The Second Ship Read online

  “It wasn’t me.” said a voice from across the aisle.

  “What?” Mark asked, turning to look at the speaker.

  Roger Frederick, a bookish sophomore stared across the aisle of the bus at Mark, his hands raised in mock defense. “Whoever did something to make you mad, it wasn’t me,” Roger said.

  “What on Earth are you talking about?”

  “Well, the way you were scowling and popping your knuckles, I figured you were about to start cracking heads.”

  Mark laughed. “Just thinking about playing the Rockets tonight.”

  Roger pretended to wipe his brow. “Good. I wouldn’t want to be them then.”

  “Believe me, they won’t want to be themselves either, once we get done with them on the basketball court.”

  “Aren’t the district playoffs starting soon?”

  “Two weeks.”

  “Great. I’m looking forward to watching you play.”

  “Thanks.”

  The conversation was interrupted by the bus coming to a stop in front of the school. Jennifer and Heather came up beside Mark as he stepped off the bus.

  “What was all that about?” Jennifer asked. “I didn’t know you even knew Roger.”

  “I don’t. He just started talking to me for some reason. I actually didn’t think the nerd knew what basketball was. Apparently he’s a fan, though.”

  Heather patted him on the shoulder. “Wow. That must be exciting for you.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Oops, there’s Raul. I’ll see you guys in class.”

  Mark watched her walk across the steps and take Raul’s hand. Raul’s eyes briefly met his own, and although it was probably only his imagination, it seemed to Mark that Raul had smirked.

  “Hey,” said Jennifer, “you’re getting a little rough on pencils aren’t you?”

  Mark didn’t remember having taken the pencil from the side of his backpack, but apparently he had been carrying it. Now half of it lay on the ground at his feet, the other half having been crushed into small pieces in his hand.

  “Must have gotten a defective one,” said Mark. “I’ll grab another from my locker and meet you at class.”

  The tension Mark felt failed to abate as the school day progressed, leaving him feeling as if he were strapped to a medieval rack, each turn of the crank stretching him closer and closer to a snapping point. People around him sensed it and gave him a wide birth. Even Jennifer did her best to stay clear.

  As the bell announcing the end of the last class rang and Mark headed for the basketball team meeting, Heather came up to him in the hallway.

  “Good luck in the game tonight, Mark. Not that you need it.” Heather smiled, completely unaware of his foul mood.

  “I suppose you'll be watching with Raul tonight?” Mark didn’t know why he asked or even why he cared. But he did.

  “No, I’ll be sitting with Jennifer. Raul runs a private Bible study a couple of nights a week for some of the kids. Tonight is one of those nights.”

  Mark raised an eyebrow. “A private Bible study group?”

  Heather nodded. “Raul’s family is very religious, and I guess his miraculous cancer recovery made him even more so. Not surprising considering all he’s been through.”

  “If you say so.”

  Heather’s eyes suddenly narrowed. “Are you angry with me?”

  Mark bit his lip. “No. It’s not you. I just had a hard time sleeping last night so I’ve been grumpy today.”

  Heather’s smile returned. “Okay.”

  “Listen, I hate to run, but I can’t keep Coach waiting.”

  “All right. I’ll be cheering tonight from our regular spot. See you after the game.”

  With a wave of her hand, she disappeared into the crowd. For several seconds Mark stared after her, then turned on his heel and headed for the gym.

  From the doorway of the biology classroom, Raul Rodriguez watched him go.

  52

  Beyond the walls of the casita, an enclosed patio was all that separated the small guest quarters from the main house. The Rodriguez family had added the small apartment-style cottage to their house as a place for the nurse to stay, during that time when Raul had been on heavy-duty chemotherapy.

  Once it became clear that neither chemotherapy nor radiation therapy would save her son, Mrs. Rodriguez had removed the bedroom furniture and converted the main room of the casita into a small chapel, complete with a large altar at the far end. Even the windowpanes had been removed and replaced with stained glass.

  The walls were adorned with crosses—hundreds of them, in all shapes and sizes, each with a hanging Jesus nailed through the palms and feet, painted blood running from the wounds, head topped with a bloody crown of thorns.

  The altar at the back of the room had recently been removed to make room for a full-size wooden cross. This was a new addition, something Raul had insisted on. It leaned against the back wall at a forty-five degree angle, attached to a track so that it could be cranked up to stand vertically or inclined to a point where someone could lay across it.

  Along the walls, candles mounted on small shelves cast flickering shadows that crawled among the crosses like roaches skittering into cracks in the walls.

  Sitting on three benches that had been pushed all the way up against the wall sat four young men, all Los Alamos High School students, each of them at least a year older than Raul. Raul, clad in a long, white robe, stood at the head of the chapel, beside the inclined cross that jutted out across the room on its track. He signaled with a slight motion of his right hand, and one of the students rose to throw the deadbolt closed, securing the entrance against interruption.

  Raul spoke, his voice resonating with an underlying power and confidence that belied his age.

  “Welcome, my brothers. To the three of you who have already entered my service, I extend my blessing.” Raul inclined his head slightly toward the three students who sat on the bench to his right. Turning then to the boy who sat by himself on the center bench, Raul stepped forward.

  “And to the new aspirant, I say welcome. You have expressed a willingness to be released from the heavy bonds of worldly doubt, so that I may anoint you as one of the chosen. You desire to witness the miracle, so that you may know that I am come and that the end of times is at hand.”

  Raul paused in front of the young man. “Aspirant Roderick Bogan, rise now.”

  Rod Bogan stood. He was a senior, his heavy build having earned him years of ridicule from his classmates. That ridicule had taken a toll on his self-confidence, something for which he had tried to compensate by growing his blond hair long and by piercing his nose, eyebrows, tongue, and ears with prominent metal studs. But instead of looking tough, deep in his heart, Rod knew he just looked like a pathetic, fat loser.

  Rod also knew what brought him here. It was the changes he had seen in his three friends, who until recently were even bigger losers than he was. Then they had met Raul and been transformed.

  Not that they had become popular—far from it. Instead, they had found a heretofore unknown reservoir of inner strength and confidence, as if they knew something nobody else knew, something that made them superior.

  Rod wanted that knowledge. He wanted that confidence. Wanted it so badly he could taste it. But now, here in the strange half-light of this chapel of crosses, he felt anything but confident. When his friend Paul slammed the deadbolt shut, it was all Rod could do to keep from screaming.

  “Are you familiar with the book of Revelation?” Raul asked.

  Rod cleared his throat. “A little.”

  Raul smiled. “I am not here tonight to preach you a sermon. I will never preach at you. I will reveal something the book of Revelation promised would come. I will show you the face of God. Mankind is out of time. The end of days is at hand, and I have come to gather the faithful to me, in preparation for Armageddon.”

  Rod was confused. He glanced at his friends, but the light shining in their eyes matched
the intensity of Raul’s. With a shock, Rod realized they believed what Raul was saying. Unequivocally. Completely.

  Raul turned and lay back on the cross, his arms spread out along the crossbeam, palms out, his knees bent, his bare feet positioned one atop the other. Seeing Raul nod his head, the three others rose, Gregg Carter moving to Raul’s right hand, Jacob Harris to his left, and Sherman Wilkes kneeling by Raul’s ankles.

  Raul’s voice rang out clear as a bell in the semidarkness. “Kneel, that you may know that you are in the presence of the Lord.”

  Before Rod could move, each of his three friends pulled forth a six-inch-long spike. They positioned them over Raul’s outstretched hands and feet. In a ritualistic unison that could have been choreographed, three six-pound sledgehammers struck the spikes, driving them through skin and bone, pounding the metal deep into the thick wooden beams of the cross.

  Rod was frozen in place, too stunned to move. Again and again, the hammers rose and fell, pinning the hands to the cross, spiking one foot atop the other to the vertical beam. Blood seeped out around the thick spikes, congealing at a rate that was unnatural, and although Raul’s jaw clenched in pain, he did not cry out.

  Having finished the crucifixion, Jacob moved to the crank and began winding it, slowly pulling the cross along its track until it stood erect against the far wall.

  Rod stared in openmouthed wonder at the image of Raul dangling from the cross, the light of the dancing candle flames now jumping as if a sudden breeze had entered the room. Rod's legs lost their strength.

  As he fell to his knees on the chapel floor, Rod stared up at the crucified form above him.

  “My God.”

  Raul smiled down at him.

  “Yes, Roderick. I am.”

  53

  “So what is the report?”

  Jack spoke into his cell phone as he moved across the parking lot toward the far end of the shopping mall.

  “I’ve been monitoring home lines on all the scientists on the Rho Project.” Harold's voice on the far end was delayed and sounded slightly distorted, an annoying side effect of the encryption device. “Other than what is in the report I faxed you, we have nothing of great significance so far.”

  “What about Dr. Anatole? She was mentioned in the New Year’s Day Virus message.”

  “She’s a cold fish. Adheres to security procedures by the book. And forget about Stephenson. His phone calls consist of things like, ‘Get over to my office now.’ I’ve never heard someone less talkative on the phone.”

  “So you’re telling me we've got nothing? What about the bugs?”

  “If you mean the ones you planted in the McFarland and Smythe houses, there is the barest mention of some of the scientists calling for them to work weekends. They seem more excited by their kids' national science project than anything else.”

  “What project?”

  “Their kids have pooled their money, with help from both fathers, and are trying to build a home-sized cold fusion device.”

  “Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “Apparently not very. I did some checking, and several graduate students around the world are doing roughly the same thing. The papers on the subject are flying around the Internet.”

  “Odd for high school students, though, wouldn’t you say?”

  “In most places, yes. Not here in Los Alamos, though. Most of the parents have PhDs and work at the lab. Even the teachers are highly qualified. This school is first-rate.”

  “So we have nothing.”

  “I didn’t say that. We have nothing direct. However, I’ve been running some cross correlation algorithms against the recorded phone conversations of all of the scientists on the program.”

  “Yes?”

  “It looks like a small subset of them are working on something in a different wing of the Rho Project building.”

  “Let me guess. Nancy Anatole is one of the ones working in that section.”

  “Bingo.”

  “A bit thin. Anything else?”

  “One other thing. I ran a voice stress analyzer on every one of the recordings. The voice stress in the Anatole group is higher than the others, in every case.”

  “Who had the highest measurements?”

  “Dr. Anatole and Dr. Rodriguez.”

  “What about Stephenson?”

  “Cool as a cucumber. The man is completely calm and comfortable.”

  “So you think Rodriguez is in as deep as Dr. Anatole?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. He has some other reasons for stress. His son has been in and out of cancer treatment for the last several years.”

  “That would do it.”

  “One final thing, Jack.”

  “What?”

  “I think you can pretty much rule out Gil McFarland and Fred Smythe. No voice stress, and they’re not part of the Anatole grouping.”

  “That’s good to hear, although it’s what I expected. They seem to be just good, solid folks. Listen, I have to pick up Janet. Get back to me when you have something new.”

  “Wilco.”

  Jack flipped the cell phone cover shut and then, glancing quickly around, stepped into the Audi.

  54

  It was more than could be hoped for: a sunny, warm February morning after a night of fun with his extended houseguest. Priest Williams stretched his arms wide, letting the bright rays of the sun irradiate his naked body. The thin air of the high country provided little filtration, a fact that sent anyone concerned about cancer or premature aging scurrying for the SPF 45 sunblock, even in the midst of winter.

  Priest smiled. That was one of the many things he no longer had to worry about.

  Feeling his stomach rumble reminded him of one of the things he did need to attend to, though. Although he imagined that he could survive a very long time without food, it would not be pleasant. And his guest certainly needed to be fed if she was going to last as long as he wanted her to. That meant today was shopping day.

  Turning away from the sun, Priest stepped back through the doorway from his deck into the bedroom of his cabin, closing the sliding glass door behind him. As he headed toward the shower, he threw the Navajo rug over the closed trapdoor leading to the soundproof cellar below. Then, whistling the theme song to The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, he walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

  The drive into Los Alamos took a little over forty-five minutes in the truck, most of it a bone-rattling ride along the dirt road that led from his cabin back to the highway. By the time he pulled into the Safeway parking lot, noon was not far away.

  Priest’s tastes were not fancy. Steaks, burgers, fries, milk, cereal, coffee, beer, chips, and salsa. Throw in a couple of impulse items on the way back to the register, and he was done.

  Opening the tailgate, Priest quickly transferred the bags into the bed of the truck. Then, as he was about to slam the tailgate closed, he saw someone who caused him to move out of sight behind the passenger side of the vehicle.

  There, on the far side of the parking lot, just getting out of a red Audi Quattro, was Jack Gregory. Priest felt the hair along his neck, back, and arms stand straight up.

  “Jack, my boy,” Priest breathed. “Now what in the world is a heavy hitter like you doing in town?”

  Priest had run into Jack Gregory on three separate occasions. Once in the horn of Africa, once in Afghanistan, and the last time in Pakistan. Priest had never liked him, and the feeling was mutual. Still, there was one thing to be said for Jack. He was the deadliest man Priest had ever run into, perhaps the only one who could handle someone like Abdul Aziz without the special augmentation Priest now enjoyed.

  Priest clenched his teeth so hard they threatened to crack. With a deep breath, he forced himself to relax. As much as he owed Jack personally for what he had done to Priest in Pakistan, that would have to be put on hold. Dr. Stephenson would certainly want to know about Jacky boy's presence here.

  Priest keyed in the speed-dial number for Stephenson an
d was reaching for the send button when he saw her. The woman was strikingly beautiful. Tall. Athletic. She moved with all the grace of a dancer right up to Jack Gregory, wrapped her arms around his neck, and gave him a kiss that elevated Priest's heart rate just watching it. She slid into the passenger seat of the Audi, and Jack closed her door behind her.

  Suddenly Jack paused and raised his head, almost like an animal catching a strange scent on the wind. Priest ducked back behind the truck. No doubt about it. That bastard was dangerous.

  After several seconds, Jack got into the Audi and drove away. Priest watched the car disappear around the bend and then stepped out from behind his truck once again.

  Who was the hot little number with Jack? Without a doubt, she was an operative, and if she was teamed with Jack, that meant she was one of the best.

  The last time Priest had met Jack, it had ended badly, with Priest's body broken in so many places he had barely survived. Jack did not like being double-crossed. But now, Priest was not the same man. Now he had a little surprise in store for his old acquaintance.

  “I think I’d like to get to know that little gal of yours, Jacky boy,” he murmured.

  But Dr. Stephenson would not like him playing with the pretty secret agent girl. Priest stared at the cell phone for several seconds before flipping it closed and pocketing it.

  What Dr. Donald Stephenson didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

  55

  Diving into the stands after a basketball tended to be painful. In this case, thirteen stitches worth of pain.

  Mark stared in the bathroom mirror, looking at the swelling just above his left eyebrow. The doctor said he would have a small scar, but that was about it. As Mark stared at it, he thought it might actually come out looking rather cool.

  The audience reaction had been great. He grinned as he thought about it. The game was winding down through the last thirty seconds before halftime, and Jerry Clark had thrown him a long breakaway pass that missed. Still, Mark had managed to get a hand on it and deflect it back to his teammates before crashing headlong into the bleachers. He immediately clawed his way back to his feet and was headed for the court when several hands grabbed him. That was when Mark noticed the blood. Even shallow wounds to the forehead tended to bleed like a stuck pig, and this one was no exception. The coach told him to lie down on the court, and by the time someone rushed over with a towel to put some direct pressure on the cut, his eye sockets had filled with blood.