The 731 Legacy (27 page)

His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, his lips void of color. She touched his forehead. "Jesus Christ, you're burning up." Her eyes caught a quick glimpse of pink in the sink and toilet.

Suddenly, he bent forward, covered his mouth with one hand, held his chest with the other, and coughed—a deep rumbling cough. Then he collapsed.

OFFSPRING

Cotten and the Georgetown University Medical Center's infectious disease specialist stood outside John's hospital room.

"Has Cardinal Tyler been around any exotic animals?" the doctor said, peering over the top of his glasses. "More specifically primates? Chimps?

Monkeys? Gorillas?"

142

"No. Nothing like that" she said.

"Maybe visiting a mission in a remote area of Africa?"

Cotten shook her head. "He was recently in Eastern Europe, but there aren't any of those kinds of exotic animals where he was. What are you getting at?"

The doctor tapped his pen on the metal clipboard that held John's chart.

"What we believe is that this is some type of hemorrhagic virus—"

"Like Ebola," she said.

"Right. Typically, these types of viruses are transmitted by contact, though we don't know the natural reservoir, or origin of how they first appear in a human outbreak. They are believed to be zoonotic, animal borne, and from then on transmitted by contact with blood or secretions or objects that have become contaminated. But Cardinal Tyler's case is somewhat of an enigma. It doesn't appear he has transmitted the disease to anyone. To tell you the truth, I'm not quite sure what we're dealing with here."

"What's the prognosis?" she asked.

"Not good, I'm afraid. We don't have any experience with this particular disease. We haven't been able to identify it. We can only surmise that because of the likeness in symptoms to Ebola, this disease will run the same or similar course. But we can't say for certain."

"People survive Ebola," Cotten said.

"True." He glanced at the clipboard.

She read his grave expression. "But it has a high fatality rate, correct?"

"Yes."

"What are you doing for him? You've got to do something." Her voice was sharp and rising.

"About all we can do is keep his fluids balanced, watch his electrolytes, oxygen levels, and blood pressure. Mostly just support therapy."

"What about an antibiotic? Can't you give him—"

"Antibiotics are not effective against viruses, only bacterial infections." The specialist pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I'm really sorry, Ms. Stone. But I promise you we are doing all we can."

***

Cotten sat on the couch in the visitor's lounge. She stared blankly at an empty Styrofoam cup someone had left behind.

Hospitals all had that distinct mixed antiseptic and medicine smell, an odor Cotten associated with death. She hadn't really taken notice of those smells or what they conjured in her mind until after her mother's stint and eventual death in the hospital. And hadn't she heard somewhere that smell is the sense most profoundly tied to memory? And those memories provoked by smell are the most emotional laden? She felt positive that was true.

Emotionally and physically exhausted, Cotten hoped she could catch a few

143

moment's sleep. She lay down on the couch, her mind spinning. It didn't take long for her to realize it was useless to try to sleep, knowing that John was just down the hall dying. Because of her. The Fallen's signature was all over this. John had been singled out as a target. She was sure of it.

She'd fought them before and won. Or at least thought she had prevailed—that goodness had prevailed. John was the goodness. Not her. Her heart pumped the blood of her father. It didn't matter that her father had repented. He was not human. And neither was she. At least not completely.

Cotten squeezed her eyes at the sting of tears and sat up. She needed fresh air. The odor of the hospital and the thoughts of John's condition, her father's legacy, and her mother's death—it was all too much.

She pulled her coat on and headed to the lobby and out the doors into the night.

The cold, fresh air hit her like a slap, and it felt good, not cluttered with sour smells and troubling memories and dark thoughts. Cotten breathed in a deep lungful and let it out slowly as she walked away from the hospital entrance. A few moments later, she stopped and stared up at the stars. "Haven't I done what you've wanted? Haven't I suffered enough for my father? I didn't ask to be conceived or come into this world. If life is a miracle, then everything that's happened is all your doing. Why are you punishing me? How can a compassionate, loving God... What else do you want from me?"

Her anger and frustration raged inside like torrid winds. "Maybe I have turned to the wrong—"

Cotten sobbed into her hands. "Why? Why?" Finally, she smeared the tears from her cheeks and wiped her nose with a tissue from her coat pocket. She stretched out her arms and turned in a circle. "I give up. You win!" she shouted, not knowing exactly to whom she called. Had God won or had the Fallen? She just wanted an answer, for someone to hear her pleas, and she didn't care who.

Finally spent, her energy purged, her will broken, she felt barren, like some empty husk.

The sudden chime of her cell startled her. Cotten shoved her hand in her pocket and pulled out her phone. Without even looking at the caller ID, she flipped it open. "This is Cotten."

The voice on the other end made her recoil.

THE OFFERING

"Daughter of Furmiel?" said the voice on the phone.

Cotten held the cell to her ear, unable to speak. She felt weak and lightheaded. Finally, she formed the words, "Yes."

"You do remember me, don't you? It has not been that long."

She tried to swallow but her mouth was suddenly Sahara dry. His voice

144

was easily identifiable. She'd heard it before. It was the voice of her immortal enemy, the Son of the Dawn.

"What do you want?" Her words sounded feeble and unsteady to her.

"What do I always want? I want what is good for you."

"No, you don't. You are what my father rejected."

"I am your family now. No matter how much you try to dismiss it, ignore it, pretend it is not true, you and I share the same bloodline. And I take care of my family. You are not meant to be just of this world. You have special gifts and privileges because of your father." He sighed. "It is regrettable that Furmiel was so weak. He could not take losing Paradise. No adaptation skills. And when his God did him such agreat favor, he could not handle mortality. You, on the other hand, have proved yourself strong under the most pressing conditions. I am proud that you are part of my family."

"I'm not your family," she said with conviction. "My father repented and was forgiven."

"Oh, he repented all right. But do you think he was really forgiven? God played a cruel trick on your father. Do you not see that? Furmiel gave up his immortality. He surrendered your twin sister at birth, and promised you to Him. Your father did not even give you a choice. Did God take care of you? Did God make the drought end and save your family's farm?"

There was a pause, then the Old Man lowered his voice. "I do not understand humans. They believe that God is all-powerful, and so many worship Him without question. Doesn't logic follow that if God is all-powerful, then who do you think brought about the drought to begin with that threw Furmiel into a downward spiral? If He loves Man so, why does He allow pain and suffering?

That just does not make sense to me."

Cotten felt as if she were loosing her balance, that her knees were giving way. "Leave me alone. Don't do this to me."

"I would have left you alone, but I know you are hurting right now, that you are tormented and distressed. It pains me to know that. I care about you. And I still believe that deep in your father's heart he would want me to come to you now. He would want me to help you in any way that I could. He would want me to relieve you of this anguish. Family members do that for one another. No questions asked. No hesitations. No matter past feuds. Daughter of Furmiel, I can help you. Will you not at least listen to what I have to say?"

Cotten didn't want to listen. She wasn't in the right frame of mind to argue or agree with anything, no matter what he offered. Her mind was too frayed. "I've got to go. Don't contact me again."

"Slow down. Take a deep breath. Do that for me."

"Please, leave me alone. Just leave me alone."

"You need to hear what I have to tell you."

The voice seemed to echo, as if coming from the cell and from behind her. She turned around to see a figure emerge from the darkness to stand only a few feet away, his frame now backlit by the distant hospital lights. Cotten

145

lowered her phone and closed it.

"Why have you come? What do you want?" she asked.

The Old Man smiled. "You are confused. You have it all wrong."

"What are you talking about?"

"I came because you asked."

Cotten glared at him, shaking her head.

"I do notwant anything," he said. "It was you who called out for help."

He paused while Cotten struggled to make the connection.

"Just a minute ago you cried out for answers. And who listened?" He stepped closer. "God?" His expression was that of a caring and consoling grandfather. "Look at me. I am the one who has come to your aid. Not God. You have had enough, have you not? Your cup runneth over."

Cotten tried to look away but was held transfixed.

"I never turn my back on one of my own."

"My father was what you call family," she said. "But not me. And he gave that up."

"It destroyed him. God did not come to his rescue, did He? The drought—

the loss of the farm—was the last straw for your father.

Furmiel finally felt the only way to end his suffering was to take his own life. First, he deserted me and the rest of his brothers and sisters, and then he did the same thing to you and your mother. Left you to fend for yourselves. You cannot compare yourself to him. The only part of him that resides in you is his blood. And that bonds you forever with me. You are Nephilim, and your God cannot change that."

"I don't know what I am. Half of this, half of that."

"If you would only acknowledge the truth, a great peace would settle over you. You would not have this turmoil. You are trying to live a lie."

The Old Man peered into her eyes. "You are a renowned journalist by choice and Nephilim by birth. I can make good use of those characteristics. But first, for your own protection, you must travel to a place that is safe. I want you to go to North Korea. Once there, I will start you on a journey that will bring you great fame and raise your stature to that of the global voice of a new world that is about to become reality."

"I don't need fame," Cotten said, wondering why he didn't think she was aware of the Korean connection to Black Needles? And what did he mean by referring to her own protection. "So why would I want to do that?"

"In the coming days, few places on earth will be safe. Despite your ties to me, you are not immune to the danger of the sickness that is about to strike so many. I always protect my family, and I want you to be in a place that is safe and secure. The second reason is that North Korea is about to become a world power whose dominance will be undeniable. You are destined to play a part in my future plans. I want you safely at my side to tell the world the story of

North Korea's great leader. It will be your first assignment in a long list of opportunities I will provide you."

146

"Assignment? I haven't agreed to anything. I don't even know what it is I'm agreeing to. And even if I did, I don't think I'm interested."

The Old Man smiled. "I have a peace offering."

Cotten looked confused. "What do you mean?"

"If youcome home, be who you really are, you will be pleased with your reward."

"You aren't hearing me. Money and fame don't matter to me. You should know that by now."

"Money and fame are not what I offer, although you will find those are waiting for you, as well. No, I offer something much, more precious."

Cotten gave a smug smile. "I can't imagine how you can offer me anything that would make me happy."

The Old Man raised a brow. "I offer you the priest's life."

DEATHWATCH

Cotten stopped beside the Venatori agent posted outside John's room on the fourth-floor isolation ward of the hospital. "Any change?" she asked as she put on the protective gown over her street clothes.

He shook his head.

Cotten stared at all the precaution signs posted on the door, then put the mask over her nose and mouth, and pulled on the gloves. When she entered the room she gently pushed the door almost closed, leaving a crack wide enough to allow a slice of light to come in from the hall. She stood overcome by the reality.

Deathwatch.

She sat in a chair next to the bed and glanced at the monitor recording John's respiration and heartbeat, then at the IV pole on which hung several bags, slowly dripping their contents into his arm. She knew it was a futile attempt to save his life.

Cotten removed her mask, gambling on the fact that Black Needles could not be transmitted from one victim to another. John must have been specifically targeted by one of the bombers—a ploy to bring her to her knees. And if she was wrong and could contract the disease from him, it would already be inside her.

Hemorrhagic viruses set off such red alerts that sometimes she thought the medical profession couldn't see the forest for the trees. This was no typical virus, not Ebola or Marburg. This one had not naturally evolved. It was orchestrated. Why weren't they concentrating on the obvious? None of the documented cases indicated that this mysterious virus was contagious. The only exception was onboard thePitcairn. None of those exposed to Calderon at SNN, and not even Jimmy Franks who lived with Jeff Calderon had become sick. No,

147

this virus was like a handcrafted bullet with someone's name etched on it. And one of the bullets bore John's name.