“Certainly, she’s physically healthy,” Aboud concurred half-heartedly. “Might I ask why you specifically singled her out?”
Metcalf looked guiltily over his shoulder as if he believed he was being overheard by some invisible presence. He resumed his seat and leaned over his desk. “What I am about to tell you is confidential, doctor.”
“That goes without saying,” Aboud reassured him. “Your secrets are safe with me.”
The old man hesitated, his eyes darting toward the door. “Annabeth is afflicted. She is beyond help.”
“I see,” the doctor murmured gravely. If Metcalf was proposing to use Aboud’s bacteria as a form of euthanasia, pneumonic plague could hardly be called a merciful kind of death. “From what disease is she suffering?”
“The disease of spiritual corruption. She is a witch. Like all witches she has bowed down to Satan and rebelled against the righteous authority of God,” Metcalf replied flatly.
Aboud had to struggle not to register shock. “Really?” he asked blandly, trying to keep a look of contempt from crossing his face.
Metcalf was lost in his own thoughts and barely noticed the doctor’s disdainful reaction. “She is the principal wife of my son Daniel. He will inherit the title of diviner from me one day.”
This bit of news shocked Aboud even more. “So, she’s your daughter-in-law?” he asked in amazement. “A member of your own family?”
“Why should that surprise you?” Metcalf retorted. “Satan can corrupt any vessel he chooses. In fact, those nearest to me are his preferred targets. He’s already spirited away my youngest wife, Hannah.”
“But sir, surely something can be done to help your daughter-in-law short of...” He paused trying to clarify the danger. “You do realize that I’ve perfected a strain of bacteria that is impervious to all known antibiotic treatments. I haven’t devised an antidote yet. If she is exposed to it, the results will be fatal. There is no turning back.”
“Of course,” Metcalf agreed. “I don’t see the difficulty. She has merited that fate. Exodus is very clear on the subject: ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’”
“Actually, I’ve heard that’s a mistranslation,” the doctor corrected mildly. “A more accurate interpretation would be: ‘Thou shalt not suffer a poisoner to live.’ Given my line of work, I found that bit of trivia amusing.”
“What!” Metcalf roared. “Do you presume to quote scripture to me?”
“No, sir.” Aboud immediately realized his error and back-pedaled. “That’s your unquestioned area of expertise as biological warfare is mine. But as I am an expert on the subject of toxins, I feel compelled to point out that pneumonic plague is not a pretty way to die. The bacteria ravages the lungs so that the test subject is left coughing up blood and gasping for breath. Every inhalation brings with it searing pain until death itself seems a kinder alternative than struggling to capture one more excruciating breath of life. Each time I shorten the incubation phase of the plague germs, I intensify the misery of my test subjects. They succumb more quickly but much more painfully.”
His words failed to make any impression on the old man. Metcalf stared at him stonily. “There is divine justice at work here. A woman who is weak-willed enough to allow Satan to seduce her deserves some punishment in this world in exchange for a reward in the next.”
Aboud held no particular spiritual beliefs, but he couldn’t help feeling unnerved at the readiness of his benefactor to kill a physically healthy young woman for no better reason than a superstitious dread of witchcraft. He opened his mouth to protest, but Metcalf cut him off.
“God has spoken to me. He has said that blood restitution is required of Annabeth. If she pays with her life, He will pardon her heinous offenses and allow her to enter the kingdom of heaven. She will receive peace everlasting.”
When the doctor continued to gaze at him blankly, he elaborated. “Don’t you understand? Her death must be painful. The more agonizing, the better. How else is she to atone for her many sins and be forgiven?”
In the face of such a ludicrous question, Aboud merely said, “I don’t know, sir.”
“Well, of course, you don’t!” Metcalf exclaimed. “God doesn’t speak to you. He speaks only to me. I am his prophet.”
“Yes, sir,” the doctor assented mildly, not wishing to antagonize the old lunatic any further. “When may I expect my new test subject to be delivered?”
“In a few days. I’ll phone you in advance when she’s about to be transported.”
“The usual spot?”
“Yes. You may send your driver to the pick-up point when I give the word.”
“Very good,” Aboud agreed unenthusiastically, rising to go.
His guide unobtrusively reappeared to show him the way out. They walked in silence, Aboud musing all the while on the strange conversation he’d just had. Over the years, his work had brought him into contact with dictators, power-hungry generals, impoverished revolutionaries and directionless anarchists. He had witnessed many atrocities and caused more than a few of them himself. But never in his long professional career had he ever been caught in the crossfire between the forces of heaven and hell. Not for the first time since he entered Abraham Metcalf’s employ, he found himself wondering where it all would end.
Chapter 45—Dead-End Street
Erik wiped a trickle of sweat off his forehead and glanced up at the noonday sun. It was way too hot for mid-October. He’d been standing in the same spot since 8 AM wondering if this was the day he would officially die of boredom. He’d managed to fast talk his way into a job as a flag man with a construction crew that was paving a stretch of access road leading from the Nephilim’s secret lab to an intersecting county highway. All day long, he held a reversible sign that read “Stop” or “Slow” to regulate traffic around the road work. Of course, he was the only one who knew there was an underground lab at the
