There was a tree growing in the center of the room.
But not just any tree; it was a young version of the Tree of Knowledge.
“Is that what I think it is?” Remy asked, noticing that the sapling was hooked up to all manner of machines, rooted not in soil, but in some sort of clear fluid.
“It is,” Malachi answered. “Grown from a single seed from the fruit of the original. The Sons had it in their possession for countless millennia, never realizing the potential it carried.”
The elder had approached the platform, studying the growing tree with a scrutinizing eye.
“Multiple lifetimes have gone by as we tended the sapling, hoping that someday it might provide for us answers to the questions that have haunted the first of humanity, and his offspring.”
Remy could see that a single piece of fruit hung from the spindly branch. He remembered the actual Tree, and the overabundant bounty of life that dangled fat and ripe from its branches, and this wasn’t even close.
“Seems unhealthy,” the detective commented.
“We’re lucky that it looks this well,” Jon said. “It took close to fifty years to find the proper nutrient solution to feed the tree, and even that is a far second to the soil of Paradise.”
Malachi stood close to the tree and reached out, his fingers wrapping around the body of the single piece of fruit. “But our time has finally run its course,” the elder ominously said as his grip tightened, and he gave the fruit a sharp tug, separating it from its branch.
Jon audibly gasped as the elder’s hand came away from the tree holding the sickly growth, presenting it to him.
“And now we must find the answers.”
Jon carefully took the piece of fruit from Malachi’s hand and brought it to a table in the corner of the room. He placed it on a metal tray, clicked on an overhead light, and removed a pair of rubber gloves from a box nearby. Like a doctor prepping for surgery, he slipped them on with a snap.
Malachi came to stand beside him as they both watched.
Jon grabbed a scalpel and, holding the body of the fruit in one hand, began to cut away the thick skin.
“And what are we doing here?” Remy asked.
“The tough, leathery skin must first be cut away,” the elder explained as they continued to watch Jon work. “To reach the tender fruit beneath . . . as well as the answers hidden there.”
Jon had peeled away all the skin, and had separated it to one side of the metal tray. The skin was very thick, reminding Remy of a deflated football. The fruit that remained was small, looking a bit like a peeled grape.
“We’re ready,” Jon said, looking up from his work, a serious expression upon his face.
“I’m guessing that somebody is going to be eating that,” Remy commented.
“You are correct,” the elder angel answered. “And, sadly, it will likely be the last thing he ever consumes.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The Garden. It was all about the Garden.
The creature that had called himself Bob hung in the cold vacuum of space, watching as the Earth spun languidly below him.
It was all coming back.
Slowly. Very slowly . . . in jagged, razor-sharp pieces that cut into his mind, memories oozing from the wounds like the flow of blood.
Bob saw the images they formed before him, but he could not yet understand.
Random images that held no meaning.
But they shared a common theme.
The Garden.
Bob held tightly to the memory of that sacred place. And as he floated in the void, he could see similar places on the world below, jungles vibrant with color and life of every conceivable size and shape, but nothing like the Garden.
Something of dire importance had brought him to this place, something that could endanger the Garden.
And Heaven beyond.
Bob suddenly saw the earth of Paradise churning and bubbling like water as something writhed beneath it, and then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by the image of another: one like himself.
A servant of Heaven, a blade made from the light of the divine in his hand.
“This is for the good of us all,” the brother of Heaven said as he stepped forward, his knife flashing seductively just before . . .
Bob’s mind was afire; he screamed noiselessly in the black expanse of space—the pain as real as if it were happening at the moment.
But it was all just a memory.
Eventually the pain subsided, and he found himself still floating in the void above the Earth. His multiple sets of eyes were fixated on the blue planet, and he knew that the reason he still existed was to be found beneath him.
The angel—yes, he knew what he was now—believed it to be only a matter of time before all was revealed to him.
He had to have patience.
And the perseverance to see the mission—whatever it may be—through to the end.
The angel Bob floated in the darkness of space, watching the Earth below him.
Waiting for a sign.
Hell
The Hellion pounced with a gurgling growl.
Francis felt its razor-sharp claws flex on the flesh of his back as he struggled beneath the Hell beast’s weight. Saliva like acid rained down upon his skin, and he knew it was only a matter of minutes before his spine was torn out when he felt the warm breath of the Hellion on the nape of his neck.
“Do it,” Francis hissed, too weak to do anything but await oblivion as he ended his life as Hellion Chow.
He felt the beast tense, its claws digging deeply into his back as it let loose a sound that reminded Francis of the screech of breaks on a rain-slicked highway.
It was the sound of doom, and this time he was on the receiving end.
He lay there, waiting for the feel of powerful jaws closing around his neck, and the savage shake that would sever his spine.
But it didn’t come.
“No!” a mysterious voice suddenly commanded. “Off!”
And after a moment’s hesitation, Francis felt the weight of the monster leave his aching back. The Hellion wasn’t happy in the least; he could hear it growling somewhere to the left of him.
Francis mustered his strength and, maneuvering onto his side, managed to pull himself around to face the back of the cave.
And his mysterious savior.
He prepared to say thanks, but the words became lodged in his throat as he beheld the raggedy figure standing in the opening to the farthest reaches of the cave, the snarling Hellion by its side. His robes were dirty, tattered, and torn, his long, grimy white hair pulled back into a crude ponytail, and his full beard was equally filthy. But Francis could feel the energy—the divinity—radiating from him; there was no mistaking that this was an angel of incredible power.
Francis studied the angel’s face, searching for something that would spark a moment of familiarity, finding nothing.
“Did you really think I dragged your carcass across the shifting Hellscape and up a mountain face into this cave, and then dressed your wounds, only to feed you to my beast?” the mysterious angel asked, a twinkle of madness in his black, bottomless eyes.
“Thank—,” Francis began, his voice nothing more than a dry croak.
“No,” the angel interrupted, continuing his rant. “I’ve been waiting too long for you to arrive, to just let you die.” He shuffled toward Francis, the Hell beast loping obediently by his side.
For the first time he could remember, Francis was speechless. “I don’t—” He started to cough, the dust and dirt from the transforming hellish landscape outside choking his voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he finally managed.
The angel reached down and grabbed his throat in a powerful grip, lifting Francis from the floor of the cave.
“Of course you don’t,” the angel said, holding him aloft with one hand, while the other searched for something in the folds of his filthy vestments.
Francis squirmed in the
angel’s grasp, finding it ever harder to breathe as his feet danced in the air just above the ground.
“If you did, you wouldn’t be trying to thank me,” the angel continued, as he pulled out a delicate knife of light and plunged its glowing tip straight through Francis’s forehead.
The former Guardian angel beheld a curtain of darkness, the last of the angel’s words cryptically echoing through the halls of oblivion before the silence.
“You’d be cursing me with your last breath.”
Miles carefully approached the exposed wall, sniffing at the strange, archaic writing.
“Get away from that!” Fernita cried out.
The animal froze, looking at her with wide, fear-filled eyes, before scurrying off to hide.
Fernita wrung her hands nervously as she stared at this newest piece of writing, wondering what it meant and how it got there as her eyes slowly traced the odd shapes.
A strange buzzing started in her brain, as if bees were trapped inside her skull, and it seemed to grow louder the more she looked at the foreign words written in black upon her walls.
How much more is there? she wondered, gazing around at the furniture and boxes that still hid most of her walls.
She was afraid to look, afraid of what she might find.
Her eyes traveled back to the exposed wall, and the humming inside her head continued to build.
Is this what I’ve forgotten? she asked herself.
The buzz became a mechanical whine, and the image of a spinning saw blade cutting through a length of tree, guided by hands encased in thick leather gloves, took shape in her mind. At first she had no idea what the imagery meant, but suddenly she remembered, the recollection floating free, like a child’s balloon released into a blue summer sky.
Her father had worked at the mill . . . where she herself had lived until . . .
The whining of the saw blade was replaced by the discordant thrum of a poorly tuned guitar and the sound of a piano.
Fernita smiled, her tired old eyes filling with hot tears at the memories—for that was what these images were, memories.
But her happiness quickly turned to terror as the pleasant visions were savagely replaced by one of fire. The old woman let out a scream, throwing her hands over her face and falling backward into piles of yarn that spilled from a wicker sewing basket.
The images burned her brain, living fire consuming the piano that only moments before brought tears to her eyes with the song it played.
The sounds of screams drifted hauntingly through the air, screams that drew the living fire like moths to a flame.
Burning. Killing.
Fernita knew not to cry out herself; someone had told her to be quiet as she was dragged through the burning room, someone special, but she couldn’t remember who it was.
Bodies littered the floor, bodies claimed by the living fire as it searched the room . . . searching for . . .
The head of a lion formed from the flames roared and came at her. Fernita could feel the intensity of its breath as it surged. And then it was gone, wisps of smoke drifting past her mind’s eye.
The old woman managed to sit up, her breath coming in short, gulping gasps as she pushed herself backward toward the doorway. She propped herself against its wooden frame, watching the writing on her wall, feeling its mysterious pull on her fragile mind, and anger filled her. She didn’t want it there anymore . . . didn’t want it unlocking secret memories.
And before she even realized what she was doing, Fernita was on her hands and knees, crawling across the cluttered living room floor.
“Go away, damn you!” she cried out, licking her fingers and rubbing at the black markings. She rubbed and licked, and rubbed, and rubbed and licked some more, her lips and chin smeared black as she tried to erase the alien scrawl that had brought such fear into her life.
But the more she rubbed, the louder the buzzing whine inside her skull became, as if somebody—something—was angered by her actions.
How dare you wipe away the words. . . . Don’t you know what this means? Don’t you realize what this will do?
And as the words started to disappear, it was as if a door had been opened, and more memories began to flow.
A deluge of the forgotten.
CHAPTER SIX
A door opened on the far side of the laboratory and Remy watched as a young man, who might have been one of the two who had accompanied Jon to Boston, entered. He was wearing only a T-shirt and baggy shorts now.
Malachi stood silently, watching with an unwavering eye.
“So he’s going to eat the fruit?” Remy asked, as the young man sat in a leather chair that had been brought from a closet and placed in the center of the room.
“Yes,” Jon answered. He too was watching the man, but his expression told Remy that he was clearly upset. “Nathan . . . excuse me, the volunteer will ingest a piece of the fruit, and we’ll record the results.” Jon cleared his throat and coughed nervously. “Hopefully his sacrifice will not be in vain.”
“The effects of the fruit are that powerful?” Remy asked.
Jon nodded. “We started our research with some of the older seeds, but the results were pretty horrible. It created a psychic link too powerful for a human being . . . even a Son of Adam, to withstand.”
Technicians began to fasten the young man’s wrists and ankles to the chair with thick leather straps.
“Is that really necessary?” Remy asked.
Malachi answered this question. “Even though the effects are diluted by ingesting the meat of the fruit as opposed to the seeds, the result can still be quite . . . violent,” the elder angel explained.
Remy stared at the volunteer, now looking small and defenseless beneath the humming fluorescent lights. “Are you sure this is the only way to get what we need?”
Jon looked to Malachi, but this time the angel remained silent, the human visage that he wore grim.
“It is the only way,” Jon confirmed softly. “We believe he’ll be linking with the actual Tree of Knowledge, in effect with the Garden itself, and in doing so, he’ll know what the Garden knows, and be able to tell us where the other half of the key is located.”
“Let us begin,” Malachi said, waving Jon on with his hand.
Remy watched the man’s features tighten as he steeled himself; then Jon picked up the tray of fruit and walked over to the volunteer restrained in the chair. The two looked at each other for a moment.
“Are you ready?” Jon asked, setting the tray down on a small table beside the chair.
“I am,” the man who Jon said was named Nathan replied.
Jon nodded, accepting his friend’s words, and stood, staring . . . waiting.
“You’re going to have to help me,” Nathan said finally, looking down to his bound hands and feet.
Jon laughed nervously as he reached for a pair of tongs. He used the tongs to pick up a slice of fruit and brought it toward Nathan’s mouth.
“You’re sure about this?” he asked again.
“Just get on with it,” Malachi growled impatiently.
Nathan closed his eyes and opened his mouth slightly.
Carefully Jon placed the fruit on his friend’s tongue and stepped back, his shoulders slumped. He tossed the tongs on the table and gestured for the techs. “Take this away,” he ordered.
Nathan’s expression had been almost trancelike as he began to slowly chew the piece of fruit in his mouth.
But that suddenly changed.
In the blink of an eye, it went from dreamy to nightmarish, his body going rigid, straining against his bonds.
Jon moved toward his friend, placing a comforting hand upon his shoulder. “Relax,” he said. “Let it come.”
Nathan looked at Jon, eyes pleading, the veins in his neck bulging and pulsing rapidly with the beat of his heart. “I didn’t know. . . .” He gasped, white foam spilling from the corners of his mouth. “I wouldn’t have—” His words were cut off as his body was racked with
bone-breaking convulsions.
Remy was tempted to go the man, to find some way of helping him. And as if reading his mind, Malachi’s hand dropped upon his shoulder.
“It is necessary,” the elder stated, eyes riveted to the horrific scene unfolding before them.
Nathan’s head thrashed from side to side so unnaturally fast that the movement was actually blurred. He screamed as if his soul were being torn from his body.
“Isn’t there something we can do?” Remy asked, not wanting to watch, but unable to look away.
“Nothing,” Malachi answered in an emotionless drone. “The fruit must take hold. Only the Sons of Adam can do this. . . . They are from a special human strain, and only they can withstand the punishment of making the connection. Any other human would have been dead in seconds.”
Nathan’s head finally stopped moving, but his face was scarlet red and the blood vessels in his eyes had burst.
Jon was staring at Nathan; a single tear began to run down his cheek, and he quickly wiped it away. Remy could only guess how horrible it was for him to watch what was happening to his friend, knowing that he couldn’t help.
A loud crack, like ice beginning to thaw on a frozen pond, startled Remy from his thoughts. At first he couldn’t find the source of the sound; it was repeated again and again, and each time the body of the man in the chair shook with a violent spasm. Blood began streaming down Nathan’s face, running into his screaming mouth, and then hanks of hair and bits of flesh-covered bone began to fall away as his skull opened.
The sight was so horrific that Remy didn’t even notice that the volunteer had stopped screaming.
An electrical hum filled the air of the lab and grew in intensity as Nathan’s brain swelled, oddly resembling a cake rising in a pan that was too small. Crackling bolts of electrical energy were released from the pulsing gray matter, slicing across the room, into the sapling version of the Tree of Knowledge. More tendrils of energy erupted from the tree, crisscrossing about the room, making contact with everything . . . and everybody.