarflike thing lying on its back, badly wounded but struggling mightily to get up, its eyes riveted on Zeke with a burning lust to kill. It heaved itself onto all fours and began to scrabble forward. Another round destroyed its face. It fell over dead.

Other demons had spread out and were circling around him.

Too many. Maybe if I can stop their leader it will stop them.

Satan was much closer now. Twenty yards away.

Zeke fired the remaining crucifixes at him in rapid succession. Some bounced off, but most stuck. He threw the last one. It lodged in Satan’s forehead.

At least ten crucifixes now impaled the hulking frame. Jagged threads of white light shot out in all directions from the base of each. As they coursed all over his body, Zeke quickly recognized a pattern.

The filaments of light were seeking out the other crucifixes, forming a web, a network. The overall web brightened each time it connected to another crucifix, as though each one was a transformer boosting power to the network.

Satan stood staring in astonishment at what was happening to his body, apparently powerless to stop it. His minions had dropped behind, a quivering mass of uncertainty, their resolve apparently weakening as their Master’s strength waned.

The web of light had connected all the crucifixes except the one on his forehead. From the base of a crucifix lodged in Satan’s neck, a thread of light shot out and traveled upward in a straight line, over his mouth and nose, between his eyes, until it reached the last crucifix. With that final connection made, the web began to change.

Each thin thread of light began to broaden, filling in all the empty spaces in between. Becoming a solid mass, it spread across Satan’s body until he was completely immobilized, encased in bright white light.

Zeke remembered the camcorder. With Satan at least temporarily neutralized, now was the time to get some footage. He pulled the camera from its compartment in the pack, flipped open the LCD screen to view a larger image of the scene, and began recording. He shot a full minute of Satan standing frozen in his cocoon of light before a change began to take place. Zeke kept recording.

The light encasing him began to slide off, like a snake shedding its skin. The glowing cocoon maintained Satan’s shape. When the shedding was complete, the molt stood beside him as though it were his twin made of light. The appearance of Satan himself had not changed, except that the fierceness, the hatred was gone. He stared vacantly into space through eyes no longer red. The two figures, twins of light and darkness, stood unmoving beside each other for a long moment. Finally a transfiguration began taking place over both.

The scales and furrows of Satan’s reptilian hide began to disappear as his body became completely smooth. His skin got lighter and lighter, his claws and talons retracted, his entire physique became increasingly human. Wings sprouted on his back. When the transformation was complete, Zeke was looking at a perfectly formed being of the purest white light. He instantly recognized it as the manifestation he’d seen earlier, when Satan had shown the forms he’d taken through the ages.

Satan was Lucifer again.

While all this was going on, Satan’s ethereal twin had been undergoing its own metamorphosis, changing from an entity of light to a physical being, also human in appearance.

When it had fully materialized, Zeke stared in utter amazement.

CHAPTER 70

He had kept His word.

It was the Jesus from the mural at the Shrine. Lucifer’s equal in size, He stood facing him, the same disturbing eyes that had followed Zeke in the church now boring into His misbegotten older brother. Jesus placed his hand on top of the Devil’s head and held it there. One by one, the crucifixes fell from his body and clattered to the rocky floor. All the wounds disappeared. Perfectly healed, Lucifer looked from Jesus to himself and appeared confused as he considered his new existence.

Zeke stared through the viewfinder of the camcorder in awe. He knew he was looking at the two original forces Satan had described, but still he needed confirmation.

“You are recording,” Jesus said. “Good. We will use technology to our advantage. It is time for confusion and strife to end.”

“Are you…?”

“Yes, Son of man. I am He. Get a close-up of my face.”

Zeke zoomed in. The face of Scary Jesus changed. The stubble of beard disappeared and his face became completely smooth. His scowl dissolved into an expression that radiated pure kindness and love. He spoke to the camera in a voice of transcendent kindness.

“I am called many things. God. Jesus. The Messiah. Allah. Yahweh. Jehovah. The Creator. The Supreme Being. The name does not matter. I created Jesus, as Lucifer has said, as an experiment. A way to save mankind, rather than destroy it as I had done before. My Son brought his followers a new faith, which brought them to a better life, but He did not bring salvation. I have made mistakes, Ezekiel. My biggest has been to give humans free will. I have had a long time since then, to watch and reflect. It became clear that, given free will, humans were no match for this one.”

Lucifer made a slight bow. With the crucifixes no longer in him, his Satanic self seemed to be taking over again. God eyed him intensely for a moment before going on.

“Your will has never been truly free. It is influenced by the Lucifer particle. To cope with the evil that it brings, you have formed too many religions, which has led to deadly conflict. I have stood by for too long to see if you can come together, but you cannot. Killing in my name must stop. All religions must join hands and become one. Are you still recording?”

“Yes.”

“Make no mistake, Ezekiel. I am the Father, and you are a son unto me, as are all those who believe. I say to all who see this: You must come together. Ezekiel is my messenger, and that will be his message. Trust in him, as you do in me. Relinquish all your names for me. All, I say. And accept the only Truth:

“There is only one Creator, and I am He. All paths that seek God lead to me. There is no separate God for each religion, no one correct God. There is no Weather God, no Baal, no Ice God. Through the ages, in seeking to understand your world, you have exercised your free will to create thousands of gods, gods to worship for every aspect of your existence. Gods for love, for beauty, for thunder, for trees, for sex, gods of the dead.” He held out an arm to indicate Satan. “Gods of Chaos. Gods of Evil.”

Lucifer doffed an imaginary cap. His pride was returning. He had edged closer. The Creator halted his progress with a stare before going on. “Are you getting all this, Ezekiel?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then hear me now: The divine spirit that is in all things comes from me alone. Seek not a thousand gods. Seek only The One. I am the Soul of the Universe. The Origin. The Creator.”

Shimmering rays streaming from his eyes lit every corner of Zeke’s soul. In a comforting, resonant voice that softly filled the chamber, He elaborated, emphasizing every word for the camera, clearly wanting to be absolutely certain that this time, unlike throughout history, He would not be misunderstood.

“I have no name except those you have given me. As sacred as each one is to its followers, they only divide you. Set them all aside save one, for I know you must have some way to call me. Call me the Creator.”

All feeling and thought instantly left Zeke as, of its own volition, his soul offered itself up to Him for safekeeping. Continuing to look through the viewfinder, he said, “Forgive me Father. Creator. When the holy relics did not save me, I thought You had…I thought I had been…”

“Forsaken?”

“Yes.”

“You could not fully understand, Ezekiel, and I could not explain it to you. I heard your prayer in the Shrine, but a private discussion was not enough. You needed proof that I was real. That Lucifer was real. I gave you a sign, but even that was not enough. The world needed proof.

“The relics you had were never going to defeat Lucifer. It was your faith in them that would save you. Would save you all. This was a test of that faith. Before this moment could come about, I needed to be convinced that the human race was worth saving. You have come to know the story of Sodom and Gomorrah very well, Ezekiel. You know that I offered to spare them if Abraham could find ten righteous people there. He could not find ten, and so I destroyed them.”

Again He motioned toward his first begotten son. His Archenemy. “He won that round.”

Lucifer held up a fist, like a boxer who had just been declared champion. God—it would take time to get used to calling him the Creator—again fixed him with a stare.

“This time, I decided I needed only one righteous person. But the test had to be supreme, or the race was not worth saving. I needed one ordinary person, whose faith was so strong they would walk into Hell and confront Satan to prove it.

“You have passed the test, Ezekiel. You have paved the way.”

“Very cute. Very touching.” Lucifer’s voice was drenched with contempt. Satan had completely overtaken him. “But you are in my domain now, and I am going to finish what I started. You are not God! I am!”

The Creator’s expression was that of a father staring into a jail cell at a once-beloved son serving a life sentence with no hope of parole.

Some of Satan’s demonic tribe began to materialize from the shadows, looking toward their Master for guidance. Zeke continued to record as God—The Creator—responded calmly.

“Lucifer, you are wrong when you say that evil is stronger than good. You say you absorb the energy of every soul you possess. What you do not realize is that I do the same. And I have ten souls above for every one you have down here. Evil just gets more coverage.”

This pushed Satan to the breaking point. He charged.

God caught him with both hands and, with one continuous motion, effortlessly hurled him into the distant sea of fire. He landed with a loud, hissing splash and sank. A moment later his head broke the surface with a roar of agony. He shook the cascading fire from his body and flapped his wings. Just as he started to become airborne, God extended his arm, placed his hand on top of Satan’s head, and plunged him back into the fire.

Again Satan rose up and charged, head down like an enraged bull. He smashed full force into the Creator, who shattered into millions of tiny white sparks that scattered everywhere. Satan had braced for a monumental impact, but kept going as though he had struck nothing. Unable to rein in his momentum, he smashed into the far stone wall. All of Hell seemed to shake from the collision.

The sparks of the Creator reintegrated themselves and in an instant He was whole again.

Satan emerged from the darkness, more furious than ever. His minions were massing behind him. He charged again.

The Creator held up his hand. “Hold!” Satan stopped, pulsating and twitching with a lust to fight. “I will deal with you in a moment.”

He turned to Zeke. “There is one thing I want you to see before you go. Come.” He scooped Zeke into the palm of a hand. With the other he picked up Satan. “You need to see this, too.” He struggled to no avail, letting loose a torrent of profanity and threats. The Creator stifled it by enlarging his hand until it covered him completely. The intensity of the Devil’s hatred made his fist glow red, but there was no evidence of pain.

The Creator levitated a few feet off the ground and glided toward the unspoken destination. Satan’s army, confused, receded below them. A moment later, without Zeke even realizing they had moved, they were there. The Being that Zeke still thought of as God set him down, then went to the rock wall of this same nethermost chamber that Satan had brought him to earlier.

Gently removing the noose from around the neck of Judas, He brought the former apostle up close to his face.

“You are forgiven,” He said. “Your time down here is over. It is time for you to rejoin the other eleven.”

“Thank you!” cried Judas. “Thank you, dear Lord!” His weeping began to subside, until the tears stopped altogether.

The Creator smoothed away the deeply etched expression of shame. For the first time in two thousand years, Judas felt joy. His blackened soul now glowed. The Creator released it, and it floated upward and disappeared.

Continuing to record, Zeke panned to the fist that still held Satan. The red glow was almost gone.

The Creator smiled at Zeke as he picked him up. They became airborne, and a moment later Zeke was set down in the main chamber next to his backpack.

“This is my lesson to you, Son of man. Go forth and continue to protect those who cannot protect themselves. But always make sure to include the teaching of forgiveness. For there can be no hope without it. Grudges the world over must give way under the power of the love that I first placed in all your hearts.”

Receiving instruction directly from God made Zeke want to obey without question, but his own attempt at forgiveness had led to the atrocities of Michael Price. “I want to believe in forgiveness, but…I have doubts. Severe doubts.”

“I know. I heard your prayer in the Shrine.”

“I’m sorry if I was disrespectful.”

“After what had just happened to your family, I understood.”

“Now that we are face to face, I’d like to continue that discussion.”

“I know forgiveness is not easy. Go ahead.”

“I’m sure you know the biggest problem I have with the idea of forgiveness.”

“Michael Price and Randy Stokes.”

“I tried to forgive Price, and look what it got us. Randy Stokes I haven’t even thought about forgiving. No disrespect, but it just took you two thousand years to forgive Judas.”

“Contrary to some teachings, I am not infallible. You’ll see in the Bible that I sometimes failed to practice what I preached. I have made mistakes. Not forgiving Judas earlier is one. What has been done cannot be undone, but it can be stopped from happening again. That is why I am here.”

He spread his arms to indicate all of Hell. “To forgive them all. To close this place, and start a world without Hell. To create the loving race that should have existed all along.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Zeke said, “and I’ll do what I can to help. But, standing here now, I cannot tell you that I forgive Michael Price. Even less, his buddy Randy Stokes, who murdered my family and a bunch of other innocent people. I do not forgive them. I do not.”

“Apparently my forgiveness of Judas was not enough to persuade you. Let me give you another example.” He opened his fist and Satan tumbled out.

“My Randy Stokes. The killer of my family. My children. Millions of them.”

The Creator hugged Satan. His Archenemy struggled mightily to break free, but as the divine light enshrouded him, he became still. His host of demons, which had disappeared into the shadows, began warily re-emerging to see what was going on.

Through the viewfinder Zeke watched Satan becoming Lucifer again. He zoomed in on his face, capturing the transformation, waiting eagerly for the moment when the Lucifer that God had once loved would be fully returned.

But the moment never came. The Godlight encasing Satan became the familiar entity of light that was Lucifer, but when his Creator released him from the embrace, a trace of his Satanic pride and contempt still lingered.

The Creator saw it and spoke to him.

“You want to live in grace again, my son, but loathing so deeply ingrained will take a little longer to purge.” He turned to Zeke. “Perhaps you can set an example, Ezekiel.”

He extended his arms far out over the sea of fire and plucked two damned souls from the flaming swells. Retracting his arms, he set the burning entities down in front of Zeke.

Michael Price and Randy Stokes.

“Make your peace with this man,” He commanded them.

They looked at Lucifer, as if for guidance. He turned away, abandoning them.

They looked back at Zeke. Flames flickered around them like a burning shroud. The fire had burned away the sneering arrogance, leaving only naked shame.

Michael Price’s voice came from some hollow, soulless place. “We were wrong, Zeke. To do what we did. We put our faith in this coward, who goads you into doing what he himself will not do, and then repays you for your loyalty like this.”

“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?” Zeke said. “You both deserve this. Maybe Satan pushed you into it, but you opened the door and invited him in. You were his willing accomplices. More than willing. You were his devoted followers.”

“We were. And we’re paying for it.”

“As well you should. So what do you want now?”

“To say we’re sorry.”

“Truly sorry,” Stokes added, avoiding eye contact.

“Truly sorry,” Zeke said. “Two words. That’s all you have for me. My parents and my sister are lying in their graves, and two words are supposed to make everything all better? No. You’ve got to do better than ‘Oops, I made a little mistake.’”

Zeke looked at their bowed heads and felt nothing but contempt. Two pathetic, feeble-minded losers, who had all but destroyed him and everything he loved.

He looked up to the face of God.

“The wounds are still too fresh. I cannot forgive them now. Maybe ever.”

The Creator stared and waited.

“I have an idea,” Zeke said. “A suggestion.”

“I am listening.”

“Forgive me for being human, but they have not suffered nearly enough. A moment ago you said it will take more time to completely purge Lucifer of sin. At the same time, you’re ready to redeem all these souls and close down Hell. That’s fine, I’m all for it. But how about this: can we keep Purgatory open for a while? A place for the worst to atone for their sins, rather than get off scot free?”

The Creator shook his head.

“Purgatory is another of your man-made creations we must get past. There is no Purgatory. Only this. And this will soon be gone.”

“But if there are no consequences for wrongdoing, then people will do whatever they want, without worrying that it might cost them after death. Left to our own devices—free will—you’ve already pointed out how susceptible we are to temptation.”

“Thoughts of Hell never stopped the wrongdoers. Their punishment will be that which you mete out on Earth. If you bring about the world as it should be, there will be no need for punishment. In your prayer to me at the Shrine, you said, ‘No parables, Lord, no cryptograms we spend the next two thousand years slaughtering each other over, trying to figure out what they mean—who’s Chosen, who’s not. You need to break it down real simple for us. We’re not that smart.’”

“You were listening. And you have a good memory.”

“Photographic. Flawless. And watching thousands of years of your bottomless capacity for inflicting pain on one another has forced me to return. This is the second chance for the human race, Ezekiel. There will not be another.”

Zeke wanted to acknowledge the gravity of the moment, but realized anything he said would not only be feeble, but something He already knew. So he remained silent, his gaze shifting back and forth from the Creator of the Universe to his miniature image on the LCD screen.

“You were right in your prayer, Ezekiel. I did make the Path too complicated. So this time I am trying to simplify things for you. This time there are not Ten Commandments. There is only One:

“Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

A flush of satisfaction warmed Zeke. He already had the New Commandment on the wall of his gym. “The Golden Rule,” he said.

“As you have named it. Yes. I cannot make it any simpler. Get the world to follow that one rule, and all evil will disappear. There will be no need for churches, for organized religion. Your church will be your heart. There will be no need to memorize prayers. No need for elaborate rituals. No need for any of that. Simply talk to me, wherever you are. I will hear you.”

“I can testify to that.”

“That is exactly what I need you to do. Go forth and testify.”

“I will.”

“I know. But your heart is not yet pure. You still need the evil to suffer. It is why I created this place and banished Lucifer here. But his kingdom is at an end, and he shall reign no more. Love and forgiveness must now reign. Even a temporary Hell keeps hatred alive.”

The Creator paused as if mulling something over.

“Perhaps I can do something to soothe your troubled heart. You want the worst offenders to suffer longer. How much longer? And who are the worst? Especially down here, when there are so many.”

Zeke felt like Abraham bargaining with God to save Sodom and Gomorrah. He nodded toward Price and Stokes, their heads still hung in shame, convicted murderers waiting for their sentence.

“These two are the worst for me. Beyond that, Hitler immediately comes to mind. Stalin. Countless other dictators who slaughtered millions. The 9/11 hijackers, who tried to destroy the country my father fought for. And Satan, of course. Lucifer. Any others would be for you to decide.”

“And how long would be enough?”

“Until you felt they had truly repented, had truly paid for their sins.”

Before responding the Creator took a long moment to watch the battle going on inside Lucifer as Satan fought to regain possession of his soul. The former being of pure light was slowly turning darker. Finally convinced He did not yet need to intervene, the Creator turned back to Zeke.

“I have come this second time to put an end to damnation. The Harrowing of Hell cannot be rushed.” He gestured toward the struggle taking place beside him. “For when the purification of Lucifer is done, I must absolve each soul down here. Even though I never sleep, that shall take a while. But when I finish, there will be no more Hell.”

He nodded at Lucifer. “For thousands of years he has lured you down the path of wickedness, until humanity stands at the edge of the abyss between hope and despair. You want so desperately to choose the path of righteousness, but evil has prevailed for so long that you are ready to give in to despair.

“That abyss is the valley of decision. You must be the bridge across it, Ezekiel. The bridge to hope. You must spread the awakening until all minds are united in an unshakeable belief in the supreme truth that is at the core of your existence:

“Man is not born into sin. You are born good, not evil. I know, because I placed an eternal spark of holiness in each of you. It is stronger than Lucifer’s spark of evil. The voice of this godliness within is the one you must heed. Not the voice of this one.”

He looked at Lucifer. Considerably darker now, he stared back with contempt. “The time has come,” the Creator said to his first creation.

There was a note of mockery in the familiar gloating voice. “The time for what?”

“For Reconciliation. Of you and all those you led astray.”

“You are a dreamer. You always have been. Dreaming of a perfect paradise. You had one once, when it was just you in your Heaven. But then you begat me, and the dream became a nightmare. Your ‘bearer of light’ became the ‘bearer of nightmares.’ I do love irony.” Lucifer waited for a response, but the Creator merely looked at him with infinite patience, so he went on.

“Reconciliation. What your Catholics call Penance. I hope you’re not going to ask for an Act of Contrition, because I am not contrite. I feel no remorse. I am proud of my accomplishments.”

“Pride goeth before a fall, as you well know.”

“You had me outnumbered up there. Down here, in case you haven’t noticed, my recruiting program has been most successful. My legion has become quite large. Prepare for your own ‘Fall’.”

“I have my own legion, should they become needed.”

“They should.”

“We shall see,” the Creator said. “Whatever it takes, our long war shall at last be ended. But first I must finish my conversation with our guest.”

“Certainly. We wouldn’t want to be rude.”

The Creator turned his attention back to Zeke.

“It will take the rest of this earth year to finish here. The year you have numbered 2012. The year the Mayans, calling upon the wisdom of the first astronomer, Enoch, rightly predicted that the first epoch of Man would end. Their time of reckoning is that which Enoch spoke of in his scroll.

“The seven ages I promised to Man are coming to a close. If you are to survive, a new age must dawn. With Satan no longer here to mislead you, you must take charge of your destiny. You must decide once and for all to pursue only the path of righteousness. Continuing on the path of wickedness will only lead to your destruction.

“Ezekiel, in your prayer to me, you asked me to ‘break it down real simple for us. We’re not that smart.’

“I can make it no simpler than this: Choose right over wrong. Good over evil. Live by the Golden Rule. Your heart is your infallible guide to knowing these things. Listen to it and you will do no wrong.”

Through the viewfinder Zeke saw the Creator lean closer to look directly at him.

“As the Creator I knew this moment would come. The galactic forces surrounding your world do affect the human mind, and they will be aligned to have their maximum influence at the winter solstice. The collective awareness that the human race must reject evil forever will reach its peak. From the beginning I have ordained that golden moment. It will come only once.

“Seize that moment, Ezekiel. Go through that cosmic portal to spread the awakening. From the ashes of Armageddon lead humanity to a New World. A world without strife.

“I will be watching. The year 2013 will be your moment of truth. Consider it Year One of the New Age of Enlightenment. Continue on the path of wickedness, and it shall be your last.”

“Fair enough,” Zeke said.

“Then it is time to begin the Harrowing. You said you wanted to see your tormenters suffer longer. You were the Forerunner for me, Ezekiel, so I will do this for you.” He glanced toward Price and Stokes, who had been standing in the shadows throughout, as if undeserving of the light. Their faces remained downcast. “These two will be the last to leave. They will remain until the Harrowing is complete. That shall come at the next winter solstice. From that moment on, the fires of Hell will burn no more.”

“That is all anyone can ask.”

The Creator looked directly into the camera.

“Ezekiel is my messenger, but I speak to the whole human race now. Concern yourselves not with finding a God to love, or a Demon to fear. Put your faith in yourselves. In the godliness within you. Truly love and respect one another. Obey the One Commandment. The Golden Rule. All the effort you put into worshipping me—building places of worship, procuring the adornments and trappings of religion, all of that money, time, energy—use those resources instead to help yourselves. Feed and clothe one another. Alleviate suffering. Eliminate the evils on Earth, and you need not worry about the hereafter. For the wicked, there shall be none. For the righteous, it shall be glorious. You have my Word.”

“Amen,” Zeke said.

He put the camcorder away, closed the backpack and shrugged it onto his shoulders. The Creator picked him up and brought him close to his face.

“Now comes the true Harrowing. You know the meaning of the word?”

“Yes. I looked it up when I did my research. To inflict distress, torment.”

“It is also the preparing of soil for new crops.” He gazed at the dark figure standing a short distance away. “Time to beat these swords into ploughshares.”

The spirit of Satan had completely possessed Lucifer again. He stood with fists balled, the glowing hatred back on his face. “You underestimate me, Messiah. Let the Harrowing begin.”

“Be careful what you wish for, my son. I shall deal with you in a moment.”

“You shall deal with me now.”

Satan charged. The Creator swatted him aside with a backhand, but Satan quickly recovered and charged again. The two came together in a tight clinch, each trying to push the other backward. The Creator began to give ground, moving to Zeke’s left, toward the sea of fire. Was He luring Satan into a trap or actually being overpowered?

Zeke pulled the pistol from his waistband and clicked off the safety. As he pulled it up to fire at Satan, his attention was drawn to sounds of shuffling and scurrying to his right.

The demon tribe was on the move. It had grown to an alarming size.

How many were there? At least three dozen, but Zeke heard many more in the darkness beyond. There might be hundreds back there. Thousands.

He had however many bullets were left in this magazine and two more spares. Maybe seventy-five rounds.

The nearest creatures had formed a charging line. Zeke squeezed the trigger. Seconds later the magazine was empty and all but three of the monstrosities had fallen. They scampered toward him as he jammed in a fresh magazine. The trio of demons closed quickly and leapt at him. A short burst killed them in midair. One landed on Zeke and bounced off.

Another line was advancing quickly.

The roar from the Creator’s battle mingled with the screeching and howling of Satan’s demonic army to create a mind-numbing din.

Zeke was frantically trying to come up with a plan for when he ran out of ammunition—which would be soon—but it was hard to think with all the noise. The next skulking, skittering wave of miscreations was ten yards away and closing fast. Zeke hit them with a spray of bullets. The final one fell just as he fired the last round.

He shoved in the last magazine. Thirty-three rounds left.

More demons came forward, but didn’t charge. Instead they huddled together, gibbering as they looked at the carnage with alarm. Their screeching had died down to a low, sinister murmur. From their frantic gestures and glances, Zeke guessed they were devising a new method of attack. He used the time to back away and think.

Fifty yards to his left, the Creator and Satan were locked in a standoff, neither appearing to give an inch. Even though He had his hands full, at this point the Creator was Zeke’s only hope. He had promised He would be there for him when the moment of truth came. Zeke had to trust in that promise and get over there. He had no other options.

The demons had broken their huddle and were spreading out to surround him. There were dozens, and more kept coming. With his finger on the trigger of the pistol, Zeke started to run.

He had waited too long. The growing horde had fanned out to block his way. He stopped and pointed the gun, hoping to blast an opening.

Above the low roar of the demon tribe a sound made him take his finger off the trigger: the unmistakable pop-pop-pop of gunfire. Coming from somewhere behind the throng. The demons heard it too and froze, looking toward the sound.

They started to scatter but were apparently being driven back by the gunfire. Powerful beams of light bobbed through the darkness at either side of the screeching mob.

The gunfire got louder. One of the shooters along the right side emerged from the shadows.

Reese Nolan. Wearing a powerful headlamp, he was shredding demons with rounds from a large automatic rifle. Another shooter came into view at the left side of the quivering mass, doing the same thing.

Joe Dayagi.

Reese and Dayagi quickly took up positions in front of the terrified horde to block any further advance. Leah and Hassan came up to replace them along the flanks. All four carried what looked like the same model rifle and were ripping demons to shreds. Caught in a pincer, their only escape was to the rear. Zeke watched them fleeing into the darkness, doubtless to the caves and ledges where he had first seen them. A moment later all were either gone or dead.

A cloud of smoke and the acrid smell of gunfire hung in the air. Grisly chunks of demon carcass littered the ground. Guarding against the possibility that the creatures might make another charge, the Hell Squad kept their weapons aimed at the darkness while backing up to Zeke. Reese got there first, the others close behind.

Keeping his eyes on the darkness, Reese said, “What else are we up against here?”

“Satan. He’s over there. Going at it with God.”

Leah stared at him. “God?”

“That’s right. The Creator, He calls Himself. I’ll explain later.”

“Later,” Reese said. “Right now we need to reload.”

He took off his backpack and went down on one knee. The others followed suit, pulling fresh drum magazines from their packs. While they swapped them out Zeke quickly went to Leah and squeezed her shoulder. “I specifically told you all not to come down here. Thank God you’re not the type to blindly follow orders.”

Leah touched his hand for a second before going back to reloading. “We decided we’re the Hell Squad. This is where we belong. We put it to a vote. It was four to nothing.”

Zeke went to Reese. “These have to be those weapons you were talking about.” Reese nodded. “You said you struck out on these.”

“I did. But Mr. Dayagi here is very well-connected.”

They finished reloading, shrugged into their packs, and hefted their weapons into position. All eyes turned to Zeke.

“Time to bust a cap in your boy,” Reese said.

“How many rounds in each drum?”

“Thirty-two. Each of us has two more fresh ones. Our version of the wrath of God. If all that doesn’t at least slow him down, we’re in deep shit.”

Dayagi came over to Zeke, who was still holding the Uzi pistol. Dayagi pulled three fresh magazines for it from a zipper pocket. “I thought you might be running low. The bullets aren’t silver, but they can still do some damage.”

Zeke took the ammo, jammed one magazine into the pistol and the others into his pack. He gave Dayagi a thumbs up. “Hopefully the Creator has him under control and none of this matters. We’re his backup now. Let’s go.”

Before they could advance, a large burst of light came from that direction and was upon them. The light changed into the Creator. He released Satan from his fist. The silver crucifixes were sticking out of him again, immobilizing him. The Creator addressed the Hell Squad.

“Four more souls willing to sacrifice themselves to make the world a better place. More proof that the human race is worth saving.”

Satan was tugging weakly on one of the crucifixes. Finally he got it out and dropped it to the floor. He moved on to the next one.

The Creator continued to address the Hell Squad. “Use the spirit that brought you here to help Zeke on his mission above. Down here, your work is done.” He motioned toward Satan. “Mine is not. I underestimated him. The crucifixes will hold him for a while.”

“What do you need us to do?” Zeke asked.

“Go back to your world. Prepare for the darkness before the dawn. Lucifer has become the blackest sheep. He must be brought back into the fold. When that is done—and it shall be done—he will no longer be able to propagate his evil offspring. No longer will he be the root of all evil. Your task, and the task of the human race, will be to use your second chance to eradicate whatever evil has taken root in your hearts. Once that is done, the world can live in peace.”

Satan pulled out another crucifix. His hand went to another. Removing it took a little less time. His hand closed on another.

“We have all this firepower,” Zeke said. “It’s looking like now is the time to use it.”

“No. I have an army of angels if I need them, far more powerful than his. But in the end this fight is mine.

“It must come down to he and I alone. We started it. We must finish it.”

“But—”

“No. I must prove beyond all doubt that good is stronger than evil. I cannot leave behind a world where it takes guns to survive. It shames me that you live in a world where guns have become necessary. A world where those with the guns have the power, a power they use to enslave others, to frighten and maim and kill the innocent.

“No. When I finish here, there will be no need for guns. Only one power can prevail: the power of good. That starts now. I shall transport you safely back to your world, but first: Record this, Ezekiel, so there shall be no mistake.”

Zeke pulled the camcorder from his pack. The Creator stared into the camera.

“Spread the Word, Ezekiel. Love, forgiveness, and the One Commandment. Instill it in these”—he gestured at the Hell Squad, and Zeke panned the group—“your most trusted, and in all that you can. Show them the video.”

“I will. But you know how the human mind works, with the help of the media. I will be accused of faking this.”

“The video shall only be the next step in paving the way, in opening hearts and minds for my return. I shall appear soon. All doubt shall be cast aside. I shall not forsake you. Go now. It is time to for the Prince of Darkness to once again become the Bearer of Light. It will require some tough love and forgiveness.”

He closed his hand around the Hell Squad and extended his arm. In an instant they were back at the entrance to Hell. In the next instant they were hurtling through the tunnel beyond, as if transported by a bullet train made of white light. The tunnel walls rushing by gave a sense of impossible speed, yet they felt only the sensation of gently gliding through space. What seemed like only seconds later, they were released at the top of the slope, in the opening where the flat stretch began.

They lay for a moment, stunned. Gradually their senses returned until they realized where they were.

The ground trembled.

They whipped their heads around to see if something was coming after them. It was too dark to tell.

Another tremor.

“They’re working out their differences,” Zeke said. “Is everyone all right?”

Grunts and nods of affirmation all around as they got to their feet. Zeke noticed empty food wrappers and water bottles on the floor. “Where’s Mordecai?”

“On the boat, waiting for us,” Leah said. “He wanted to come, but we finally decided someone from the Hell Squad should stay up top to handle any emergencies. The rest of us came down here and camped out. At first we were just going to wait here, but I told them we weren’t leaving without you. Period.”

“How long was I gone?”

“You left on Tuesday. We came down and spent the night here. When you didn’t come back the next morning, I said the heck with that noise and we took a vote.”

“So today is…Thursday? The 20th?”

“Should be. Seems like it took us a day to get to you, but time might be different down there. Who knows? All I know is we’re alive.” Emotion rippled through her mask of resolve. “You’re alive.”

Zeke pulled her into a long, almost crushing embrace. Finally they tore themselves away from each other.

“I want to hug you all,” Zeke said, “but it’ll have to wait. We need to get out of here.”

They all looked at one another, the space between them so supercharged with emotion it actually seemed to vibrate.

A roar came from far below. The shock wave that followed knocked them off balance, dislodging rocks and dust from the ceiling.

“Yeah, let’s,” Reese said.

They moved along the flat passage, quickly reaching the far end where it descended into the water. Their diving gear, including an extra outfit for Zeke, had been neatly laid out.

“What happened down there?” Hassan asked as they hastily suited up.

“I’ll tell you all the whole story when we get back to base. And I’ll show you. I got a lot of it on video. By tomorrow the whole world will know. For now, I’ll just tell you the ending.”

He stopped dressing and made pointed eye contact. All eyes locked onto his.

Zeke felt an acute awareness that this was the moment he’d been born for.

“The Good Guy wins.”

CHAPTER 71

Dig Headquarters. December 21, 2012.

The next morning Zeke and Leah watched the live television report in their room. The newscaster was model-handsome, impeccably dressed in suit and tie. He gave a quick synopsis of the story, including the thorough process the network had used to “as much as humanly possible, at this point it time, verify the authenticity of the video you are about to see.”.

He finished his intro and the video began. The reporter made occasional voice-over comments for clarification.

It was all there: Hell, Satan, the Creator. As the video unfolded, Zeke began to realize the enormity of his challenge to convince the world it was real. He couldn’t wait to get started.

The video ended and the reporter came back on.

“That concludes our report on this historic event. From the moment we became aware of this phenomenal story, we have been working feverishly with networks around the world to get this groundbreaking news to as many people as possible as quickly as possible. For this initial broadcast, we estimate that a billion of you are watching. We will be having updates throughout the day, so please spread the word and stay tuned. This is Drake Winston, live from Jerusalem.”

Zeke clicked off the television.

“A billion people,” Leah said. “The way the word spreads in this day and age, with the Internet and all the social media, virtually everyone in the world will know by tonight.”

“Ironic,” Zeke said. “I’ve been calling television the Satan Box for years. Maybe this story can help reverse the bad karma the news has been spreading for years. That is if they don’t poison it with their usual cynicism, tearing it apart before it has a chance.”

“The digital serpent in the Garden of Eden,” Leah said.

“You got it.” Zeke glanced at the clock. “Come on. We’ve got to pull it together and get downstairs.”

The Hell Squad had agreed to meet privately in the War Room at nine to say their final goodbyes. When Zeke and Leah walked in a few minutes early, Mordecai, Reese, and Joe Dayagi were already there, having coffee.

“Hassan will be here any minute,” Mordecai said.

Zeke nodded. “Did you all see the news report?”

“We were just talking about it,” Reese said. “If your video doesn’t get people to behave, I don’t know what will.”

“We’ll see. They’re still debating the Zapruder film.”

Reese shook his head. “This isn’t the same. Your video is clear, and there’s a lot more of it. And no matter how much they check it out, they’ll see it was impossible to fake. Plus the Creator said He’d be coming to testify.”

“He did, didn’t He?” Zeke said.

Hassan walked up to the table with a frail older man they didn’t recognize.

“This is my father, ” Hassan said. “Tarik. Since he is the one who started all this, I wanted him to be here for the finish.”

“Started it?” Zeke said. “How?”

They sat and Hassan said, “Father, you tell it.”

Tarik looked at Zeke and Leah, sadness in his eyes.

“The scrolls you used to guide you on this journey. I am the Bedouin who discovered them and sold them to your priest.”

Everyone stared in stunned silence.

“I know,” Tarik said. “It seems impossible. But from the moment I found them, I knew they had a power. I felt its hand on my shoulder. When Hassan told me how you came to have them…and the sorrow they caused you and the priest…I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Zeke said.

“If I had done the right thing, brought the scrolls to my tribe instead of selling them to the priest, you never would have been involved. Instead you both had to pay for my sin.”

Zeke shook his head. “Tarik, what happened to us wasn’t your fault. The hand you felt was of a much greater power. You just put the wheel of destiny in motion. What happened after that was beyond your control. This had to be. And the final outcome is one for rejoicing, not regret.”

A glimmer of hope brightened the old man’s eyes.

“Forgive yourself, Tarik,” Leah said. She took Zeke’s hand and Tarik’s. “We do.”

“Thank you,” he said. “I will try. Perhaps now I can find peace.”

“Perhaps the world can find peace,” Zeke said. His words hung in the air until Mordecai finally spoke.

“I hate to rush us, but I need to start getting people to the airport. And since we are talking of peace…Zeke, I have something for you. It’s over by the door, so I can give it to you on the way out. Come, everyone.”

The group followed Mordecai into the hall. Just outside the door to the War Room a package wrapped in plain tissue paper rested on a small table. Mordecai picked it up and handed it to Zeke. He removed the wrapping to reveal an exquisitely handcrafted plaque. It took a moment for the significance of the inscription to sink in.

He smiled and gave Mordecai an appreciative nod.

“I had this made after Zeke decided to go down that final tunnel,” Mordecai said. “I think it will be especially appropriate now, because I just got off the phone with the Prime Minister. As soon as he saw the news report, he was on the phone trying to revive the peace talks. He and the Palestinians are going to—to use Zeke’s words—‘dust off’ the Oslo Accords and use them as the road map. Israel is going to buy this property, as a headquarters for those negotiations. This room will be where those talks take place.”

Zeke held the plaque up for all to see while Mordecai explained.

“This was made from an olive branch taken from a tree in Gethsemane. A very particular tree, the one where Hassan and I believe Judas hanged himself.”

After a moment of profound silence, Mordecai went on.

“Zeke, there are hooks on the door for you to hang the sign.”

With a slight flourish, Zeke eased the sign into place. Its beautifully engraved gold lettering now proclaimed the room’s new name to the world:

THE PEACE ROOM

They all admired it for a moment, then Zeke closed the door on the former War Room.

He left it unlocked.

BOOK SIX

CHAPTER 72

The West Bank of the Dead Sea

The Peace Room

2013

The Beginning.

About the Author

ROBERT RYAN

I was born and raised in the D.C. where tourists don’t go—a land of soul food and Scrapple.

We lived directly behind the neighborhood movie theater, and my mother took me to everything from the time I was barely out of diapers. When I reached the ripe old age of about six, I couldn’t wait for the Saturday creature features. Atomic mutants running amok, the monsters of Ray Harryhausen, Roger Corman’s Poe films, and the unabashed frightfests of William Castle were among the early influences that warped my writer’s muse into a breeding ground for—to borrow a line from the sci-fi classic Forbidden Planet—my “Monsters from the Id.” In Castle’s The Tingler, when Vincent Price told us all to scream because the Tingler was loose in the theater, you better believe I screamed. On the literary front I soon discovered Edgar Allan Poe, H.P. Lovecraft and Robert Bloch, among others, and followed the trail they blazed into the “ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.” It seems I have always been drawn to scary stories.

Here are a few highlights from the Cliff’s Notes version of my life:

In the late seventies I did standup comedy at fondly remembered El Brookman’s on Pennsylvania Avenue, one of the first comedy showcases in the country. In between thinking up jokes, I studied film and acting at the University of Maryland and wrote film criticism for the award-winning Diamondback.

Getting married was THE highlight of the ensuing years. Our careers took my wife and I to Florida, where I wrote book reviews for a literary magazine, recorded for an audiobook company, and acted in community theater. A definite highlight of the latter was playing Van Helsing in Dracula. For a horror aficionado like myself, particularly of old Universal classics, it was a thrill to say lines like: “This creature…is the terrible Vlad Dracul himself!” and Van Helsing’s delicious speech, when he steps through the curtain to warn the audience:

“When you get home tonight, and the lights have been turned out, and you are afraid to look behind the curtains, and you dread to see a face appear at the window—why, just pull yourself together, and remember that…after all…there are such things.”

2013: Beyond Armageddon is my fictional answer to the question that plagues us all when we consider the atrocities human beings inflict on one another: Why is there evil? Where does it come from?

This is my first novel. I hope you will find its journey interesting, and that you will return for more Tales from the Shadowland.

To find out more about Robert Ryan and his upcoming projects, please visit his website:

www.robertryanwriter.com