Kiss of the Sun (19 page)

Jarrell looked around, then pulled out the map of the cave and studied it. “The exit is supposed to be that way,” he said, pointing his light to where the stream disappeared into darkness. “Looks like we have to crawl along the streambed to get there. Think you can handle that?”

Martha nodded, and he took her hand and led her down a slight slope into the chilly water. The stream was deeper than it looked, and it flowed around Martha's shins as they waded toward the stone culvert, Jarrell pointing his light ahead of them.

They soon left the relatively open space of the igloo-like chamber behind, and the ceiling of the stream passage arched overhead. Martha could hear splashing water somewhere ahead of them.

They went on toward the sound, and the stream got deeper and the ceiling lower, until they were wading along at a crouch, Jarrell with the penlight in one hand and steadying his backpack with the other as it scraped the low-slung rock overhead. The frigid water was up to Martha's chest. The splashing ahead of them had gotten louder and was creating ripples in the water.

“Wait,” Jarrell said, and shone the penlight ahead. The roof of the passage drew down even lower, until there was a gap of no more than a few inches between the ceiling and the water.

“Should we turn back?” Martha asked. Her voice sounded hollow in the small space.

“I'm sure this is the way that was indicated on the cave map,” Jarrell said. “Wait here for just a second and let me see what's ahead.”

He went on until his face was half submerged and Martha saw something else flash in the darkness ahead, a glint, and then he returned.

“Come on,” Jarrell said. “There is a ladder ahead. It must lead out.”

He took her hand and pulled her forward through the icy water until it touched her chin and wet her hair. They came to a spot where a stream of water was pouring from a large opening through the roof of the passage, as though someone had mounted a showerhead in the vertical chasm above them. Jarrell shone his light up into the chimney-like space, and Martha could see the aluminum rungs of a ladder leading upward into darkness.

“Grab hold of this,” Jarrell shouted above the noise of the falling water, and guided her hand to the rungs. He ascended first, the water streaming off his body, mixing with the cascade of drops from above. Martha grabbed the rail with her hand, found a lower rung down below the surface with her foot, and pulled herself up and out of the water.

They climbed upward through a darkness that was filled with the hollow sound of falling water, past the place in the vertical wall from which the waterfall was issuing. The ladder kept going, ascending through a drier space, then through a square opening, like a skylight. But there was no sky above, no stars, only more darkness.

Jarrell climbed through the opening, then reached down to help Martha through. She stepped up and onto a smooth, flat surface. It felt like cement.

She looked around, cold, dripping, blinking the water out of her eyes. There were small points of light in the dark.

There was a click, and then a bank of lights came on overhead, blinding Martha with the sudden brightness. She put one hand in front of her eyes and grasped Jarrell's shoulder with the other, glancing through the spaces between her fingers. She turned and, struggling to focus her eyes in the shock of the light, saw two figures stepping toward them. Turning to look behind them, she saw only gray concrete walls. She blinked again and the first figure began to come into focus—a stocky man with a square face in a navy blazer and a thin tie. Then the second figure, also in a suit. It was him again, tall, bald, and pale as a candle. He held an automatic weapon.

Martha gasped. There was no place to go—they were in a square cement bunker with one corridor leading out, and the two men stood in front of it.

The stocky man held his hands folded in front of his stomach, smiling, looking at them as they stood there dripping on the cement. “Congratulations,” he said. “You made it.”

“Made it where?” Jarrell said, wiping water out of his eyes.

“Into the preserve. Mr. Erringer can't wait to see you.”

The stocky man took a step forward. His square face was craggy, and he had a scar on his chin. He grabbed Jarrell's backpack by the handle on top and pulled it away from them, sliding it over next to the wall. “You guys packing any weapons? Hidden knives, waterproof pistols, et cetera?” His voice had a touch of gravel in it.

“No,” Jarrell said. “What about you?”

The man grinned, exposing a set of large, evenly spaced teeth. He lifted the lapel of his jacket to reveal the shoulder strap and the butt of a pistol. “Only my Armatix iP1 smart pistol. Now, arms up, if you don't mind. Just a quick pat-down. Only a formality.”

He gave them each a cursory frisk, then escorted them into a corridor and to the doors of a service elevator. Martha scanned the backlit brass panel. The lowest level was UG, which she guessed stood for “underground.” Above it were G, 1, 2, 3, and R. The man punched 2, and the doors slid shut. Martha felt herself shivering under her wet clothes.
Just get out. Find a way to get Jarrell out of here—

“Where are you taking us?” Jarrell asked.

“We've got a couple of rooms where you can get cleaned up, put on some fresh duds.”

“And then what?”

“Then I'll give you a tour, which will be followed by a reception. After that, Mr. Erringer would like to see you both. He's been waiting for you. My name's Briggs, by the way. And this is Mr. Borchard.” The albino man, wearing sunglasses again, gave them a slight nod. Briggs extended his hand, but Jarrell didn't take it.

“What if we don't care to see Mr. Erringer?”

“Isn't that why you came here? Because you wanted to talk to Conrad?”

The elevator doors slid open to reveal a brightly lit, ornate hallway with shining walnut floors and a runner carpet, blood red. There was marble statuary along the walls and gilt molding that lined the edge of the curved ceiling. Their sneakers squelched and left wet footprints as they walked. They passed fine Renaissance paintings, antiques, and a medieval tapestry that depicted a violent battle scene—phalanxes of helmeted men on horseback with drawn swords clashing as buildings burned in the background. They turned a corner and stood between two tall lacquered doorways with crystal doorknobs.

“Here you are,” Briggs said, opening the doors to either side. “The lady gets the west suite, and for the gentleman, the east.” He looked at his watch. “You'll find dry clothes in the armoire. I'll see you again in a half hour.”

Martha met Jarrell's eyes. His expression was a mixture of concern and curiosity. He then turned to go into his room. Martha followed suit, and Briggs closed the door behind her. She heard a deadbolt slide and click.

She surveyed the room, folding her arms across her wet chest. The chamber was large and opulent, with a canopied bed and a sitting area with a French-style sofa, end tables, and a wingback chair. A tall mahogany armoire stood against one wall. A window was covered with heavy green drapes that rose from floor to ceiling. She pulled the curtains open slightly and saw that they were on the second floor, overlooking a courtyard. The mansion was U-shaped, and beyond the shingled roofline, she could see outbuildings and a lighted pole at the perimeter of the compound, illuminating a tall chain-link fence. Beyond that, she could make out the dark, undulating backbone of the Appalachian foothills, limned by moonlight.

She opened the door to the wardrobe and saw expensively tailored clothing on hangers. She could smell the cave mud on her clothes and was starting to shiver harder as she turned to look through the open doorway of an adjacent room. Through it she could see a marble bathroom with gold-plated fixtures.

After her bath, Martha picked out the plainest outfit she could find from the wardrobe, sat in the armchair, and focused her mind on what was most important now, the only thing that really mattered: getting Jarrell away from here. To outwit fate, to pour sand in the gears of the cosmic clockwork that seemed determined to move them inexorably toward the cataclysm she had glimpsed in her vision. For the moment, at least, her voices had receded, allowing her to think more clearly. Perhaps it was the cold shock of the cave river, or maybe it was just being near Jarrell again. Like the island itself, his presence seemed to have a mystical power to silence her voices, dispel her demons, and calm the storms in her head. She shut her eyes and placed her fingertips on the windowsill. She pictured Lady Albertha, tried to imagine the aromas of the conjure shop, the sweet smell of her pipe smoke. The old woman's last words came back to her in memory, an echo from the dream:
He needs you, and you need him.

Martha heard the deadbolt slide outside the bedroom door, then a knock. She opened the door and Briggs stood there, with Jarrell next to him. There was also a lean young man with dark brown eyes and razored hair. He wore a pistol in a shoulder holster. Tattoos wound down both of his muscled arms.

“This is Eduardo,” Briggs said. “He's one of our newest recruits.” Eduardo gave them a slight nod. He had a mustache of the sort you might see on a Mexican
bandolero.
“He's going to show you a few highlights of the compound before you meet with Mr. Erringer. How does that sound?”

“Thanks very much for the hospitality,” Jarrell said, “but what we'd most like to see is the exit.”

“What's the big hurry?” Eduardo said. “You worked so very hard to get here. Besides, Mr. Erringer has a proposition for you.”

“A proposition?” Jarrell folded his arms.

“Yeah. But first, the tour. Come with me.” He led them down the hallway and around the corner to the top of a grand staircase of polished wood with a deep red carpet. The staircase had two sections that merged halfway down into a wider middle section, above which hung an enormous crystal chandelier. Martha stood at the handrail and looked down into an expansive, curving marble foyer. Inlaid in the center was a design that caused her heart to jump toward her throat. It was that now-familiar emblem: a black disk surrounded by gold points, and in the center, a pair of triangles that met at the apex. The eclipse.

She gripped Jarrell's shoulder and pointed, but he was already looking down at this sight.

“Nice foyer, right?” Eduardo said. “Some of the best stuff is on the basement level. Follow me.”

They went downstairs and turned into another hallway that extended off the foyer. They passed a series of old paintings in gilt frames—scenes of war, the faces of imposing men from centuries past rendered in age-darkened pigment. Through one doorway Martha glimpsed a row of billiard tables furnished in blood-red felt, and through another, a library lined with bookshelves that reached the ceiling.

They came to an elevator lobby and Eduardo pushed the down button. Martha discreetly sized him up, this one man assigned to guard them. He carried a gun, but he didn't even have it drawn. He looked strong enough, but he was shorter than Jarrell. If he wasn't armed, Jarrell could take him, she thought. Then they could make a run for it. But it would be dangerous.
What if…

The elevator car arrived and they dropped one floor, to level G. “Right this way,” Eduardo said, and they followed him down a corridor that was more contemporary in style, with dark wallpaper and maple trim.

“Some of the Organization's training facilities are down here,” Eduardo said.

“Training for what?” Jarrell asked.

“It depends on what you need to do.” He paused at a metal door, opened it, and turned on the lights to reveal a long room with light gray walls that resembled a bowling alley. There was a line of booths with windows. Beyond the windows, a line of paper sheets with black silhouettes hung from a cord. “Indoor shooting range,” Eduardo said. He closed the door, and they went on down the corridor and reached a pair of double metal doors labeled
GARAGE.

“Wait'll you see what's in here,” Eduardo told them. He led them through the metal doorway into a dark space that smelled of petroleum. He then turned and thumbed several switches in a panel on the wall. Huge banks of lights came on in the ceiling, revealing a cavernous warehouse. The room housed extravagant vehicles—sports cars, motorcycles, and at one end, a small private jet. There was an enormous rolling door at the far end, and next to it, a metal door with a metal push bar and the word
EXIT
above in illuminated green letters.

About twenty feet above the floor was a balcony that ran around the perimeter of the warehouse. A suspended steel catwalk spanned the center, connecting the opposite sides.

Martha heard a cooing overhead and glimpsed a flutter of motion near the curved steel girders that supported the ceiling.

“Fucking pigeons,” Eduardo said, looking up. “They shit on everything. Anyway, here's the collection.” He turned to Jarrell. “You like cars, right?”

Jarrell folded his arms and glared at Eduardo. “What do you know about what I like and don't like?”

“Oh, you'd be surprised how much information we have.”

“Why information about us?” Jarrell asked.

“You'll know soon enough.” He turned and led them across the floor, past the gleaming vehicles. “Anyway, over here we've got the first production Bugatti Veyron. Right over there, the last Ferrari Enzo—number four hundred, which was a gift to Pope John Paul II from former Ferrari chairman Luca Cordero di Montezemolo.”

Eduardo put his hand on the handlebar of a bulky motorcycle that resembled a giant silver engine on wheels. “Ever see a Dodge Tomahawk? This baby weighs fifteen hundred pounds, but it moves like the wind. Three hundred miles per hour. It could outrun a nuclear blast.”

“Awesome. Mind if we give it a test ride?” Jarrell asked.

Eduardo gave him a smirk. “Maybe that can be arranged. After you see Mr. Erringer.”

He opened the gull-wing door to a bright yellow Lamborghini. Martha could smell the expensive leather upholstery. “Want to sit behind the wheel of a rocket?”

Jarrell stood with his arms folded, his eyes not straying from Eduardo's face. Martha's eyes fixed on the doorway marked
EXIT
, calculating the distance they would have to cover to reach it.

“What's wrong?” Eduardo said. “You're not enjoying the tour?”

“It's all right. I'm just not accustomed to having a guide who carries a pistol under his armpit.”

Eduardo shrugged, then reached inside his jacket. “What, this little thing?”

Martha felt her muscles tensing as he unholstered the gun, which looked futuristic to her—all hardened steel and gleaming silver accents. A magazine protruded at least an inch from the butt.

“Piece of art, right? Here, you can hold it.” Eduardo took the gun by the muzzle and extended the butt toward Jarrell.

Jarrell looked down at the gun, then back at Eduardo.

“It's okay. Just take it.”

Jarrell accepted the gun by the handle, hefted it. Martha glanced around the warehouse. She could see no one else, but she noticed opaque glass bubbles mounted along the ceiling at regular intervals. Surveillance cameras.

“Tight piece of engineering, that,” Eduardo said. “Laser guided. Accurate within two inches of point of aim at twenty yards. Right now it's loaded with seventeen rounds. But it'll also take the Glock eighteen. Thirty-one rounds of firepower in the palm of your hand. If this baby doesn't stop the zombie hordes, I don't know what would.”

“Never mind zombies,” Jarrell said. “What if I decided just to take care of you?” He pointed the gun at Eduardo.

Martha felt an acid sting of dread. Be careful, Jarrell
.
Oh God…be careful.

Eduardo grinned. He turned toward Martha. “You're familiar with the idea of a smartphone, right? Well, this gun knows me. There's a biometric sensor in the handle.”

Jarrell cocked his head slightly, looking down the gun's sight.

“Try it,” Eduardo said. He stepped in front of Jarrell, held his hands up. “The safety is off. Go on, try to plug me.”

Jarrell pointed the gun, and a tiny, pinpoint laser dot appeared on the center of Eduardo's shirt. Eduardo put his hands on his hips and gazed at Jarrell, smiling.

“Go ahead, pull the trigger.”

Jarrell moved the ruby dot slightly up and to the left, placing it directly over Eduardo's heart, and squeezed. The gun gave a soft click and a red LED on the top flickered.

“See how that works?” Eduardo held out his hand.

Jarrell locked eyes with him. “What if I were to decide to hang on to this?”

Eduardo gave a short nod up toward the balcony. A wiry man had appeared up there, looking down at them. “Nah. Nothing is ever that simple, you know?”

Jarrell handed the gun back, and Eduardo reached under his coat and pulled out a silencer, which he locked onto the muzzle with a click. Then he held his left arm perpendicular to the floor and placed the hand with the gun on top. He looked through the site and took aim at a pigeon that was perched on an I-beam that spanned the ceiling. Martha could see the ruby dot of the laser against the small gray form. Eduardo squeezed the trigger. The gun made a muffled crack that echoed against the warehouse walls. The pigeon released a strangled noise and dropped.

“It's a pretty nice piece of work, am I right?” Eduardo holstered the weapon.

“Impressive. Thank you for the tour. Maybe this would be a good time for us to leave.”

Eduardo shook his head. “One thing you need to know about the Organization is that it's a one-way door. It's like that old song: You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave.”

Eduardo led them back to the first floor and down the corridor that led past the library and the billiard room. He paused and glanced at his watch. “We've got a few minutes left before the meeting. Anything else in particular you'd like to see?”

“Do you play?” Jarrell said, giving a nod toward the billiard room.