“Isn’t it a little obvious, though?” asked Rudy. “I mean … if these are separate groups and if they are as secret as they’re supposed to be, then how do they know so much about each other? How can the Inner Circle know so much about the terrorist cells working with the Kings that they can feed reliable tips to Mr. Church?”
“A double agent,” suggested Circe.
“Or they managed to plant someone inside the Kings,” Auntie ventured.
“No,” decided Circe. “It’s too pat. If the Inner Circle wanted the Kings torn down, then they could just as easily pass that information along within channels. The Bonesmen are supposed to be wired into every level of government. Going outside their own network is an unnecessary risk.”
“Right,” agreed Rudy. “A letter with no return address would accomplish the same thing.”
“Doc’s right,” Dietrich agreed. “It’s either showing off, or it’s clumsy—”
“Or it’s misdirection,” finished Circe. “Don’t forget the Goddess and her posts. It’s all about misdirection.”
“Sorry to interrupt, guys, but you got to see this,” said Bug. He hit some buttons and suddenly we were looking at Wolf Blitzer. The feed cut in mid-sentence. “—rocked the foundations of power as four scions of powerful American families died under what can only be called ‘suspicious circumstances.’ Sources at the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta have not yet declared this to be an outbreak, and so far no one else who was in the company of the four victims has become sick. Even so, each site has been quarantined and—”
Aunt Sallie snapped her fingers at Bug. “Shit! Pull up a list of known members of the Skull and Bones.”
“On it.” The list flashed onto a second screen. Bug scrolled through the names, highlighting them as he went. Harrington, Milhaus … one, two, three, four. “Oh, man … they’re all on the list.”
“They’re Inner Circle,” Auntie said. “Those four are power players, and two of them for sure are Inner Circle. My guess is that all of them are.”
“Dios mio,” breathed Rudy. He put his hand on Circe’s arm. “You know what we’re seeing here?”
We all knew, but Circe put it in words: “The deaths of the firstborn.”
Rudy actually crossed himself.
“There’s been a fifth death,” interrupted Bug. “Just came in. Jessica St. Stevens, daughter of—”
“Congressman Pierce St. Stevens,” said Church. “I know him. Close friend of Dick Cheney. Jess is his only child. She’s estranged from her father. Works for Doctors Without Borders.”
Auntie gave a derisive snort. “No fucking way she’s tied into her dad’s politics.” She snapped her fingers at Bug. “Make sure you pull the names of anyone
Bug worked furiously and more names began appearing on the main screens and that was quickly followed by biographical data and then contact information.
“No time to get this out to the local authorities,” growled Church. “We need to act now.”
We all grabbed phones and began making calls. The team leaders from the other DMS shops did the same. Within ten minutes we had three hundred people making calls to families, police departments, the Centers for Disease Control, hospitals, the National Institutes of Health, and a dozen federal agencies. It was a nightmare of urgency, and as we worked reports kept coming in. Six victims. Then it jumped to a nine. A dozen. We kept at it. Fifteen victims. Sixteen.
“Are we too late?” Dietrich asked. “There must be hundreds of Bonesmen. Are all of their firstborn kids being targeted? Or just the children of the Inner Circle?”
“No way to know,” snapped Church. “Call everyone. Go beyond the Inner Circle.”
The night ground on. Our calls were met with skepticism and hostility by those people suspected of being in the Inner Circle. None of them denied it. At least none of those who answered the phone in voices that were broken by sobs or screams.
The ordinary Bonesmen were shocked and angry. Most of them didn’t believe it. Not surprising, but also not helpful. A lot of people hung up on us.
Some of these people were past presidents. Many of them were generals, corporate CEOs, billionaires. Their combined might could crush even the DMS. And since many of them did not know about the Seven Kings or believe in them, we were the ones bearing the bad news, so a lot of genuine rage was directed at us. Mr. Church got a call from the President, who had gotten over thirty calls from members of Congress and colleagues of such political importance that their calls got through to him without red-tape hindrance.
Between calls I caught a fragment of Church’s side of that conversation.
“—yes, Mr. President, I believe that we can call this a terrorist attack. However, I don’t think we should say so to the press. A statement to that effect would be exactly what the Seven Kings need—”
Just after midnight we got word of the twenty-first victim. The latest victim had been a fourteen-year-old boy at a military academy. He had collapsed and died during a Christmas party.
God Almighty.
Twenty-one.
By two in the morning we had exhausted all of the numbers Bug could find, but there had not been a new case reported. We made hundreds of follow-up calls.
Three A.M. came and went.
“I think it’s over,” said Rudy. He was bleary-eyed and gray with pain and fatigue. For the last hour he’d been covertly popping Advil like they were M&M’S.
“Still only twenty-one,” said Bug.
Circe gave him a bleak and haunted stare. “‘Only’?”
Church sat back and rubbed his eyes. Even he looked exhausted.
“Now what?” asked Dietrich.
“Now we have to monitor this,” said Aunt Sallie. “We need to keep ahead of it in case there’s another wave.”
“Do we even know the cause of death?” I asked. “Is this a plague? Poisoning? I mean … no one else at each of the murder scenes was reported with symptoms … .”
“We know the cause of death,” said Circe, her dark eyes filled with strange light. “It’ll be mycotoxicoses.”
Church leaned forward. “And how exactly would you know that?”
Interlude Forty-two
The State Correctional Institute at Graterford
Graterford, Pennsylvania
December 19, 8:42 P.M. EST
Nicodemus lay on his cot, fingers laced behind his head, ankles crossed, and stared at the shadows on the ceiling. The warden had ordered everything removed from his cell. He had no books, no writing paper or pencils, no TV. All that had been left for him was a single sheet, a thin blanket of rough wool, a pillow, and a roll of toilet paper.
It was enough for him.
Nicodemus did not need to be entertained. He did not need to read, not even the Bible. There was no one that he wanted to talk to, no diversion that he required. He had everything that he needed.
It was all there inside his head. In his thoughts. As clear as if he heard it outside his cell. As clear as if
He lay for hour after delicious hour, smiling a small and secret smile to himself. Listening to the screams of the dying.
