The Tenth Circle (9 page)

CROATOAN

CHAPTER 24

Blountstown, Florida

Jeremiah Rule was praying when the door to his ramshackle church, built with the hands and funds of his own parishioners, opened and closed just as quickly. Rule was conscious of a brief shaft of light, followed by the sound of quick footsteps coming his way.

“Colonel Turwell, you have a measured step, but your thoughts give you away.”

“Do they now?” said Turwell, stopping in the shaft of light streaming through the church skylight that leaked in bad storms. The sun slipped behind a cloud, the result being to make his cocoa-colored skin seem almost as dark as his black sport jacket worn over a black turtleneck. His neatly trimmed Afro was sprinkled with gray and he wore thin, wire-rimmed glasses. His chest looked overly large, its size further exaggerated by the fact that he held himself so far forward that it seemed pumped full of air. “And what about your thoughts? How are you holding up after this morning?”

“I pray for the brave souls who died in my service and protection.” Rule turned from where he was kneeling on the raised dais at the front of the church, covered in a thin carpet that was still damp and rancid after the last hard rain had soaked it.

“You mean
my
men, don’t you?”

“Who were serving me at the time. Who died for nothing less than devotion to the cause and my protection.”

“Sacrifices to a greater cause to which they gave their lives.”

“I wish no more to perish in service to me. I have the Lord to protect me, Colonel. If His plan is for the next attack to succeed, then so be it. I want your men gone. I will not have the peace of my sanctuary or my faithful disturbed by such distractions.”

“My job is to keep you safe, Reverend, so our plan can reach fruition, so the country can be saved. We’re just days from the finish now. You should keep that in mind.”

Rule had adopted Blountstown, nestled within Florida’s northern Panhandle, as his home because it felt right. He liked the fact that it was bracketed by water, rivers specifically, with the Chipola to the west and the Apalachicola to the east. So too it featured majestic limestone bluffs that he saw as sentinels standing brave and strong to ward off evil, to shield the town from the miseries of the outside world. Blountstown actually boasted its own rich history and tradition, including the Panhandle Pioneer Settlement, an impressive collection of original and replica structures featuring nineteenth-century log cabins, a farmhouse, and a school. There was also a working farm on the grounds that produced its own sugar cane and syrup. And the settlement’s annual quilt shows and peanut boils took Rule back to simpler times long before he’d kicked a dog and beaten a boy to death to complete his transformation and begin his true mission. So enamored was he by the settlement’s ambiance that he’d had his church constructed to jibe perfectly with the nearby settlement, its leaks, uneven flooring, and patchwork roof replicating olden times perhaps a bit too much.

Turwell took another step forward, stopping even with the front pews that wobbled a bit thanks to the church’s uneven settling.

“You lost men in Afghanistan, too,” Rule said, still not regarding him.

“As necessary then as it was today, Reverend.”

“Your superiors didn’t see it that way, though, did they, Colonel? You faced an Article Thirty-Two hearing and accepted what was termed a ‘non-judicial punishment’ once you agreed to resign your commission.”

Turwell came all the way around and stepped upon the dais, placing himself between Rule and the altar. “And are you without sin?”

“Any man who claims to be stands as a liar.”

“Three convictions for fraud,” Turwell continued, “taking money from your followers under false pretenses.”

Rule stiffened and finally met Turwell’s gaze. “I was a different man then.”

“Two, apparently, based upon the names under which you were convicted. I believe the second time involved you convincing the gravely ill to change you to the beneficiary of their life insurance policies in return for entrance into Heaven. That is what you promised them, isn’t it?”

“They were sorely in need of spiritual guidance, Colonel. I was doing the work of the Lord, following His word.”

“Just like I was doing the work of my country in Kandahar Province, Reverend.”

“The very work we are both doing today.”

“Then we are both imperfect men joined together by pursuit of the same goal. I’d recommend we leave things there.”

“It’s not that simple, Colonel. That’s what I wanted to talk with you about. I need to
see
.”

“See what?”

“The means by which we will inflict the tenth circle of Hell onto the world.”

Turwell stiffened just enough for Rule to notice. “That’s not your concern.”

“The Lord feels otherwise. He wishes to see the great weapon of change through His servant’s eyes. He instructs that I must
see
what I am praying for. He who has walked in the darkness has seen a great light. Show me that light, Colonel, or He may choose a new path for me, separate from the one you walk.”

“Tomorrow,” Turwell relented, “I’ll take you to see our weapon tomorrow.”

“Then leave me now,” Rule said, easing himself back into position of prayer before the altar, “so I may pray my eyes are ready for what they are to behold.”

Rule waited until he was sure Turwell was gone before rising and moving toward his private office placed at the church’s rear. “You can come out now,” he called. “It’s safe.”

Blountstown, Florida

The young woman who’d come to him at the Tampa service that very day emerged from his office, trembling with arms wrapped about herself.

“Come, child, let God warm you.”

Rule took her hand and led her up onto the altar with him. The dim overhead bulbs cast her face in a mixture of shadows and light that only added to her beauty. Her unwashed hair had turned stringy, smelling of must and oil, but still framed her face in a way that made her look sad and hopeful at the same time.

“I don’t know how to thank you, Reverend,” she said, lips quivering. “I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

“God’s house is home to all.”

“I converted to Islam to marry my husband, Reverend. I’m a traitor.”

“There are no traitors here, only those who seek His love.”

“Can you help me?”

“Only He can. I’m merely His vessel.”

“I could never leave the house without my head covered, like I was hiding myself, my true faith. How could I not see it, Reverend?”

Rule wrapped a tender arm around her shoulder. “Because you were deceived, my child. I shall call you Rachel, she too a victim of deception, as the Bible tells us, when she was supposed to marry Jacob. They are born deceivers, these people who welcomed you only to trick you into betraying your faith and God.”

She fell against him, hugging Rule tightly through her sobs, her tears dampening his shirt. “I did betray Him, I know I did!”

“You can still be saved, Rachel.”

She eased herself away from him, still clutching Rule by the elbows. “How, Reverend? I’ll do
anything
.”

“Your sin lies in your tongue, in the words you spoke against the Lord and your true faith. Salvation comes with a price.”

“I told you,
anything
! I’ll pay the price. Just tell me!”

“The object of your sin must be excised, sliced away so it can betray you no more.”

Rachel opened her mouth as if to speak, but no words emerged.

Rule extracted a knife from a sheath clipped to his belt and extended it out to her.

“Cut it out.”

Rachel took the knife, turned it around from one side to the other, watching the blade struggling to glint in the naked light of the church.

“Cut it out, my child.”

She looked back at Rule.

“Slice the tongue from your mouth, so it may never betray you again and find yourself welcomed back to the house of the Lord.”

He watched Rachel start the knife up slowly in a trembling hand.

“In pain there is salvation. In sacrifice there is hope.”

The knife stopped, then started again. She opened her mouth.

“I’m with you, Rachel. God is with you. Prove yourself to Him. Return to His graces.”

The tip of the blade disappeared between her lips, then the rest of it, the young woman’s eyes never leaving Rule’s.

He nodded placidly. Closed his eyes, then opened them. Nodded again. Giving her as much time as she needed, as much as time as it took.

The woman he’d named Rachel jerked the knife up and to the side.

The screaming began.

Point Pleasant Beach, New Jersey

“Right on time, Hank,” McCracken said, coming up alongside the man from Homeland Security, the wind blowing harder off the nearby water in the chilly early morning air.

Folsom shivered and took his gloved hands from the pockets of his topcoat. “Why here, McCracken? Why not just meet at the North Pole?”

“Because I didn’t want to bother Santa Claus. See, this used to be a nice town with good people, until Superstorm Sandy hit. Whole area’s been condemned now. Even the former residents are still prohibited from returning after all this time. Fitting, don’t you think?”

“Why?”

“Because they knew a storm was coming. It was inevitable. They just didn’t know when. Like what happened to me yesterday, getting set up to take the fall for trying to kill the Reverend Rule and gunning down four of his guards instead. I’m wondering if you were a part of that.”

“Is that the real reason why we’re here?”

“I’m still wondering, Hank.”

“I’m the least of your problems, McCracken. Even local law-enforcement agencies have access to sophisticated facial recognition software these days. And your face showed up in some places even I didn’t know about. Disney World, for example. And San Antonio just after what they still call the Second Battle of the Alamo. Colonial Williamsburg where you fought it out with those Omicron soldiers.”

“Right, the good old days …”

“This isn’t funny.”

“I’m not laughing. Andrew Ericson still hasn’t been found.”

McCracken started walking along what had been a beachfront promenade but was now a seldom-traveled, sand-covered path. Closer to the water, at what had been the shoreline, foundations and pilings were all that remained of buildings that had stood strong for decades. No one was about nearby and no one would be until the rebuilding effort reached this far down, if that ever came. The ravaged houses that still stood in varying forms were awaiting demolition and the burnt-out shells of several further down the shore had perished to gas fires that had burned out of control when impassable roads kept firefighters from responding.

“This Rule thing’s been your baby from the beginning, right, Hank? That was your man I found dead in the bus station.”

Folsom swallowed hard. “Chase Samuels. He had a wife and young son. He was thirty-three, a top undercover, who came over to Homeland from ATF.”

“Andrew Ericson, age fifteen. As close to real family as I’ve got. You want to continue swapping stories?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“I only met the kid once. If it wasn’t for Christmas cards, I wouldn’t even know what he looks like. Good thing I won’t have to identify the body, Hank, because he’s still alive. You hear me? He’s still alive.”

“I hear you,” Folsom said softly. “Just tell me what the next step is.”

“Word
Croatoan
mean anything to you?”

“Outside of the fact Chase Samuels left it as some kind of message for us, no.”

“A British relief party found it carved into a tree at the Roanoke Colony in the late sixteenth century,” McCracken told him, as the wind picked up again, whipping the sand into a funnel cloud.

“The one where all the settlers vanished?”

“The very same.”

“Sorry,” Folsom said, looking as flustered as he did anxious and frustrated. “I’ve never heard the word before today.”

“How about the other note in the crossword puzzle? Four-two-seven-one-F-H-one-two-one.”

“We’re still running it.”

“We?”

“Analysts. Bottom of the food chain, but the best Homeland’s got.”

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“This is already hard enough, McCracken.”

“I’m the one who’s the object of a manhunt, Hank, not you.”

Folsom stopped, eyes suddenly sweeping about the beach. “We’re not alone, are we?”

“What do you think?”

“I think maybe I shouldn’t have come.”

“Johnny and Sal are here for your own protection, Hank.”

“
My
protection?”

“In case somebody followed you here from Washington.”

“You were hoping that would be the case, weren’t you? You used me as bait.”

“I wanted someone to have a little chat with. Sal Belamo was an interrogator with the CIA for a stretch. Very old school. Likes to use pliers and power outlets. I was hoping to get the chance to see him work.”

“You think someone in Homeland is dirty?”

“I think that just begins to describe what we’re facing here. What went down in Mobile yesterday wasn’t the work of a backwoods preacher and neither was the security he had around him. Somebody’s backing the Reverend Rule, somebody who’s got him doing their bidding whether he realizes it or not. And since Homeland was the agency that sent me down there, you do the math.”

“So you’re blaming me.”

“Only for being stupid and running a lousy operation on Rule. My guess is they made your undercover sometime ago and were just stringing the two of you along. That’s why it’s been so long since he provided any actionable intelligence.”

Folsom looked suddenly wary, suspicious. “I never told you that.”

“You didn’t have to.” McCracken hesitated to let his point sink in. “You’re right, Rule’s a dangerous man, but he’s not acting alone, and I need to figure out who’s pulling his strings.”

Blaine heard Folsom’s smartphone buzz and watched him lift it from his pocket, the look on his face saying it all.

“What is it, Hank?”

Folsom’s face was blank, no expression or emotion whatsoever. “Looks like the people on that bridge in Missouri just got some more company.”