Below their feet, Roman stone floors reminded them with each footfall of the persecution they would face, should they too soon make known their teachings and practices, should they step forth into the light without the Son of God clearly beside them.
At the moment, however, they felt a collective and profound disappointment. It proved so deep that for some time they in sum felt a sense of loss: loss of direction, loss of identity, loss of purpose, loss of rationale, loss of meaning, loss of self and God. All they had done, they had done in the name of Christ for the greater glory of God. So why had they failed?
“It's a test, a cosmic quiz, my friends. Not unlike God to create His own brand of dark humor, now is it? His design, we cannot know, cannot ever hope to touch or so much as stand near. He is inscrutable, the enigma of all enigmas, a mystery within a mystery within a mystery added to a grand mystery more complex than any puzzle mankind can ever hope to piece together. There we shall not attempt. There we shall not go. We know only what His Son gave us in His word. That He would send His Son once again to purge this horrid world we ourselves have created, purge it of all the evil, all the ugliness, all the inhumanity, and all the humanity required to cleanse this Earth.”
The leader wore the heavy ancient robes of the early church, something one might expect to see dangling from a wax dummy in the historical fashion section of the Victoria and Albert Museum. The heavy vestments, dark and grim, gave their leader the image of large and powerful shoulders, a straight and tall appearance, and a solidness he would not otherwise have had. The coat made him appear stout and oaken, wooden like the huge cross beside him. “We must not fail. To give in to despair now is certain to lead to failure, assuring that the Second Coming simply will not be in this millennium, and then what is mankind left with but another thousand years of darkness and ruin? We must not lose sight of our collective will and purpose.”
“But we've sent four innocent people over. We've crucified the wrong people. We've made mistakes fourfold!” replied the most vocal of the followers. An Iranian named Kahilli who had brought Burton, one of his patients, and more of the Brevital they required.
“None are innocent, and all who went before our final choice went as sacrifices to a greater good. Burnt offerings, you might say,” countered their leader from on high at his enormous oak pulpit, where he stood above them all.
“Their sins washed clean,” muttered another of the fold, a weak old woman.
“When do we make our next selection?” asked another elderly female.
“Soon, very soon, this temple shall come into the light, and soon, very soon, a new history of mankind will begin and this world will never be the same after…” replied their leader where he stood in the hidden cathedral where stagnant water stood unmoving like a snake without life.
One of their fold, no longer with them now, had once asked where the water came from. No one could tell him. Then he asked where the water might be leading to. No one could tell him this, either. But their minister had assured him that what must be most important is the here and the now of a thing, that their concern must be on the small strip of water in their temple, and not its source or its confluence. “God grants us but one view of the whole,” their leader had said to the wayward member whose questions seemed never ending-until he was silenced altogether.
Others in the fold recalled those questions now, because a sudden rumble and gurgle and bubble below the surface of the water rose up, and the silent strip of green liquid, like ancient lacing around a giant Christmas package, rippled and belched almost on cue to what their minister spoke.
“It is time,” their leader pronounced. “It is time to select a fifth Chosen One.”
FIFTEEN
Evil creates labyrinthine power, layer upon layer, and begins to weave bonds of dominion over its followers, creating a web of monstrosity from acceptance.
Richard's hangover had him in the bathroom, praying to the porcelain god, while Jessica, sympathetic but exhausted with her own headache, tried to recall just how many pubs they had crawled to and from the night before. Sharpe had been in a foul mood, and his anger and sullenness came out in this manner-drink and everything else be damned. But he proved to be fun and even hilarious when, in a crowded pub, he drunkeniy and loudly explained the game of cricket to all “foreign-bom immigrants and tourists.” Climbing onto a bar and bellowing out the explanadon of the game, he had said, “It's all quite simple, really! You have two sides, one out in the field, one in. Do you understand so far? Good!”
“So far, yes,” volunteered someone from the crowd.
Richard continued, adding with a flourish, “Each man on the side that's in goes out, and when he's out, he comes in, and the next man goes in, undl he's out. When they're all out, the side that's been out in the field now comes in-they come in, you see? And the side that's been in goes out to try to get out those coming in. If, however, the side that goes in declares, then you get men still in, not out. Then, when both sides have been in and out, including not outs, twice, that's the end of the match. Now do you comprehend?”
The crowd, Jessica included, roared while Sharpe shouted, “What? Don't you get it now? Shall I explain again?”
“No, no!” Jessica had pleaded.
She had watched Richard Sharpe put away an amazing amount of booze, his mood and the occasion calling for it. She had once been there herself. She sympathized with his need to wash the images of the victims, whom he feared to let down, from his brain.
Jessica had come with Richard to his home, a chalet-bungalow, basically a one-story house with an extra room in the eave-space. The exterior brickwork recommended it as a pleasant place, but the interior felt as dark and cramped as a cave.
Jessica feared her friend and lover was on the edge and teetering there. She knew she could not count herself a friend, if she failed to talk to him about it. These thoughts bombarded her now to the chorus of his nausea.
When Richard emerged, his eyes shone bright, his smile pervading the room. He showed not the least sign of injury or suffering, but rather appeared refreshed. A mask, a disguise, she thought.
“Richard, are you aware you are an alcoholic?” she asked point-blank.
His response came out as a hefty laugh, and he asked, “Are you the least hungry? My cupboard is near bare, but I have some breakfast cereal, some breads, a handful of eggs. Do you care for an omelet?”
“I don't think I could eat right now, no. And I don't know how on Earth you could. No, thank you.”
“1 hope you won't mind if I throw something together for myself.”
“After what I just heard? You must have a cast-iron stomach.”
“Speaking of which, I am given to understand you are pursuing a lead regarding coal and dung?”
“Dung and beetle, but how did you learn of that?”
“You forget. I am an inspector with Scoutand Yard. I know how to get people to talk,” he said with a smile. Then he freely added, “Heard you took a resounding ribbing from Schuller on the topic.”
“Is nothing sacred?”
“Not in questions of murder, no.”
She nodded, knowing this old truth of seeking the truth. “All right, yes, I've got the lab looking at any and every minute clue we have. The fact her hands, even after the water soaking, had the coal dust in them, got me to wondering, and it all tickled Dr. Schuller's funny bone.”
“And rightly so, my dear Jessica.”
“But suppose she and all of the victims were kept hostage somewhere before their being crucified, and suppose it was an underground someplace where coal abounds?”
He gave this a moment's thought, and brought his shoulders up before he replied, “England and London in particular are dotted with old coal mines, but only a handful are still in operation. Most have gone under.”
